Their fates would be decided on a flat span of land, unfeatured and unremarkable.
"There are worse places," Felix commented from atop his horse.
"And better," Leonie said, mirroring him on hers. Behind the both of them, the refugee army was preparing for what certainly would be a battle at dawn.
Dusk was creeping in and they could see the Gloucester army approaching, too far out for either side to engage today. If Lysithea was smart, and she was, their army would rest for the night.
"Do you think we have a chance?" Leonie asked, glancing at him.
Felix shrugged. "We didn't have a chance at Garreg Mach either."
"But we lost there."
"Not completely. We're still alive, aren't we?"
Leonie chuckled. "Your sense of optimism is something unique, that's for sure."
"If we had wyverns or pegasi, we might be able to swing it our way," Felix said. "Without them, I'm not going to buy into delusions."
He wasn't wrong. Their army was comprised primarily with infantry, some cavalry, and a smattering of mages. If Trevor had…no, there was no use playing hypotheticals. This was their reality.
"Our people are fighting for their new home," Felix offered. "That's something."
"Ideals won't be enough."
Felix said nothing.
"It is what it is," Leonie said. "C'mon, let's get back to the others. Maybe Ferdinand's come up with something."
"Your mission," Lysithea said, "is to capture their leader at all costs. If you can't, then kill them."
The only Adrestian soldiers she had at her disposal were a covert team Hubert had lent her. She had no illusions that they were loyal to her, but Hubert had said Claude was to be captured or killed. Sending them in couldn't hurt.
"Dismissed," she ordered, retreating to her tent.
Claude…
She closed her eyes. No, the time for doubts was long past. Killing him would be easy. Edelgard had told her all about him. Any sympathy she might have for him was a factor of honeyed words.
Lysithea lit the lone lantern in her tent and sat on her cot. Claude was one thing, but what about the others? Leonie, Raphael, could she kill people like them?
Could she look Marianne in the eyes as she killed her? Sweet, timid Marianne?
"Goddess," she whispered. "Goddess, forgive me."
Hubert would tell her she was losing her nerve—and maybe she was. Edelgard had given her permission to kill Claude, but here she was ordering his capture.
"Goddess damn it!" Lysithea moaned to herself. She'd come this far, she wouldn't—no, couldn't—back down now.
Raphael. Leonie. Marianne. She do it. She'd destroy her home, her own people.
Lysithea had given up too much to stop now.
Shamir flicked her whetstone across her arrows one by one, more to keep her hands busy than anything else. Not like there was anything better for her to do while waiting for the rest to get back to the command tent they'd agreed to meet at.
An hour ago, she'd asked Felix what he planned to do after.
"Win or not, I'm going back to Sylvain," he'd said. "I'm not dying in some fucking Leicester field."
This would be it, wouldn't it? Shamir, woman of Dagda, dying on foreign soil with friends. What a grim fucking fate.
Practice what you preach, Shamir, she chastised. Stay positive.
Her mind went to Catherine. Would she really die here, not having talked to the woman she loved again? Not having taken her to see Dagda?
"Shit," she mumbled, looking at the whetstone Catherine had let her borrow before Garreg Mach. The battle hadn't let her give it back.
Her one reminder of the best thing that had ever happened to her was a stupid whetstone. A scratched, worn, two-toned whetstone.
"If I survive through this," she vowed quietly, "I'll go see her." The words 'and make things right,' went unsaid, but were felt just as strongly.
Shamir pocketed the whetstone as she heard someone enter the tent. She pushed aside her feelings. There would be time for them later.
Balthus entered the tent, a simple thing with a table with maps, to see Shamir already sitting in her chair.
"Am I early?" he asked, taking a chair across from her.
"No," she said, glancing at the night sky outside the tent. "You're on time. The rest are probably late."
He nodded and the two sat in silence.
Surprisingly, Shamir broke it. "You're still here, despite our chances?"
Confused, he nodded. "Yeah. These people sure do believe in what they're fighting for. I don't think I've seen an army as loyal as this one."
Shamir nodded. "They owe Leicester a lot. And Leonie a lot. This is their home now, I assume they want to protect it. Given time, I'd bet every person here could become someone to be reckoned with."
"Time we don't have," Balthus said, though it hadn't needed to be said. Both of them knew it.
"And you're still here, even knowing that?" Shamir asked.
"Yeah, is that a problem?"
Shamir snorted. "Just means you're stupid enough to fit in with the rest of us."
It drew a needed laugh out of Balthus, going a long way to relaxing him. "Suppose so. It's good company, though."
"Yeah, it is," Shamir murmured.
"I wanted to thank you," Ferdinand said.
Felix cocked his head. "What, for walking with you?"
"Oh, sure, that," Ferdinand said, brushing his long hair out of his eyes. Because he wasn't moving as fast due to his recovery, they were both late as they weaved through the warcamp. "I meant for talking Leonie out of the front line, though."
"Ah," Felix said. "It was nothing."
"It wasn't," Ferdinand countered. "I know you don't like to get emotional, but you probably saved her life with that. My sister's life, all things considered."
"Our."
"Pardon?" Ferdinand said, confused.
The night hid the red on his cheeks, but Ferdinand still caught it. "Don't make me repeat it," growled Felix.
Ferdinand laughed. "Felix, you're a big softie, aren't you?"
"Shut up or I'll ram another sword in your gut."
He didn't stop. "That wouldn't make me forget."
That reduced Felix to a continuous growl. He said nothing else.
Ferdinand smiled. If they were going to die, then at least it was around friends. There were worse things.
"Sorry, did I keep you all waiting long?" Leonie said as she entered the tent, seeing her four companions seated around the table.
Four sets of heads shook and Shamir asked, "What kept you?"
"Clerics were having trouble setting their tent up," Leonie explained. "Wasn't their fault, one of the poles was faulty. Had to find another." She took a seat at the table.
Ferdinand looked down. "Sorry, Leonie, but I couldn't come up with anything to turn this in our favor. I think we have to make do with what we have."
She gave him an encouraging smile. "It's alright. We've all done a lot, everything considered. If we lose, it wasn't for lack of effort."
"Hope you have a better speech planned than that," Shamir chuckled.
"For the soldiers? Hell no," snorted Leonie. "That's your job."
Shamir froze up. Then she noticed Leonie's growing grin. "Fuck you," she grumbled. The rest of them laughed except for Felix who sported a small smile instead.
"Then should we go bed down?" Balthus asked. "More rest wouldn't go amiss."
"Yeah, but one thing first." Leonie slid out of her chair and went to small crate at the edge of the tent she'd taken with. From it, she pulled five glasses and a bottle.
"Liquor?" Felix guessed. "You want to drink the night before a fight?" It was clear he disapproved.
"There's a tradition in my village," she explained. "The night before a hunt, the hunters all drink a shot of the foulest liquor they have."
"Why?" Ferdinand asked.
Leonie paused. "Huh. I never asked that. We just did it."
"Hell with it," Shamir said, leaning forward. "I'll take meaningless pagan superstition over nothing any day."
The others murmured agreement. Leonie poured them each a shallow glass. As she did, Balthus squinted at the bottle. "Where'd you get this?"
"Stole it from Claude's room," Leonie admitted. "I think it's from Sreng?"
"How the hell did he get something from Sreng?" Felix muttered, grabbing the bottle and looking at the label. "They're a bunch of tribes, not an exporting culture.
Leonie shrugged, not knowing. It wasn't even likely Claude knew. He rarely touched alcohol outside of social obligation, not wanting to do anything to encourage Byleth's addiction.
Though he'd kept that up while they'd thought her dead, Leonie realized. Weird torch to bear.
"Do we say something before drinking?" Ferdinand asked.
"Uh," Leonie scratched her head. "Something inspiring?"
Shamir rolled her eyes. "Let's kill some Gloucesters." She tipped her glass back. The rest followed suit.
Goddess, was it strong. Leonie could feel her tongue burning before going numb, her throat soon after. Her mouth seared a second later, like she'd just eaten something spicy. Leonie set the glass down.
Shamir, Balthus, and Felix did the same.
Ferdinand's face scrunched up with abject horror and turned in his chair, spitting the drink onto the ground. "Motherfucker!" he shouted, waving his mouth. "Fuck!"
The other four were silent, various expressions of surprise on their face.
Then, Shamir started to laugh. It began small, but grew like a crescendo. Soon, she was howling, Balthus joining her along with Leonie, forming a symphony. Even Felix chuckled.
"Sothis," Shamir said between bouts of laughter, "the hell was that, Ferdinand?"
He grinned weakly, mouth clearly still burning. "I guess I'm more a wine person?"
Shamir laughed so hard she cried. The rest joined in, Ferdinand included. By the end, they all could barely breathe.
"Alright, Leonie," Shamir wheezed. Leonie had never seen her laugh so hard. "I'll do this before every battle, if only to remind me of this."
The tension they'd all be carrying was still there, but the edge fell away as they all smiled at the thought of Ferdinand swearing like a sailor.
A few minutes later, they each went their separate ways, a bit lighter than before.
Maybe, just maybe, things weren't so bad.
Leonie rose before dawn, as she always did. Groaning, she sat up with bleary eyes and briefly considered if she could get away with ten more minutes.
But no rest for the weary.
She wrapped her chest and threw on her clothes from the day before and pulled her hair up into a tight bun. Armor would come later, closer to dawn. First, she had things to take care of. Shamir and her needed to get the mages to where they needed to hide, their sole wildcard. It was a slim hope, but maybe a surprise at the right moment would spook an enemy commander.
Stepping from her tent, she yawned. Already, people milled about. The most nervous, most likely, who hadn't slept a wink the night before.
She'd been that person, a long time ago. Memories swirled back to her. Some of them were nice, like afternoons at the academy.
There'd be time to reminisce later. Hopefully.
Shamir would be awake, so she started making her way to her tent. A voice caught her off guard.
"Lady Leonie! Lady Leonie!"
She turned, seeing one of the clerics from the night before. The woman waved her down and briskly walked to her. "Yes?" Leonie prompted, trying to sound more awake than she was.
"Lady Leonie, it's your friend," she whispered, keeping her voice low. "He was attacked during the night."
"What?" she muttered. "Where? Show me."
She led Leonie quickly through the warcamp, brushing past confused people just waking up, until they approached the tent she'd help set up last night.
"In here," she guided, ducking into the tent.
As Leonie entered the tent, she heard a horn blow, far in the distance. She frowned. It wasn't one of theirs.
Her eyes widened. That was a Gloucester horn.
She turned, about face, to see the cleric swing a long plank of wood at her face. It connected with a crash and Leonie lost consciousness.
Author Notes: Mini-arc still gets my typical climax treatment of a multi-update. Next chapter goes up tomorrow, and it's one of my absolute favorites. I'm very pleased with how it's looking pre-edits.
Editing Notes:
8/24/2021: Minor grammatical adjustments.