In the game, I thought it was heartbreaking that Emmeryn, such an angel of a person, would never regain what she has lost. So...I came up with a solution. Enjoy!

*This chapter was inspired by another writer's fantastic work, Halcyon Days, chapter five "Family," by Tiquismisquis. While you do not need to read that to understand this one-shot, you should still read it! Like, right after you read this. Really. Anyone who likes Frederick and the Exalt family should check Halcyon Days out, and any other of Tiquismisquis' work, too!*

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of the Fire Emblem games, and neither did I write the quote below.

Song of Her Heart

"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words."

-Author Unknown

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"You'll wake up tomorrow with an extra appendage if you're here to pester me about training. Again."

"I'll count myself lucky that I've come for a different reason. Your arcane expertise is required."

"Ooh, so goody two-shoes wants to take a walk on the dark side, does he? Will it be incineration, disembowelment, or exsanguination?"

"While those sound most…unpleasant, I am searching for something else. A spell meant to heal."

"I make blood flow, not stop. If you need a boo-boo fixed, go bother Lissa."

"I am afraid this wound cannot be mended with ordinary magic."

"Did someone hex you? Are you hurt?"

"Not me, milady. Exalt Emmeryn."

"The royal who took the dive? What makes you think I can help her?"

"You are knowledgeable of spells the healers have never heard of. Surely there is something you can do for Her Highness that the others cannot—outside of turning her into a newt."

"You take the fun out of everything. What makes you think you can trust a dark mage like me with your precious little crown?"

"You have served the Shepherds for this long. I see no reason why you would stab us in the back now."

"You're not as unreadable as you think you are. Your eyes are an open book. Hee hee. So much for being virtuous."

"I'm not—I am only doing what any knight of Ylisse would do for their charge."

"Ugh, save me the heroics. You still haven't said what's in it for me if I do help."

"You would be restoring the life of an Exalt—"

"Yawn."

"—and you would gain favor in Robin's eyes."

"Robin? Hmm…you're right. He would be so enthralled I succeeded where everyone else has failed, that his heart would be mine to claim forever! Eee hee hee! Very well. Fetch me the gallbladder of a bat, and we'll begin."

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Words are fleeting.

Whenever she reaches for one, it floats away before her fingers can grasp it. It takes all her concentration to catch the simplest of phrases, but they are patient. Or perhaps they have simply given up on expecting her to reply. Even when words elude her, she can still sense their uncertainty around her, as if they are performing on stage even though their audience had lost interest.

Nimble fingers weave a crown of flowers in her hair. Hair like hers… The girl's skirt reminds her of a birdcage, but its inhabitant is free, twittering a song in her ear. Music is easier than words. The tune floats above her like a breeze. She leans back and lets the song carry her away.

The next time she opens her eyes, the room is quiet and her hair is scented with the perfume of flowers. The girl in the birdcage has taken her song away, and the sounds of someone breathing fill its place. Sitting on the armchair across from her is a man. The teardrop on his shoulder matches the one she sees whenever she peers into a pond. The candlelight warms his skin and softens the edges of his features so he looks like a boy. Yet no child should have such dark circles under his eyes.

A bitter taste fills her mouth. He had made the effort to visit, only to find her lost in her head. Many people come, and their faces blur together like the rosy blots on the back of her eyelids, but the man and the girl stand out the most. What are their names?

Dark hair had fallen over the bridge of his nose. Her fingers itch to brush them back. Before her hand can reach his face, the tent flaps open. He jerks awake, and she feels something ache inside as she rests her hand back in her lap.

Standing slightly bowed, both because of respectfulness and the low ceiling of the tent, is the man whose armor reminds her of the sky after it rains. She wonders if she had known him before she became…lost. Whenever she had thought to ask, the question would flit away before she could remember to voice it. His eyes swerve to hers, once, before focusing on his master.

"Milord."

The man with the teardrop blinks sleep from his eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"No, sire. Robin sent me to remind you of tonight's meeting to plan the next troop movement."

"That's tonight?" He starts to rise, but freezes midway when he remembers his company. "I'm sorry, Emmeryn, but I'm afraid we'll have to continue our conversation later."

Somewhere an owl hoots, and his words finally catch up to her. It would be easier, so much easier, to just smile and nod, but she sees the longing repressed underneath the patience in his eyes. "Y-yes…I…shall wait."

He stands, and starts to turn away, before hesitating. In one fluid motion he swoops down and presses a kiss on her matching teardrop. Her heart flutters even when the warmth on her forehead is gone.

"Will you be coming, too, Frederick? Your input is always appreciated."

"Yes, milord. I shall be joining shortly."

The tent flap rustles, but her eyes are on the trembling flame of the candle. Her mind slips into itself. She does not react when he steps next to her, does not flinch when he kneels down so his face shares the same warm glow as hers. His lips part and press together, but only later, when the flame is almost level with the pool of melted wax, is she aware of what he had whispered to her.

"You are a wonderful woman, and I love you, milady."

Another ache. She has only enough time to furrow her brow before the words are blown out with the last of the candlelight.

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"I tried some spells. Didn't work."

"So you cannot help her?"

"Remember who you're talking to, lapdog. The spells were meant to diagnose her condition, not necessarily cure it. I found some minor injuries leftover from the fall, but none are responsible for her memory loss."

"Then what is?"

"I thought you knights were supposed to be clever. Her amnesia is not the result of something physical, but mental. You've spent years as her guard. You should know best that having your neck breathed down everyday since you were a child takes its toll."

"Are you insinuating Her Grace has done this to herself?"

"Not consciously, at least. Her mind would have been forced into a self-preservation mode after the trauma of her fall. Anything that could have jeopardized her fragile condition would have been blocked. That would include trying to be a paragon in the middle of a war."

"I…understand, but I am not convinced Her Grace would voluntarily forget her family or her people when she has sacrificed everything for them."

"Maybe. But can you truly blame her for forgetting, consciously or not? Look at Robin. He doesn't want to remember his past anymore, because he's afraid it would taint the life he's built for himself now. Some memories should stay in the dark."

"Robin's amnesia has given him a clean slate from his father. He is able to move forward in the direction he chooses, but Her Grace...she is left scarred."

"We all have scars. Even if we can't see them on our skin, they are there. What if your intervention only makes her suffering worse?"

"There is that risk, but if we never learn from our scars, then we gain nothing. Emmeryn deserves to learn, to remember. She deserves a choice."

"And will you make that choice for her?"

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Something is missing. Something more than words and names and faces. She does not know what, exactly, but she finds herself constantly glancing over her shoulder, as if expecting someone to be walking in her shadow.

She is perching underneath the grand tree. Birds are hopping from branch to branch in the canopy, singing. Always singing. As she listens, her thoughts feel less like the leaves scattered in the wind. She closes her eyes, and imagines the only thing that exists is their song, making her whole.

The ground is absent of pebbles and sticks. There is nothing to alert her to his careful footsteps. He clears his throat when he reaches her side. She does not start, but slowly lifts her gaze to meet his.

"I don't mean to disturb, Your Grace, but I had hoped to—" The words cut off when he bows his head. "No. Forgive me for intruding, Your Grace."

He deepens the bow and steps back.

"Wait…"

He pauses, before lifting his head. She is watching him. Her head is tilted slightly with her lips turned up in a smile.

"Please…stay."

She looks so much like the woman he remembers that he cannot disobey. "As you wish, milady."

Instead of sitting beside her, he moves to stand just close enough so the shade of the tree skims his face. The birds had fallen quiet, as had she. For many moons he had stood guard at the palace with nothing to occupy the hours besides counting the suits of armor, and yet he could not remember a silence more unbearable than the one growing now. How could she be so still?

He kneels and looks up at her face. Her eyes are almost shut and fluttering, as if she is dreaming.

His thirst to know where she is—where she truly is—is scorching. All the gold he would give, if he could only know what she wants. If she wishes to find her way, he shall be her guide; if she wishes to stay, he shall be her guard.

"You are a wonderful woman, and I love you."

He stands and does not look back as he walks away, even when she calls out for him in broken words. He knows he cannot make the choice for her.

But he can give her a chance.

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And so it continues for many moons.

He would come once a day, every day, and always with the same message. Soon she finds herself counting down for his next appearance as she would for the hourly chime of a clock. His face is the one that rises above the blur when she closes her eyes. His words are the ones she whispers into her pillow like a mantra, lest the wind whisks them away as she sleeps. His voice is ocean water seeping into the cracks in a seashell, until even the broken edges are smooth.

I.

Lips pressed into a restraining line, shoulders erect, and eyes sharp and surveying like the black birds that swarm around the mage with the hollow smile.

Love.

The man with the teardrop blocking the blows aimed at her. The girl in the birdcage teaching her how to speak the prayers of gods and sew the skins of man. Countless nights of stories being shared in the warmth of the candlelight.

You.

Who is she? A wonderful woman? What makes her wonderful? "The way you change hearts and inspire peace with words alone," said the ruler who had shed tears only for her. But her tongue no longer shapes the language of peace. "How you've always put others first," said the girl unconfined by her cage. But her mind has forsaken those she had sworn her life to.

"Birds, milady."

He looks up as one soars over their heads, its wings stretching towards the sun.

"I don't…understand."

"I would stand watch when you would sit in the palace garden, Your Grace. Every morning at sunrise I would see you feed the birds two handfuls of seeds. Never less. You keep the habit still. I had been in your service for two years before I finally asked you why, Your Grace. Why an Exalt would insist on feeding the birds before she even changed out of her nightgown."

The words fly out before she even tries to catch them. "Because…they are free."

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"There's a spell, very old magic, that might help Emmeryn."

"Thank the gods! You must perform it immediately."

"Not so fast. This isn't the magic where you just snap your fingers and set fools on fire. Anything too drastic could push Emmeryn over the edge."

"Then how does it work?"

"With subtle touches. A faint impression here, a gut feeling there—the ache of something missing. The tricky part is the spell only unearths Emmeryn's memories, not dig them out. She needs a catalyst, someone who can remind her who she is."

"By doing what? Telling her facts about herself? Her birthday, favorite books, the way she takes her tea?"

"You would be a terrible dark mage. The key to casting the best—or worst—hexes, depending on who's getting hexed, is knowing your victim. If your knowledge of the person only grazes the surface, so will the hex. Sure, melting a person's skull works in a pinch, but if you want to strike true terror, you need to know what will make your victim cry like a baby."

"And this applies to Her Grace in what way, precisely?"

"The principle of hexes is the same principle of the spell we'll be using. The catalyst must have a strong enough connection to Emmeryn that they can echo a shared memory. Something powerful. Personal. Something that had left a mark on both the catalyst's soul and her own."

"This spell is sounding less like magic and more like the bonds Robin speaks of. Perhaps it is magic of its own."

"Yes. It is his belief that made me research the "nice" spells I make an effort to avoid."

"I'm sure Her Grace and Robin would be appreciative you didn't disregard the spells. Now I must fetch milord and milady at once!"

"Don't. The spell won't work if the catalyst shares blood with the subject."

"What absurd magic would require that?"

"Dark magic."

"Of course. I would have recommended Phila to help Her Grace, but as she has passed away, I do not know who else could qualify."

"You are a fool. I already said that you have been at Emmeryn's side the longest. Only you are close enough to help her without being restricted by blood."

"You flatter me, but I cannot possibly qualify. I am not—Her Grace does not—"

"Enough stammering already! You can sound like a schoolboy once Emmeryn's recovered enough to laugh at you, or whatever Exalts do. So are you in or are you not?"

"Yes. With every fiber in me."

"Then make her remember."

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The fine hair rises on the back of her neck. She can feel the heat of the mages' duo fire, their spells outreaching the range of his lance. She watches as he sidesteps just in time so the flames bite at his metal sides rather than his chest. The mages move in as he stumbles. Before they can strike, a tornado rolls off her hand and flings them back. Already a prayer is falling from her lips as she flies past the maze of clashing steel to reach him.

A familiar face is already there, fending off the enemies as she drops to her knees and pulls him onto her lap. His grip doesn't loosen on his lance. His face is black with soot, but his eyes are steady when they look up into hers. "Milady."

She keeps her face calm even as her heart pounds. Between the scales of armor, his skin is blistering and raw from where the flames had scathed him. He should be screaming, but only the tightness in his lips betrays his suffering. As she chants, the tip of her staff alights.

Beads of perspiration race down her forehead. Slowly, so slowly, the flaps of skin knit together into a shiny, angry blotch. She releases a breath the same moment his face relaxes.

"Thank you, Your—"

"I know...you."

He blinks, before smiling through the grime. "And I you. You are a wonderful woman, and—"

"I love you."

She gasps. A thousand broken shards of stained glass fusing together, forming pictures, memories…

Impeccable posture even as he knits by the light of the campfire while the others sleep. The back of his head as she catches him slipping into her quarters, a discreet check for assassins that is not so discreet. Voice hard with expectations and orders, but always soft for her. Always for her.

"Frederick." She doesn't stop the teardrops from falling, splashing on his face and streaking through the soot to the smooth skin underneath. "I remember everything. Chrom, Lissa, my people. And you. You never gave up on me."

Frederick reaches to cup her face, and she presses her lips against his palm, so warm. "I did not, and I never will, Your Grace."

"No." Her voice rings with a steadiness that she thought had been snuffed out. "I am not Your Grace. I am Emmeryn, and I love you."

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Would anyone believe that Frederick and Tharja's conversations were the hardest to write out of all of this?