This update is not a continuation of the story, but a conclusion.

I started 'Bern' and 'The Journey' almost two decades ago. I was young, and when I look back at these stories now as an adult, I grew conscious of all its flaws, and couldn't really bear to continue it.

But at the same time, this fic just meant a lot to me, regardless of the quality. I poured hours into it, and am still attached to the characters. I met great people. I grew to love writing and have fun with it.

So as a final send-off, I decided to conclude this with one final chapter.

I sincerely doubt anyone is still here, but if you are, thanks a bunch for sticking around.

"Ah, hello! Hello there! Are you with us, now?"

Kumi squinted, eyes attempting to adjust to the light. She thought she saw an eager-looking young man with a hood over his face, and an equally eager-looking blonde young woman with armor she couldn't quite place.

"...Where am I?" she asked, looking around cautiously. This was not the walls of Bern Keep, not the library of the Academy.

Perhaps this was a dream, she thought.

"Well, this may sound completely out of left field, but you're in Askr, and you've been summoned as a Hero!" the young blonde said, cheerily. "Could we know your name?"

At that, Kumi laughed a little. A hero. Perhaps this was really a dream.

"...Genevieve," she answered, offering them her formal name. "I am Genevieve of Regrada, a tactician of Bern. What's this nonsense about being a hero? Perhaps you mean my husband."

"Your husband?" the young man with the hood asked curiously.

"Zephiel," she said, a tone of confusion in her voice. Where was she, that these strangers did not seem to know her husband? They seemed surprised to hear the name on her lips.

"Zephiel," she said again, thinking perhaps they did not hear her clearly. "The king of Bern. Where is he?"

When the princess Fjorm stopped before him with Genevieve in tow, Zephiel froze, and could only say three words.

"...Send her home."

The princess of Nifl visibly stepped back at the authority in his voice, an order from a king who would not accept anything else.

But Kumiko--Genevieve--was not fazed at all. She brazenly crossed her arms, and tried to reason with him.

"I heard you are fighting a war here, for the common people of Askr," she said. "I am already here, so it does no good to send me home. You may as well let me fight with you for now, my lord."

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, hearing her talk about things like the good of the common people. "Do you now so like bloodshed that you jump at this opportunity to join the fray? The battlefield is no joke, Genevieve. Go home, and stay there."

"But that makes no sense! How can you expect me to go home when you're here?"

There was silence, and it almost seemed as if Zephiel paled for a moment. Genevieve wondered if she somehow said something off.

"Genevieve," Zephiel said, with an air of detachment. "You should know that I am not the Zephiel you are familiar with. I am one from another world."

"How are you so sure about that, my lord?" she asked, raising a brow slightly in inquiry. "How is the Genevieve in your world?"

He simply turned his back on her, and walked away.

Zephiel did not fail to notice that she was often alone.

He fully expected her to acclimate well, and quickly be in good company. She had always been quick to make friends, quick to charm people. And while the Order of Heroes took great care of her and tried to introduce her to the right companions, Zephiel also often found her alone in the library, more times than he could count.

She would sit by the castle windows, alone before a game of chess. Sometimes, a Hero or two would sit with her, and even play a game.

But Zephiel knew her well enough to know that she sat just like this, in Bern Keep, when there was something on her mind, and she just wanted to think.

One day, he finally took the seat across her.

"I thought I told you to go home," he said.

She looked every bit surprised, but then eventually eased into a smile, as if his presence comforted her. "Since when did I take orders from you, Your Majesty?"

He actually chuckled at that. A Genevieve from another world, and yet she was very much the same.

"Genevieve, you and I know you're not even very fond of the battlefield," he said. It was one of the biggest ironies about her–a strategist by trade who would flinch at the thought of bloodshed, or violence.

"Some things are worth fighting for," she said, with a quiet conviction. "It's always worth fighting for peace, or to protect the people you love."

He remembered she told him that, in what now seems like a lifetime ago.

"You're not particularly skilled in combat, either," he said, not mincing his words. He knew it was true. She learned magic for self-defense, at most, and never really needed to use it to fight. "You'd best leave the fighting to the people who are used to it."

"It's true, I'm not really a trained warrior or soldier like Your Majesty," she said, turning her gaze down at the chess game. "But I'd like to think I was summoned here for a reason. I'll do whatever I can."

It was exactly how she would have responded, Zephiel thought.

He moved a piece on the chess board before him, and they settled into a quiet rhythm, taking turns at the game.

Eventually, she broke the silence.

"...Lord Eliwood, Lord Hector, Lyn... They don't know me."

He paused, confused. Genevieve was a tactician for most of her life, and spent considerable time campaigning with the Lycian lords. Why would they not know her?

"You're much older," he suggested. "They just probably do not recognize you."

"It's not that," she said. "They just do not know who I am completely. Like I never existed..." There was a hint of sadness in her voice, her fingers hovering over a pawn on the chess board. "Oh, they know who Mark is, though. They say they journeyed with Mark. But they don't know me, or where I was, who I was with..."

As he watched the sorrow on her face, Zephiel thought that it was somehow twisted, that the people she cared for did not even know who she was in this world.

The world--whether it was Elibe or Askr--was just unfair like that.

"Did I even really exist?" she asks, finally putting her pawn forward. A half-hearted move without much thought, he could tell. "Few people even really seem to know me... It's a little... It's difficult to take in."

He noticed the stone-studded band on her ring finger, the wedding ring he had given her. "I know who you are, Genevieve. We were married, once. You were the Queen of Bern."

She smiled at him. He could not remember the last time she smiled at him so sincerely. "I'm glad you know me, at the least. It would be so sad if my own husband did not recognize me."

There was silence once again, as they carried on their game.

"But...All the records here from Elibe never mention your wife," she suddenly said, breaking the silence. "I wonder why."

His hand stopped still over his queen, taken aback by her statement. She saw this and simply looked up to him inquisitively.

But he simply composed himself, and mirrored her question.

"I wonder why, indeed."

The Genevieve of his world was no more, buried six feet under the ground.

There was something about the way she had taken her life--in the very same room and very same method his mother also did, hanging herself from the balcony of the Queen's chambers.

If this was a calculated stab at him, he would never know.

But it was almost like a memory of his childhood resurfacing, except it was now her hanging from the balcony, and he was now the man who was trying to pretend that this did not bother him, going over her burial with haste and returning to war the day after.

He realized he had become just like his father then.

And like Desmond, he had almost obsessively done his best to scrub out his wife's existence, as if she had been proof of this failure. Her portraits were removed from the royal gallery. She was buried in the gardens among her favorite flowers, but the grave would be left unmarked.

Anko was so distraught. In a fit of rage, she attempted to assassinate him. This did not succeed. He had her executed.

He knew there were sacrifices to be made in reaching his goals, but he hadn't foreseen that it would include them.

He tried to tell himself it was simply a nightmare he had to live with.

And now Genevieve was here in Askr, alive, haunting him.

He thought he had been dreaming when he saw her in his room one night, quietly mending one of his shirts and sitting casually on his bedside, as if she belonged there.

"Oh, you're back," she said, looking up to him from her needlework. He remembered how she would be hunched over some embroidery way back when, waiting for him in their chambers every night in Bern Keep. "You're not hurt, I hope?"

"What are you doing here? These are not your quarters."

"Commander Anna told me I could stay here," she said, pinning the needle into his shirt and putting it away. "Surely you don't mind, lord husband?"

He sighed, sinking to a seat by the door. He did his best to not get too close, not be too attached to her. But she made things difficult, just as she always did.

"...Is there another woman?" she suddenly asked.

He thought he misheard her. "Excuse me?"

"You seem so adamant that we're not from the same world, so I was wondering if..." her words trailed off as she looked out into the distance.

"Preposterous," he quickly said. "You really think me the sort?"

"...My apologies," she mumbled. "If you say so, your Majesty."

There was never another woman, not even the slightest thought of one. He guarded his heart with a lock and key, and never let anyone near.

Not even her.

"You have another Zephiel waiting for you, at home. He is probably worried out of his wits," he said, his excuse.

"How are you so sure that...?"

"Because I am!" he answered, finally raising his voice a little. "I've had enough of this question. Don't ask me again."

He swore he saw her shrivel, sinking into herself as if threatened. It sent him flashbacks of a woman near the literal end of her rope, no longer stubbornly putting up a fight at things she disagreed with.

At some point she had given up, as he caged her in and battered her so badly into submission. There was only so much her pride could take.

"...I'm sorry," she apologized quietly, as she got up and gathered herself. "I… I'll be on my way."

As she walked past him, he reached out to her wrist, not really knowing why.

"...No, I'm sorry," he said. "I… let my temper get the best of me."

She only smiled weakly, and Zephiel could feel a pang in his heart. He could see the Genevieve from his own world so clearly in his head, with an empty look on her face and a smile that was more out of surrender than any form of joy.

He wanted that vision to go away, and stop haunting him.

He squeezed on her hand briefly, reassuringly. "I've… just had a long day, Genevieve. I suppose I'm tired. But your company would ease my pains, if you would give it."

"...Do you really want me to stay?" she asked.

"Nothing would please me more."

She finally smiled, and meant it.

Zephiel couldn't help it anymore--he admitted to himself that he missed her.

His physical relationship with Genevieve in his world was short-lived. A month or two of romance before she attempted to flee to Etruria. When she returned--against her will--she did not want anything to do with him and spent her last days in her chambers, wallowing in misery until she couldn't take it anymore.

And yet, this Genevieve in Askr...

So earnest. So... Happy. He could barely recall the last time his wife smiled at him. She dared to touch him. A hand on his arm, a whisper too close to his ear...

She seemed smitten, by all accounts. The Zephiel in her world must be doing something right. She even seemed more affectionate, deliberately choosing to spend time with him whenever she could and spending her nights in his bed.

Or maybe, Zephiel thought, it was simply because all her old friends did not know her.

He wondered if it was his fault, if the Genevieve he so vividly knew and recalled did not exist for others because he had attempted to reduce to her to a nameless queen after her death. History had a cruel way of erasing people like that.

The only one who knew her--certainly knew her--was him, and the other Bernese who stayed closely in their circle. The wyvern generals, Guinevere… But Genevieve only knew them for a scant few years. Political ties brought about by a political marriage.

For her, the only certainty was him.

He could not turn her away, even for the nights when she asked to sleep beside him. ("Even if we are from other worlds, we're still married, aren't we?") He could not tell if it was loneliness, or if she truly, really wanted this. He did not recall the last time his wife was eager to be close to him.

"...You do know you could say no, right?" he asked one night, as she lay naked underneath him on his bed.

She looked every bit confused. "I'm fully aware, yes," she said. "Do you think this is against my will?"

"I just thought to ask." He did not want her to know that he was baffled out of his mind, that his Genevieve made things a lot more difficult than this.

She nuzzled her cheek against his chest, leaning into his warmth without hesitation. It was almost, almost like affection. She traced every hardened muscle down his back, her fingertips digging into his flesh ever so slightly, as if she was afraid to let go.

When she cried out his name, he almost felt dizzy in intoxication. He does not remember his Genevieve ever so lustfully moaning into his ear.

The Zephiel from her world must truly, certainly be doing something right.

He slept so well he almost forgot that he'd been tasked by the Order of Heroes to do a run of the Training Grounds the next day.

He tried to get up as quietly as he could, as not to stir his sleeping wife. It was something he had gotten quite good at over the years, Genevieve often sleeping well until the sun was high. By the time she would wake up, he would almost always already be gone.

He just stood there for a moment, arranging her blonde hair away from her face, before picking up his own clothes and armor to start the day.

After a few minutes, she woke up.

"...Zephiel?" she rubbed her eyes, as if attempting to rub the sleep away from them. She looked up and found him just about to put on his armor.

"You're up early, Genevieve," he said, surprised that he managed to disturb her sleep. "Stay in bed a little longer if you'd like."

She shook her head, and instead put on her robe and got up next to him. "Let me help you," she said, reaching behind him to help strap his armor into place.

"Be careful. It's heavy." It was a task Zephiel never used to do on his own, attended by servants and soldiers who helped him suit into his gear. But in Askr, he had no servants, and had gotten used to doing it himself.

Genevieve hummed to herself, and went about strapping and buckling his armor into place. And then Zephiel paused, and realized something.

"...I hope you're not finding my armor too difficult to deal with, dear wife," he said.

"Mmm, my lord is always so concerned," she said, sleep still thick in her voice. "Am I doing it wrong?"

There was nothing wrong, and she had so oddly known where each piece of complex plate armor went, where each strap and buckle connected and locked, first thing in the morning while half-asleep.

"No, you're doing everything perfectly," he said.

And that was the problem. Genevieve couldn't possibly know. She never helped him put on the complex king's armor before.

"Of course, I am doing everything perfectly," she said, with a playful little smile on her lips. "As is usual."

She remembered the food he liked to eat, the drink he would reach for after, and the mundane preferences he had for his daily life.

And then it went further, with her eventually getting used to his presence in the battlefield. She could somehow spot the tells he himself did not know he had, because she knew when she needed to cover for him, or call reinforcements, or step back and let him handle it.

She just knew.

As the weeks passed and Zephiel noticed her uncanny ability to read his mind and finish his sentences, Zephiel thought that perhaps…

This Genevieve was indeed different, and knew him well.

At first he thought she had been fixated on him, feeling lost and lonely in a foreign realm with no real friends. But weeks passed, and she made many fast friends. He could not blame it on her having no choice now.

This Genevieve simply knew him so much more, for one reason or another.

"How long have you been married, Genevieve?" he asked.

They met frequently now, often found sitting together at the library, or even coming in together to share a table at the mess hall. Most of the Order of Heroes seemed incredibly surprised. Zephiel would occasionally notice the princess of Askr watching them with a starry-eyed look on her face, as if imagining he and Genevieve had a romance worth daydreaming about.

Oh, if only she knew.

"Hmm... I suppose it hasn't been that long," Genevieve answered the question, thumbing the page of an Askran pocketbook and deftly slipping a bookmark between the pages. "Why do you ask?"

So that was it, Zephiel thought. She was in the dark, and did not know what the following year in her marriage would bring. During their early stages, he took great care to treat her well, in an effort to keep her in line for the impending war.

She did not know him at all, did not know the monster that lurked underneath. The Zephiel she had been with was an actor maintaining a facade that would eventually break, and she would be in for a rude awakening.

"It's nothing," he finally said. "I was simply curious."

"...Are you still convinced I'm from a different version of Elibe than you?" she asked. "How are you so certain, lord husband?"

He couldn't tell her that he was sure because she was supposed to be dead.

"The Genevieve I married isn't as delightful as you," he said, deciding to take the route of flattery. "It feels odd, to say the least."

"How could I possibly be more delightful?" she seemed perplexed. "I didn't know I could outdo myself that way."

"You… remember more," he said.

She gave him a most confused look.

"You… remember more things about me," Zephiel explained, as vaguely as he could.

She flipped the next page in her book, and almost sounded unbothered when she said, "Well, isn't it natural to remember things about the people you love?"

Love, huh.

Zephiel never promised her love, and she never gave it, either.

Their marriage was amicable at first, but it was founded on mutual respect, and the promise that Genevieve could do as she liked without his interference. She gained freedom, political and financial backing, and a promise that she would never be replaced. He gained the peace of mind from advisors who finally stopped pestering him to marry, and the assurance that a talented military strategist was not in Etruria or Lycia.

He doesn't remember either one of them mentioning love, except maybe the few times they bedded, and she pleaded to hear him say it.

He doesn't remember if he meant it, or not. All he knew was the idea of love was shattered when the war escalated, and there was no going back from there.

The respect and admiration turned into loathing and spite, into a woman who once tried to kill her own husband in his sleep, and a man who drove his wife to her own death.

Love was a fleeting dream, and when they woke up, it was all over.

"Do you ever miss your home world, my lord?" she suddenly asked one day.

The question surprised him, pulling him from a haze. He did not know what to say. He decided to simply mirror her question. "Do you?"

"I have to admit, I miss the creature comforts of Bern Keep," she said, with a bit of a laugh. "I never thought I would say this, but I miss the servants… the hot baths. And I miss Anko very much… but don't tell her that."

He paled, remembering Anko before the executioner's axe, shooting him one last look of defiance before she was gone, as if cursing him to her final breath.

So did he miss his home world? He should be getting back to the war, Zephiel thought. He'd come too far to just suddenly be brought to a different realm, fighting a different fight. His goals in his home Elibe were so close he could almost reach them.

But in exchange, Genevieve was dead. Guinevere was not at his side. Murdoch was dead. Anko was dead.

There was no one to really come home to.

Zephiel could feel his resolve crumble further.

He meant to hold on to the secret to his grave, or at least to the end of his time in Askr. He told himself that she didn't need to know; that it was taboo to mess with the future and the fates that way.

He told himself that it was cruel to change what she thought of her Zephiel, just because things turned out differently for them in his world.

He told himself a number of reasons, and justified each one of them, but deep down he knew what they truly were:

Excuses.

He began to realize the truth was that he liked this happy, loving Genevieve, and that he didn't want her to go away.

But at the same time, she deserved to know the truth. He'd lied to her and hurt her, despite the many vows he made to her and to himself that he would never turn out like his father—a man who didn't bat an eyelid at keeping secrets from the one woman he was married to.

He had to make things right, somehow.

"There's something we need to talk about," he said, interrupting the silence in their now-shared chamber.

She looked up from her needlework, like she always used to, when she stayed up late to wait for him to return from his royal duties. She sensed the weight in his voice, and asked, "Is something amiss, my lord?"

"The Genevieve in my world is gone."

He said it, just like that, and he turned to watch the confusion wash over her face. "What do you…?"

"...She's dead."

"H-How?" she asked, looking every bit befuddled. "You're jesting, aren't you?"

"The war… she couldn't come to terms with it," Zephiel said, looking away from Genevieve briefly, as if he couldn't bear to see her reaction. He realized he felt shame, that his wife had died, knowing he was mostly to blame for it.

"What war?" Genevieve asked, sounding a little more confrontative. "The one wherein you attempted to conquer the continent?"

He looked back up at her, and wondered where she got that from. And he remembered her many hours spent in the Askran library, picking out books on Elibian history.

So that was how the books would later describe him. A conqueror. If only they knew.

"She attempted to flee so many times," Zephiel continued, remembering his wife's multiple attempts at leaving, her multiple attempts at trying to talk him out of this war. "This did not sit well with me. We've said and done so many horrible things to each other, and she just… She had enough. She ended her life."

Again, he looked at her face, trying to gauge her reaction. She was looking right at him, face unreadable. Was she scared? Upset? Angry? Did she feel cheated that she spent her days and nights in Askr with a man that would essentially kill her?

"...Hung herself from the balcony," Zephiel went on, not quite sure why he was telling her this. "Just like..."

The words caught in his throat, and he found that he could not continue. But he had said enough, and Genevieve had that look of silent understanding.

"...Just like your mother," she finished his words, and for a moment he was taken aback. He doesn't remember telling his Genevieve that.

But by now, he'd gotten used to the fact that this Genevieve knew him more. "...You're correct," he said, "I suppose being married to the King of Bern has some sort of curse."

She actually chuckled at that, remembering the odd whispers among the Bernese folk that marrying the king was a sure way to die–the curse of the Queens. "So the damned curse was true, after all."

He did not know what to say after that, and it seemed that she didn't, either. They sat in awkward silence for a few seconds, until finally she picked up her needlework again, continuing her embroidery as if he hadn't just brought up her death.

He similarly picked up his book and resumed his reading. It had been said and done, Zephiel thought. What this Genevieve thought of the admission was no longer his concern. If she no longer wanted to be near him because of it, he decided he would accept that.

"...Did you love her?" she asked him, all of a sudden. He noticed the way she bit her lip, as if trying to stop it from trembling.

Love?

He remembered all the hurtful words he had hurled at her when he was furious, and the way he held onto her with an iron grip during her final days, keeping her caged in against her will. Could that really be called love? To say he loved her was a corruption to the word. Whatever they had was not love–most likely, it was the opposite.

"I... I do not know," he admitted. "But I do know one thing."

She waited for him to say it.

"...I miss her. I miss her terribly."

He missed her laughter, the way she smiled, the way she smelled, the way she filled his ear with chatter of the admittedly mundane things she'd been doing that day. A new merchant she visited. A new theory on magic. A feat of engineering she saw in Etruria that Bern might like to copy.

He missed going back to her at the end of his day, knowing she was there, waiting for him.

And if he tried to picture any other woman doing the very same things, in the very same role–he just couldn't. He found it repulsive, even.

The Queen of Bern will always be her. His wife would always be her.

She broke the silence again.

"I have been married to my husband for a little over five years," she said.

He nodded in acknowledgment, and flipped through the page of the book he was no longer really reading. That was when he realized that there was something off with what she said.

"...Five years?"

Genevieve was supposed to be dead in the third year.

"...A little over that, perhaps closer to six years?" she said, looking as if she was trying to number the months in her head. "Time flies by so quickly."

So that was why she knew him so well, Zephiel thought.

"What about the war?" he asked.

"I honestly don't know," Genevieve said, with a sigh. "There's no war, where I'm from. Or perhaps, none yet. Maybe he'll spring it on me the moment I return. I… don't know."

Well, Zephiel thought, at least now she was warned. "Perhaps now that you know you're married to a monster, you could run away while you still can."

"A monster? That can't be true," she said. "Zephiel treats me very well. He treats our son very well."

He froze, and wondered if he misheard her. "You... have a child with Zephiel?"

She nodded, a soft smile gracing her features. "He's a smart little boy. Running after his father all the time… He looks just like you."

He simply stared at her in disbelief.

He had thought of the possibility of many, many realms in Askr. Ones where he was dead. Ones where he was alive. But he had never once imagined there was a realm where he had children. Where there was no war.

Five years. Could that Zephiel have given up his goal of returning the world to dragons?

He half expected Genevieve to laugh the next moment and say it had all been a lie. He knew she did not like the prospect of children just as he did.

But her face was the very image of sincerity, a soft smile gracing her lips, as if she had been thinking fondly of this little boy and her husband.

"I miss them dearly," she said. "Zephiel spoils the boy rotten. He keeps making little toys for him, and has him started on reading... But I will admit he spoils me just as well... I really could not ask for anything more."

There was a sparkle in her eyes that Zephiel never really remembers seeing in his own Genevieve. And then it dawned on him, what that look was.

It was love.

Somewhere, in one realm out of dozens or hundreds… There was a Genevieve and Zephiel who were in love.

"...We must work hard to ensure we finish our work here in Askr, then," Zephiel suddenly said, as if finally finding the words during this entire conversation.

Genevieve only looked up to him curiously, wondering what he meant.

"Let us do our best here in Askr," he said, "so that you may go home soon enough. I am certain your husband and son miss you just as much."

She looked surprised, but then smiled tenderly at him.

"Yes... Let's do just that."

Zephiel knew it was too late for him and his Genevieve–she was gone, and that was the guilt he had to live with for the rest of his life.

But in another time, in another realm… Perhaps it was not too late for them.

End.

a/n:

I started this fic as a teenager. I'm in my 30s now.

As it is in Bern, I realized now that Kumi and Zephiel would never work out, and there is little that is romantic between them. Kumi sometimes tries to frame things nicely, but Zephiel is right when he reminds her that she married for selfish reasons too; nothing about it was for love. If the war has already started, it will be too late for them. Both are already set in their ways, and neither of them will bend.

They are stuck in a toxic cycle of trying to make things work when they both know it's not going to, only hoping the other one yields.

There is no "happy end" for them–it was more likely to end with one (or both) of them dead, both of them turning to the very monsters they swore they wouldn't be.

They aren't really a good ship, and they're not in a particularly healthy relationship. But it made for interesting writing when I was younger, trying to write about the conflict between them and how it would all pan out.

I can't really give them a good ending within Bern, but I suppose with Askr, there's some alternate timeline where they're perfectly happy.

I still think of my early Fire Emblem fics fondly, they're a big part of my childhood and growing up. Maybe I will finish or rewrite them all one day.. or not. But for now I can at least bring this one some sort of closure!