c/w: themes of graphic violence and death

Finding Myson wasn't the hard part. Adapting to his weapon was another thing entirely.

"Oh, you're different," Myson crowed as Byleth leapt back and out of the way of his lightning-sword. "Something's changed about you. I'll look forward to figuring that out whence I stand over your corpse." Myson shrugged off his cloak, shedding the water's weight. He bore the physique of not a mage like Yuri had said, but a fighter.

Byleth pushed herself up off the ground where she'd slid, holding the Sword of the Creator at the ready. Yuri held Begalta, mirroring her on the other side of Myson.

Lorenz' push into Merceus had drawn the majority of the fighting to the northern gate, leaving the three of them nearly undisturbed. A few imperials lay dead in the rain, blood mixing with water, victims of Byleth.

Myson's sword was a bolt of lightning, constrained by wind magic. It shouldn't be possible, from her limited knowledge of magic and nature, but that was neither here nor there, now.

Whatever it was, it kept Yuri back. Metal swords didn't mix well with electricity. The Sword of the Creator was made from bone, but it didn't mean she was safe either, the rain made sure of that.

Range was in his favor, and his lifted his hand to cast. Byleth was already moving, zig-zagging forward as the lance of wind missed her. The Sword of the Creator disengaged into its whip-form and she swung for his legs.

Myson bat it away with his lightning-sword, currents passing through Byleth's arm through the water. She backed off in her assault as Yuri leapt at him.

Begalta was met with lightning and Yuri screamed, prancing away after a fraction of a second. Myson raised a hand to finish them off, but broke concentration as Byleth swung her whip.

"Let me distract him!" Byleth yelled, no course but to shout a plan. "Wait for an opening!" Yuri, weakened, nodded and slinked into the rain. Visibility was their only ally here.

Myson laughed. "You think the oldest trick in the book can stop me? I was old before you were born, Mockingbird."

"Then make like an old man and die," Byleth spat. "Your time is over."

He shook his head, letting Byleth circle him. "I think not." Reaching into a satchel at his back, he removed the Chalice of Beginnings.

"A cup won't save you," Byleth said, not entirely believing it.

"Ironically, you're right," he said. "It already has."

She struck, cutting off what he made to say. The lightning-sword dissipated in his hand, grabbing the whip with his artificial hand instead. Like pulling a rope, he wrenched her forward, knocking her from her feet.

Yuri was behind him, the Fetters of Dromi a glowing line in the air as he moved with alacrity. He plunged Begalta through Myson's chest.

Both they and Byleth froze, watching Myson as he looked down at the sword. Unflinching, he stepped forward off the blade. The wound closed as he did so, the Chalice glowing a menacing white.

"See, I was taught how to use this by a curious person," Myson said, grinning. "A certain Apostle Aubin. Yuri, do you know him?"

"Don't sully my ancestor's name with your pathetic desires," Yuri snarled, pulling Begalta back to their chest.

Myson laughed. "Why not? He was my brother, after all." He reached under his arm and blasted Yuri with wind, sending him soaring.

"No!" Byleth yelled, watching Yuri vanish out of sight.

"I've learned a few tricks in my age," Myson said, looking at her. "I think you'll find that killing me will make for more a challenge than anticipated."

"So it's possible," Byleth spat, dropping into a low stance.

Myson frowned. The glow from the Chalice intensified, the white light giving her vision that only lightning had been providing.

In the corner of her eye, she saw a white wyvern in the sky.

Surging forward, Byleth returned her blade to a sword and stabbed. Myson predictably blocked it, wind gusts lightly pushing her blade off its course. The next blast of wind hit her, punishing her for the hasty attack.

As she flew back in the air, she saw Claude from atop Tishtar. Failnaught glowed an ominous red and he fired a red arrow at Myson, the source of the glow.

Byleth saw the surprise on his face just before crashing to the ground. Dazed, she looked up to see the white glow gone, Myson along with it. Slowly, she stumbled to her feet.

"Byleth!" Claude yelled. Tishtar clumsily landed and Claude slid off, running to her. "Are you okay?"

"Still kicking," she replied, sparing a shaky smile.

"Good," he breathed, helping her up. "He teleported away, you see where he went?"

She shook her head as Yuri stumbled up to them, bleeding from a gash in their chest. "Did he flee?" they asked, announcing their presence.

"Looks like it," Byleth answered. "Yuri, is what he said…"

"Aubin had no recorded siblings," Yuri said and left it at that.

Byleth nodded, unsure. "Alright, so what now?"

Claude glanced towards Tishtar. "Flying here in this deluge was hazard enough, I don't think I should try my luck at it a third time. We should—"

He cut himself off and pushed Byleth to the ground, out of the way as a bolt of Dark hit Claude.

"Claude!" she screamed as he crumpled to the ground, her at his side a second later.

Yuri turned on the spot, looking at Myson standing a few dozen feet away, hand outstretched. The Fetters of Dromi glowed, matching his fury.

"Come, child of my brother," Myson taunted. "Show me what his lineage has come to."

"Catherine!"

She stumbled back as Charon pulled the sword from her abdomen. For a moment, she kept her balance before tumbling down.

Shamir caught her, dragging her back as Charon started to advance. "Lorenz!" she screamed, terrified.

Akin to a gallant knight in a storybook, their general rushed to the rescue. Except whereas a storybook hero might be associated with light, Lorenz was surrounded with a conflagration of flame from his spear. Rain evaporated before it could hit him, eyes shining blue with his Crest's power.

"Get her out of here!" he yelled before committing himself to the battle.

"Shamir…" Catherine gasped. "Ig…" Her eyes felt heavy.

Shamir set her down, slowly, setting the Inexhaustible next to her. A vulnerary was in her hands, pouring half on the wound, the other half down her throat. The latter worked, but the rain washed what she poured on the wound quickly. "Baby, I've got you," she whispered, as if it were just them. "I'm here, you're okay."

The blood stemmed a bit, a slow process. They couldn't stay here, not when a single feral human could turn on them and notice their weakness.

"Catherine, I need you to be brave," she said. "Can you do that?"

Her lover looked up at her and smiled. "I love you, Shamir."

"No. No, no, no!" she shrieked. "You are not leaving me alone. I'll carry you out of here, I swear it."

"Shamir, get out of here!" Lorenz screamed at her before being lost within the flames again.

Her hands moved to apply pressure to the wound, but she stopped. The wound rapidly was reknitting skin to skin, as if the most potent White magic was being used on her.

Shamir looked over at the source: the Inexhaustible. Not questioning it, she grabbed it and pressed it into Catherine's hands.

"You hear me? You're not dying. Not when I just got you back," Shamir said, picking up the woman she hoped one day she could marry. "I'll try not to move you too much."

Catherine clutched the bow tightly. "Shamir…" she said, a warm smile on her face.

Shamir ran, redeeming herself.

He was bloodied, a gash in his shoulder, one in his side. They were what remained from his fight with Caspar. His armor had been mostly stripped away by the feral humans who blocked his way as he chased his son.

Victor vaulted onto the roof from below, his quarry finally in front of him. "Caspar!" he barked, standing up on the roof. He was out of breath from weathering the storm and the plethora of obstacles that had blocked him. But here he stood.

His son turned to him, that same dead look in his eyes, as he held a Relic. Freikugel pulsed with malevolence in his hands as he faced down the pink haired scion of Goneril.

"Fuck this!" the woman yelled, turning tail while Caspar was distracted. Credit to the girl as she leapt off the roof onto the ground below. She'd live to fight another day.

Victor didn't care about that. His eyes were only on his son, his boy. "Caspar," he begged. "I know you can hear me. I know you're still in there." He had to believe it.

Caspar began to advance on his position.

"Do you remember Morgana, your mother?" he said. "She loved you so much, Caspar. You were her favorite."

Caspar continued stalking across the roof.

"She always believed you were the best of us. On her deathbed, she told me how proud she was of you. In a world that looks down on those without Crests, you were the best part of her life."

His step had a hitch in it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't a better father. I'm sorry I missed so much of your childhood fighting the Empire's wars. I'm sorry I favored your brother over you."

Caspar stopped walking.

"Caspar," Victor said, "you are my son. I am so proud of you. Come back to me, please."

His mouth opened, as if to speak.

Lightning sundered the sky, and Victor saw another figure vault onto the roof across from him. They held a black axe, the same shape as Freikugel.

Except this husk of Myson's spoke. "Myson orders us to attend the front. Charon has fallen."

Caspar's mouth closed and he went rigid for a second. Then, the same glaze covered his eyes and he turned his back on his father.

"Caspar!" Victor yelled. He brandished his axe. "Don't walk away."

Whatever had become of his son looked at the other husk. "Goneril, remove him," he said, turning and walking away.

Victor wasn't called the Count of War for just his brains, though. There was no fighter his parallel in the Empire. When a moment presented itself, he acted.

As Goneril's attention shifted, Victor threw his silver axe at the man. It was an idiotic move; the axe wasn't meant to be thrown. The weight was all wrong and had no semblance of aerodynamics. It was the move of a hero out of misconstrued legend, not any self-respecting soldier, much less the Empire's premier man.

Luckily, Victor made a habit of doing the impossible.

The head of the axe cleaved into Goneril's face, killing him instantly, if he'd even been alive. The body crumpled to the ground and slid off the roof, leaving behind the faux-Freikugel. Victor ran forward and scooped it up, holding it ready.

"Son," Victor said. "If I have to knock you out to get you out of here, I will."

Caspar levied his own Relic, ready to fight. Without a sound, he charged.

His eyes flickered open to the sound of a magical explosion. Vision blurry, Claude could see Yuri running around Myson faster than should be humanly possible, flitting in and out of melee range with their sword.

A white glow enveloped his chest where he'd been struck, stemming from Byleth's hands. It was White magic, shedding light on her face knit with concentration.

"Byleth, what are you…" he croaked, voice weak.

"Save your breath," she said. "I have faith, faith in you."

Whatever the spell had done to his chest, he could feel his skin stitching itself back together. Turning attention away from his wounds, he looked at Byleth's hands. They were entirely covered in scales, just like she'd showed him before.

"I pulled you away from Myson," she whispered. "I didn't have a vulnerary. I couldn't save you…" Byleth closed her eyes. "Then, I knew what to do."

"You mean you can't cast White magic?" he asked, staring at the blatant contradiction in front of him.

"No," Byleth answered, continuing to cast.

Claude lost the words he was about to say as Yuri screamed into the air. It wasn't of pain, rather, rage. Myson was nowhere to be seen.

"He ran!" Yuri yelled. "Coward!"

The leader of the Alliance propped himself up on the ground. "We should get to Lorenz' position. The army's taking heavy casualties."

"You're not going anywhere," Byleth said. "I just repaired a hole in your chest." She pointed a few feet away to what he'd previously thought was water. "That's all your blood, Claude."

There was fear in her eyes, terror at how close he'd been to death, he realized. "Oh," he said, stupidly.

"We're riding Tishtar out of here," she insisted. "You need a better healer than me."

Yuri rejoined them, seething. They looked at what remained of Claude's wound, a jagged scar in the center of his torn armor.

"Didn't know you could use White," they commended, surprised.

"Likewise," she murmured, drawing a confused look from them. "Anyway, we need to get him out of here."

Yuri nodded, agreeing. "Claude, you think you could climb a rope?"

"I—maybe?" he said, slowly getting to his feet. He felt sore all over. "Yeah, I think I could."

"We get out how we came in," Yuri said. "I'll take point. Byleth, you take rear."

"Got it," she said, standing protectively close to Claude.

"Let's go."

Two fights raged simultaneously. The first had Victor on the defensive while the second had Caspar screaming in his mind.

He'd been close, so close, to breaking free. It gave him a sense of confidence, that there was a way to break whatever bonds these were. Or at least resume control of himself.

He had to have hope, had to believe.

Victor fought well with a weapon that he'd never used before, though perhaps Caspar was no better. But Freikugel felt right in his hands, like instinct took over him. A base, primal skill manifested as he spun the weapon so quickly he'd have mistaken it for weightlessness.

But it was his Crest of Goneril, the one that had changed everything.

His father had no such genetic skill, working entirely off his own ability. But it was a sight, the man holding his own with apparent ease.

"Caspar!" his father shouted, still trying to reach him. He swung for Caspar's head with the blunt side of the axe, still aiming to incapacitate.

Father, I hear you! His words still could not leave his mouth, locked within the prison of his head. He redoubled his efforts, trying and fighting as hard as he possibly could.

A flicker of darkness caught his vision, a man appearing out of the air. Myson.

He took one look at the situation and thrust his hand out, wind collecting around his arm. It launched out, wrapping around Victor mid-strike. For a moment, he froze, held in place by the wind. Myson clenched his hand into a fist.

The wind reversed its direction, breaking both his shins. Victor screamed and fell to the ground, the wind forcing him prostrate before Caspar's feet.

"Wily bastard," Myson hissed, looking tired and ragged. His side of the battle must not have fared well. "We're retreating, Caspar. Take care of him."

Within his mind, Caspar stilled.

His body had no such qualms, lifting Freikugel.

"Caspar!" Victor yelled, face against the ground. He could not see what transpired. "Son…I love you. I know you can fight this."

Myson cocked his head to the side, looking at Caspar. "What are you waiting for? Kill him."

Caspar did not move, frozen in place with the axe over his head. Freikugel pulsed in anticipation, but did not descend.

"Sloppy work," Myson spat, directed to himself. "Looks like you're more trouble than you're worth, boy." He walked forward and picked up the faux-Freikugel. Testing its weight, he lifted it and swung.

Myson brought Freikugel down and killed Caspar's father.

The stillness over Caspar broke, and he fell to his knees. Reaching forward, he touched his father's cheek and whispered, "Father…" Tears fell from his eyes, mixing with the rain.

"No," Myson hissed on disbelief. "That is not possible. You are mine."

Caspar paid him no mind, eyes only for his father's body. He did not see Myson press a palm against his forehead, obliterating his mind.

He'd presence of mind to roll to the side. Brace or no, he could manage that.

Arundel growled, lowering his sword as Ignatz avoided the attack. "Persistent brat. I see now why they might send you after me."

Ignatz spared him no words, scrambling to his feet. It wasn't a pretty sight, his leg nearly giving out as he did. He stumbled into a sword stance, holding his blade out in front of him as Catherine would.

His opponent shook his head, as if in disbelief. "You could run, but instead you stand to fight?" Arundel walked forward, brandishing the sword.

Ignatz whipped his blade forward, striking at Arundel's side. Instinctively, he stepped forward with his bad leg to lean into the attack. His leg gave out, and he fell.

Arundel only chuckled, mocking. "Give up, boy. Don't waste either of our time."

A memory flickered across his mind, one of Catherine letting him use her shoulder as a crutch on a boat to Morfis. They walked across the rocking deck, practicing. She gave him a rare grin and said, "See? I knew you could do it." His leg was on fire, burning from the pain of his once-wound, as if feeling as fresh as when the wound had happened. Catherine didn't admonish him when he tripped.

Ignatz got up.

The sword pointed at him, discharging. He was thrown back, off his feet, taking the hit directly. His skin was on fire, literally in places, and he bat it with his hand, dropping the sword.

Arundel walked closer, his sword beginning to glow again. "Give up and die."

Raphael giving him a cane, carved by his own hands. "Look, there's little fawns carved in it!" Leonie helping him up after falling. "I admire you, you know." Byleth guiding his stance to account for the weight of the brace. "Just a matter of breaking a few habits. As simple as that."

Ignatz got up.

"As if," he said, voice labored, "after everything I've done, you expect me to die here?" He limped forward, still missing his weapon. Arundel didn't even use his weapon this time. He reached his foot up and kicked Ignatz in the chest, knocking him down.

Shamir taking a run with him. "I'll push you until you tell me to stop. But if you back down, do you think you'll get better?" Petra sparring with him. "I am thinking a shorter sword would do you better, Ignatz." Catherine helping him in his tent, there to catch him should he fall. "I told you, I'd be there to catch you."

"Stay down," Arundel commanded.

Ignatz got up.

He was bleeding all over, grass where he'd laid slick with blood. Spiderwebs of lightning-wounds that would scar spun out over his body. Exhaustion bit at him, a ravenous void threatening to swallow him into unconsciousness. It was all too similar to every moment he'd felt the pain in his leg.

But he'd been getting up from falling for the past five years.

Arundel held the sword up again, but this time Ignatz moved. The short distance between them let him leap at Arundel, propelling off the ground with his good leg. He tackled the man, pinning him to the ground.

"I've walked through hell," Ignatz said, ripping the blade from his hand, casting it aside. "This pain is nothing!"

His hands reached around Arundel's throat, squeezing it. The nobleman flailed, unable to breathe. Without air, he could not cast.

"Stay down," spat Ignatz as the fight slowly left him. Adrenalin kept him holding the man's neck as light slowly sapped from his eyes, his breathing growing shorter.

Arundel stopped moving. Ignatz let go, falling off him in exhaustion and pain.

No, he told himself. He needed to make sure.

Crawling to Arundel's sword, he picked it up and stood up for the final time, the blade as a cane. Limping to the man's body, he looked down at the imperial nobleman.

Ignatz spat on his body, and drove the blade into his neck.

Author Notes: I can finally talk about the ending of this fic, now that Thales is dead. This has been the plan since Ig's injury, with Ig being the one to kill him. This raises questions for the rest of the story, to which I can say for certain we will not be going to Shambhala or to the finale canon chapter in VW. Elements from both will be combined into the fifth (and final) arc of the story. One way or another, this story ends in Enbarr with Edelgard.

Editing Notes:
2/17/2022: Minor grammatical adjustments.