Chapter 8: Smash Brethren

The Shepherds were dispersing from the conference room. Chrom hadn't heard much of the lecture, but he got the gist—more Einherjar, another Outrealm, sexy ladies, yadda yadda.

Rather than trying to recall the details of Old Hubba's inane perverseness, Chrom instead gathered Lucina, Brady, and Morgan, and pulled them aside as the remainder of the group listed towards the Outrealm Gate.

Chrom crossed his arms as the four of them huddled. "So. Elephant in the room: Marth."

"I thought we said we'd let this go for now?" Lucina asked.

"We have time to talk," Morgan said. "Might as well toss some ideas around. Compare notes."

Lucina shrugged. "Fair enough."

"So what do we know?" Chrom asked.

"The card was a fake," said Morgan.

"Marth had an ulterior motive," said Lucina.

"And, uh… I think I'm outta the loop," said Brady.

Chrom looked at his daughter. "What makes you say that, Lucina?"

Lucina winced. "His, er… his last words to me. He told me to find Seliph."

"Seliph?" Chrom felt his suspicions practically confirmed. "So, did you talk to him?"

"Yes, but he was cryptic and unhelpful," Lucina said. "Pretended to know nothing, but still hinted that the card was fake." She shook her head. "…Something I should've realized in the first place. The artwork wasn't perfect, the card was less rigid than it was before, and it weighed less than Caeda's card… but I was so blinded that I refused to accept that possibility."

"All's forgiven." Morgan turned to Chrom. "Anyway, I did some… uh… testing, yesterday. Figuring out the mechanics of Einherjar obedience. Turns out, Einherjar are compelled to obey orders even if it forces them to do something out-of-character. If it would be in character for them to obey, then they would obey without question, and you can even talk them into doing gray-area stuff, but they get a lot more upset when you tell them to do something they don't want to do."

She took a breath. Caeda had shot Morgan many a sharp glare since their interaction the previous night. "A lot more upset."

"Well that's…" Lucina trailed off. "Wait, what did you do?"

"Don't worry about it."

Morgan seemed uncharacteristically uncomfortable, leading to an awkward pause. A silent agreement to drop the subject was slowly reached.

Chrom took the quiet time to think. "So… since he could disobey a direct order, it's possible that Marth was somehow never under our command. …Or… not under my command." He crossed his arms. "Did..."

A thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Old Hubba's Warp Powder," he said. "Yesterday, the old man said he lost it!"

"Really?" Morgan asked. "Could he have… misplaced it?"

"No, no," Chrom said, "I think Marth took it somehow…"

Brady snapped his fingers. "Ay. Didn'ee bump shoulders with Hubba after we had our chat with Algol? On Talys."

"He did," Lucina said. He was masking his sleight of hand under an angry façade…

"And when we thought we killed him…" said Chrom slowly, "…he actually used the powder to warp away."

"Those were warping runes. Not his death throes," Lucina finished. "Marth is still alive!"

"Nuh-uh."

The group turned to Brady.

The healer crossed his arms. "Sorry, guys, but that ain't what's goin' on. Whatever's happenin', Marth still died."

Morgan frowned. "What? What do you mean?"

"I wasn't lyin' before," Brady continued. "That was an honest-to-goodness stab wound, courtesy of Falchion. Deep wound right in the chest, inches below the heart. When I told ya, "ain't no staff gonna heal that wound," I meant "ain't no staff gonna heal that wound.""

The others all sighed, practically as one. Except for Morgan, whose sigh went on way too long.

"So Marth is not the mastermind, then," Lucina murmured dejectedly. "Someone else is behind the scenes."

"Seliph," Chrom said, scowling. "He's our manipulator."

"Potentially Seliph," Morgan cautioned. "He's shifty, sure, but for all we know, he reports to whoever Marth reported to."

Chrom folded his arms. "Reported to…. Old Hubba, maybe?"

"Can't be, or else Marth wouldn'ta wanted us to keep 'im in the dark," Brady added.

"Algol, then?" Lucina posited.

"What goal could Algol have that would involve Marth dying? He gained nothing from that. He even lost Caeda."

Head-scratching ensued.

To end the silence, an extra voice piped in: "I hope I'm not interrupting…"

The four Shepherds turned to face the voice.

Seliph took a step closer, smiling courteously. "…But I have some information that I believe you will find very helpful in the battle to come."

The Outrealm Gate glowed on the edge of the woods. Most of the Shepherds were already gathered outside, outfitting for the battle to come.

Morgan briefed Chrom as they walked. "So, the old man said—well, not my old man, heheh, the old man, I meant—he said this fight's gonna be happening at the Dragon's Gate."

"You were paying attention?"

"Ha! No, I was bored out of my skull. Lyn was listening, though. …I should really just have her be my ears at these from now on."

Chrom scratched his chin. "The Dragon's Gate… What legends are those from?"

"Elibe. In fact, good ol' Lyn was actually familiar with the place. It's where she, Eliwood, and Hector had their final battle."

"Hector?"

Morgan waved it away. "We don't have him yet."

"Oh…"

"Anyway, Lyn was nice enough to give me a layout of the place. Pretty handy. And not only that, she also helped me map out a stealthy way to sneak around the enemy—perfect for the little strike team that Seliph suggested."

Chrom slowly stopped, pursing his lips. Morgan stopped as well.

"What's up, Captain?"

Chrom shook his head. "Can we really trust Seliph?"

"Yes."

Chrom was surprised; Morgan's answer was immediate. "Why so certain?"

"Think about it," said Morgan. "Why would he give us that information? It can't be for a trap, because we're all going to be there, not just the team. That is, once we deal with Ephraim and Eirika's group, we can easily move to back up the Sneak Squad."

"Sneak Squad? Really?"

Morgan shrugged, grinning. "Sorry. I thought it was good. Catchy, even."

Chrom rolled his eyes. "Whatever. We should get going." He turned to start walking, but Morgan caught his arm, with an actual, serious look on her face.

"Captain." Morgan released him. "I don't think you should participate today."

"What?" said Chrom, appalled. "Out of the question. I always fight."

"You shouldn't use the Outrealm Gate," Morgan pressed. "Same reason we aren't letting the Manaketes fight: your health is compromised by that damn door!" She crossed her arms. "So, as tactician, I'm gonna have to make you sit this one out, sir."

"Overruled," said Chrom instantly. "I'm the Exalt, and I get the final word. I'm fighting."

"Chrom—"

Chrom noticed her use of his actual name, and the genuine concern in her voice, but he interrupted her anyway. "Morgan, I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine. It's been several voyages since I've actually gotten sick from the Outrealm Gate. The trips to and from Jungby were totally fine, and so was the final return trip from Talys. I've gotten used to it, trust me." He grinned confidently. "And even if I was sick, I'd still be needed. So, again, thanks for the concern, but I'm fighting today." He patted her on the shoulder. "Now let's get moving."

Morgan looked down. "…O-Okay. If you say so, Captain."

Chrom sighed irritably as he resumed walking. First Sumia, then Severa, and now the Manaketes. The party continued to dwindle. At least Cynthia was back in action…

I'll be damned if I'm the next one out, Chrom thought.

He soon found himself standing before the Outrealm Gate. Most of the other Shepherds awaited on the other side.

Morgan clasped her hands, watching Chrom apprehensively. "…After you, Captain."

"Right."

Chrom braced himself and shouldered his way into the new Outrealm.

A swirl of lights and colors, as before. Chrom felt a weight pressing on his chest.

It seemed to last for an eternity. Spots flashed behind Chrom's eyes, and he began to grow lightheaded.

Suddenly, the pressure released, and he found himself staggering to all fours, dry-heaving onto the green floor tiles below him.

The lightheadedness didn't go away. It was—like—like he had been lying in bed, sound asleep, and was forced to awaken and stand on his feet—he couldn't collect his thoughts, nor could he keep his balance. And he still felt a weight on his chest, though not nearly as heavy as it was during the portal transport. He was soon lying on his side, wheezing miserably.

He felt hands shaking him, and his thoughts slowly coalesced. Glancing up, he saw Morgan among the many faces huddling overhead.

"Are you all right?!" Morgan exclaimed once again. "Chrom, answer me!"

Chrom couldn't help but chuckle weakly. "Man… bad timing for that, huh? Really put a hole in my argument earlier..."

Morgan laughed, relieved, and soon had Chrom on his feet. "Geez. That was scary, Captain."

"I know." Chrom ran a hand through his hair anxiously. "That's the worst it's been by far."

"Once we're done here, we have to find a cure for Outrealm Sickness," Morgan insisted. "There has to be a way."

Chrom nodded. His head was mostly clear, but the attack had left behind a familiar headache. Great.

"A-Anyway, we're here," continued Morgan, gesturing at the long hall stretching out before them. "This is the Dragon's Gate. …Really green, isn't it?"

The hall led to a wide chamber—a very wide chamber, and twice as long. Not to mention green. "Like, REALLY green," Morgan noted.

Along each side of the chamber were small hallways: three on each side, each leading to a door (if Lyn's testimony was accurate). At the opposite end of the enormous chamber was a long stairway leading up to a massive pair of doors.

Wide sight lines, Chrom noted. I hope Morgan had a plan for getting that team through here unnoticed.

Approaching the party was a spot of color amid the endless green—red and gold, with blue hair. She firmly grasped a rapier, held aloft, and she came to a halt at a safe distance from the Shepherds.

"Who are you?"

The woman's voice echoed through the chamber. Chrom gestured at the others to stay put, and moved forward.

"My name is Chrom."

"That's close enough, Sir Chrom."

Chrom raised his hands peacefully as he stopped. "Very well. You are?"

"Eirika." She tightened her grip on her rapier. "Princess of Renais."

"Renais…" Chrom murmured. "Magvel, hm?"

"What is your business here?" Eirika shouted. "None may pass through."

"Why not?" Chrom asked.

"Because—" Eirika briefly faltered. Because… I was told to, by…

She summoned up her courage. "That is irrelevant! You are trespassing, sir."

"No, I'm afraid I'm exactly where I need to be." Chrom crossed his arms. "Tell me where Algol is."

Eirika shook her head. "Algol? He's…" She frowned; her sword arm slowly lowered. "I don't know… B-But that doesn't concern you! Turn back, Sir Chrom, or this may come to violence."

"I don't want that to happen," said Chrom. "That's the last thing I want. I want us to be able to resolve this peacefully. Do you think that is possible, Lady Eirika?"

"I—I wish that as well, but I cannot simply allow you to walk through." Her sword was now by her side, but she still gripped the hilt tightly.

"Why not?" Chrom asked. "Tell me why, and I may just turn back around. However, if you can offer no good reason, then I will have to force my way through."

Eirika was wrestling with herself. I don't know! I simply don't… "Sir Chrom…" She held her breath. Slowly, she let that breath go. "…I have no such reason. I cannot explain to you why…"

"Then let me through," Chrom insisted, taking a step closer. "We must stop Algol. He is a wicked man, and he has been manipulating you for far too long. Surrender peacefully, milady—there is no need for bloodshed."

"Manipulating…?"

Another step closer. "My lady, try to remember where you last were. Remember the last time you saw Magvel."

Eirika's head began to hurt. "I… I…"

"It is a terrible truth, but it's the truth regardless." Chrom walked closer. "None of this has been your fault, or any of your companions' fault. All the blame is on Algol." He was now an arm's length away. "Join us, Lady Eirika. There should be no fight today."

Chrom offered a hand—his right hand, free of a weapon. Eirika's, contrarily, continued to hold the rapier.

Eirika stared down at Chrom's hand, severely tempted.

Back with the other Shepherds, Morgan crossed her fingers. Please work, please work, please work.

A bead of sweat ran down Chrom's brow. He was running a grave risk here—if Eirika refused, her weapon was…

Eirika's grip tightened on her rapier. Chrom winced.

Then, at last, her grip relaxed. She returned the weapon to its sheath, reached forward, and shook Chrom's hand.

"I believe you, milord." Eirika smiled. "Very well. I surrender."

Morgan let out the breath she had been holding. She surrenders! I was right!

Chrom let out the breath he had been holding. "Whew! I really appreciate that, Eirika. Thanks for believing in me."

Eirika looked down. "Some say I am too gullible… too trusting." She looked back up at Chrom. "But the way I see it, those who cannot trust can never know peace. And you—your eyes—I know I can trust you, Sir Chrom."

"Very well said, milady. I, for one, value that innocence."

Eirika smiled. "Thank you. Now, my brother lies in wait, hidden in one of the six chambers around us—I will go relay what you have told me, and talk him down. He'll listen to me if I go alone."

"Sure. Godspeed, Lady Eirika."

Eirika hurried away.

Chrom turned around and exchanged shrugs with Morgan.

Knock, knock. Knock.

That odd knock could only belong to Sister. Ephraim slowly pushed the ancient door open and greeted Eirika. "What's the matter?"

Eirika smiled. "Hello, Brother. I have good news."

"Really?" Ephraim leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. "Well, I'm all ears."

"It's about the—"

Eirika lurched.

A second passed before Ephraim reacted. "Wh—?" He blinked. "Eirika!"

He quickly moved to her, catching her in his arms as she collapsed.

A long, slender arrow protruded from her back.

Eirika sputtered blood from her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. "Chr-Chrom," she whispered. "He's… n-not our…"

Her eyes closed, ignorant to Ephraim's cries of her name.

"No! No!" Ephraim shouted, shaking her. "Eirika!"

Ephraim watched, horrified, as Eirika began to dissolve into a midnight-blue flame. Soon, she had entirely disappeared, leaving nothing behind but… a small card.

Ephraim felt tears in his eyes, and as he grasped Eirika's card, his sorrow began to mold into a rich fury.

And he was armed with a name. "Chrom," he growled. He stowed the card in his pocket as he stood. "You die today."

The lone sniper retreated to the shadows from whence she had come.

Morgan looked around, antsy. "Chrom—this isn't looking good. There are bad guys coming from everywhere. Must be a couple dozen of them, too."

"I noticed," Chrom said grimly. "As long as we don't get surrounded… Let's keep our backs to the entrance."

"Took the words out of my—"

"CHROM!"

The shout echoed deafeningly through the massive chamber of the Dragon's Gate. The speaker was striding towards the center of the room—a blue-haired man, with a massive red lance in his hand. He stopped in the center of the chamber, in the cross where all tiles aligned, and faced Chrom. He carried hate in his eyes.

"Chrom, you have committed the gravest error a man could commit," Ephraim snarled. "You have taken from me the one I hold most dear. To reward your murder, I sentence you and the rest of your band to death."

"Murder?" Chrom asked. He put the pieces together. "…Eirika is dead?"

"I'm certain not by your sacred hand," mocked Ephraim. "You had an archer do the deed for you. Coward. I'll enjoy watching you pay for your crime!"

"Wait! I didn't—"

"Spare me!" Ephraim shouted, and pointed his lance at the Shepherds. "Brave allies—execute these lying, cowardly scum! And as for Chrom—he's mine!"

The Shepherds prepared for combat as Ephraim's army approached.

This was by far the largest engagement the Shepherds had faced in the Outrealms so far. For the first time, the Einherjar outnumbered the Shepherds, if only slightly. Morgan had limited the number of allies to bring, however, given the relative tightness of the Dragon's Gate's corridors—roughly twenty fighters occupied each faction in this battle.

And the Einherjar did not hold back. Fueled by their rage against Eirika's ostensible murderers, the enemy fought with all their strength.

Still, it was nothing the Shepherds couldn't handle, right?

As Ephraim began to swing his lance, Chrom caught a brief glimpse of flames following the weapon's arc through the air. He shoved forward with the Fire Emblem to deflect the strike.

Ephraim twirled his lance, undeterred, and clashed against Chrom's sword and shield time and time again. Ephraim sported an incredibly aggressive fighting style, and as the two lords went head-to-head again and again, flames and sparks cascaded from their powerful weapons colliding.

Chrom relented for a moment, and began to circle Ephraim. "This fight is pointless, you know," he said.

Ephraim, contrarily, held his ground, simply following Chrom with his eyes. He twirled his weapon—Siegmund, the Flame Lance. "I tire of talking," he said.

"We are not your enemy!" Chrom said. "Don't throw your lives away."

"You misunderstand, Chrom." Ephraim crouched, aiming. "I don't pick fights I can't win."

Ephraim stabbed at Chrom, testing his defenses. A few more stabs, and he had what he needed.

He squeezed the lance tighter. Time to try.

A red light traveled down the lance from end-to-end, as though a fire ran underneath the surface.

Ephraim swung the lance powerfully, anticipating Chrom's guard with that apparently unbreakable shield. Before, the lance would have bounced off of the shield, as a normal lance would.

Siegmund, however, was no normal lance.

The power of the attack was such that the Fire Emblem did not impede Siegmund's path. Chrom was thrown off of his feet by the attack.

Ephraim leapt onto Chrom, already angling his lance for the killing blow. Chrom reacted in time, swiping the lance away with Falchion and causing it to stab into the ground next to him.

Ephraim growled in frustration and punched Chrom in the jaw with his other hand. Chrom likewise bashed Ephraim with the Fire Emblem, dislodging the lord from him.

Chrom was on his feet first, and Ephraim was vulnerable for a brief moment as he struggled to his own feet. Chrom tensed his sword hand, but then stayed his killing strike.

I have to take him alive, he reminded himself.

He shook his head irritably and backed away a pace instead, the window of opportunity gone.

Ephraim wiped blood from his lip, and stared at the blood on his hand quietly, before looking back at Chrom. Without a word, he dived back into combat.

Chrom parried an attack, and intended to throw out one of his own, but Ephraim was quick enough to continue his own assault and remove Chrom's opportunity at retaliation.

Ephraim's teeth were bared in exertion, and so were Chrom's. Ephraim's constant aggression was new to Chrom, or at least, aggression from a capable opponent. In Chrom's experience, the more experienced the lanceman, the more defensive their style grew—Sumia, Cordelia, Kellam, Cynthia… And similarly for Marth, a swordsman. All used defensive styles.

Come to think of it, Ephraim was virtually Marth's antithesis. Where Marth was a swordfighter who fought like a lanceman, Ephraim was the opposite.

His aggression constantly kept Chrom on his toes, and his lance was incredibly powerful, meaning Chrom's defenses were constantly falling at the wayside of mirrored offense.

Chrom grinned confidently. This was much more fun.

Chrom ducked under a swing—the blade of Siegmund radiated heat as it passed overhead—and struck at Ephraim with his shield. Ephraim took the Fire Emblem in his gut, groaning in pain.

Chrom raised Falchion again, but again, stayed his hand.

In stopping the unconscious killing strike, Chrom was forced to consciously plan his immediate move—easier said than done in the middle of a fight. He settled on pummeling Ephraim with the pommel of Falchion, but the decision came too late: Ephraim shoved Chrom away, and coughed once as the two circled each other again.

Chrom kicked himself. He had to get out of this killing mindset—this fight would never end if he couldn't knock Ephraim unconscious. And the two windows to end this fight that he had already missed would not open again.

Ephraim was learning. As the fight continued on, Ephraim picked at holes in Chrom's defense, and he exploited repetitive habits in Chrom's offense. As usual, Chrom gritted his teeth and mixed things up each time in order to keep Ephraim guessing: don't attack here when you did last time, dodge instead of block next time, use Falchion here instead of the Fire Emblem…

Ephraim leapt at Chrom, surprisingly, and swatted aside the Fire Emblem and Falchion in a clean swing. He turned his lance on the staggered Chrom and stabbed.

Chrom grunted as he twisted to the side, dodging the fatal strike. However, Ephraim still had the momentary advantage.

Ephraim lunged for Chrom's throat with his hand, but Chrom again sidestepped. Ephraim spun Siegmund at him once again, and Chrom had barely enough time to bring up the Fire Emblem in defense.

The immense blow flung the shield out of Chrom's grip. It slid across the tile floor and disappeared into the commotion.

Chrom grasped Falchion with both hands and slashed horizontally; Ephraim blocking the attack finally signaled an end to Ephraim's brief burst of momentum.

This is bad, Chrom thought. No shield… Now I practically can't block at all.

He adjusted his stance. Now, he held his sword next to his ear, horizontally, with the tip aiming at his opponent. Lucina's stance.

Ephraim twirled Siegmund as he patiently circled Chrom.

A drop of sweat ran down Chrom's cheek. He was trying something new, and he hoped it wouldn't backfire.

Ephraim tested the waters with a slash of Siegmund, evidently to judge Chrom's guard again.

Chrom attempted to power the blow away, to echo Lucina's technique during her fight with Marth. Unfortunately, unlike that fight, where Lucina and Marth's swords had been of equal strength, Chrom's Falchion was significantly weaker than Siegmund.

Regardless, Chrom tried: he put all his strength behind the swing, and he succeeded in repelling Ephraim's attack. Sadly, that was all he could really do, as the weight behind his attack had put him in a very poor stance to capitalize on Ephraim's vulnerability.

Chrom did recover first, however, and tried to carry this momentum. He struck at Ephraim with a number of quick stabs (still trying Lucina's thing), and to his glee, he finally succeeded at landing a significant cut on Ephraim's arm.

His confidence disappeared when he realized how he had landed that cut: Ephraim took the hit in exchange for launching an attack of his own. Chrom twisted in defense, but could not avoid the hot blade drawing a long gash across Chrom's hip.

Chrom grunted and clutched his bleeding hip, also returning to his normal stance. Guess I should leave that sort of thing to Lucina, he thought sullenly.

Ephraim waited. Having scored a deep wound on Chrom, Ephraim no longer had the burden of offense in this fight: all he needed to do was wait, and when Chrom inevitably attacked, he would do so at a disadvantage.

Chrom released his hip (wincing) and grasped Falchion. "Last chance," he grunted.

"Your last chance is exhausted, actually." Ephraim brandished Siegmund.

"Fine then!"

Chrom sliced Falchion across the air. It wasn't often that he used this technique—these days, he rarely faced a tough enough challenge to require its use.

However, this time, he didn't have Lucina to tap out for.

The ancient skill of Aether ran through Falchion. Sol and Luna, together.

Chrom lunged forward, an orange tint on his blade, but he whiffed the first slash—Ephraim was quick on his feet.

Ephraim would have to be quicker, however, as the second hit was much more lethal. The second, blue, armor-piercing attack made a beeline for Ephraim. And Ephraim—who had never seen this technique before, and did not know what to expect—made the worst possible decision by trying to block it.

Falchion was weaker than Siegmund, yes—even fully Awakened, Falchion's might paled before the Flame Lance. But there was one thing that separated the two even further.

Unlike Falchion, Siegmund was not unbreakable.

The second hit of Aether, Luna, coursed through Falchion as it cleaved the shaft of Siegmund in two and imbedded into Ephraim's shoulder.

Chrom's momentum threw both lords onto the ground with Chrom on top. Falchion buried deeper into Ephraim's shoulder, causing the prince to cry out in agony; his hands grasped at Chrom's, trying to pry them off of the sword.

"Surrender!" Chrom commanded, ignoring his own pain and pushing the sword deeper. "Give up!"

Ephraim clenched his teeth, his eyes shooting to the side.

"Surrender!" Chrom ordered again.

"Y-You murdered her," Ephraim hissed quietly. "I'll never yield."

Ephraim reached out to the side and grasped the severed head of Siegmund. He clamped his teeth together tightly from exertion. He looked back at Chrom, and drove a half-foot of hot steel into the Exalt's side.

Chrom cried out in pain. Stars flashed in his eyes, and instinct took over. He removed the Falchion from Ephraim's shoulder—and he quickly returned it, deep into Ephraim's chest.

Ephraim's eyes went wide, and he sputtered blood wordlessly.

Chrom roared loudly, and he twisted the exalted blade; more blood rushed from the mortal wound. Ephraim briefly contorted, his fingers curling as though grasping at something—

Then he fell back. Ephraim's eyes were wide open and empty.

Dead.

Chrom panted heavily, leaning on Falchion for support. His arm was wrapped around his abdomen, trying to stem the flow of blood from his side.

Particles of azure fire rose from Ephraim's corpse. More, and more. Soon, Ephraim was dissolving into a midnight-blue flame, leaving no trace behind.

All of Ephraim was soon alight with heatless fire, encompassing Chrom. Chrom simply looked around, dazed, at the mesmerizing blaze.

Fire, he thought, and he laughed weakly. It's supposed to be fire…

A card clattered to the ground amidst the flames. It had been in Ephraim's pocket.

The fires crawled toward what had been Ephraim's abdomen, all coalescing in the center spot. Soon, when all of the flames had returned home, the fires disappeared. Left behind was the Einherjar card of Ephraim.

It settled on the ground next to its sister.

Chrom's arm failed, and he fell forward. Falchion clattered out of his grip.

The remaining Einherjar fell soon after. No other casualties.

Chrom was sitting in a corner, leaning against the wall. He stared down at the floor.

Emmeryn paused her staff. "How are you feeling?"

Chrom looked around. The Shepherds' healers were really earning their paychecks today—nobody had escaped this fight without injury. Thankfully, the allied Einherjar were there to help as well; Chrom exchanged a nod with Natasha as she passed by.

Chrom turned back to Emmeryn. "Not great."

Emmeryn smiled. "It'll be okay… This wound shouldn't bother you for more than a few days."

Chrom rubbed his eyes with his free hand. (His other one, at Emmeryn's insistence, lay still as she worked on that hip.) "Not really what I meant, Emm… I killed Ephraim."

Emmeryn resumed healing. "Didn't you say he refused to yield…?"

"Yeah," Chrom said. He closed his eyes. "Celica could be talked down… Eirika could be talked down. But Ephraim couldn't. And neither could Marth. Their drive prevented them from doing it, and it was more than orders."

"Yes… They are more human than we thought." Emmeryn smiled. "I find the idea… er… romantic. It's as if the ancient heroes… are truly among us."

"Heh… I guess."

"Open your eyes, please. Don't want you to fall asleep…"

"Mmph." Chrom reluctantly blinked his eyes open.

The chatter of the room faded into the background, lulling him into a peaceful state. He sighed.

"It's been so long since I've killed," Chrom said. "Last December was the final battle with Grima… then nothing for months and months. What day was it when we entered the Outrealms… August Fifth? …I wonder how much time has passed back home, if it's been three days here…"

Chrom was losing focus. He tried to concentrate, but he was so sleepy.

"I killed the dissonant Grima last week, sure… but then we entered the Outrealms, and I thought, 'Geez. We're going to have to kill again…' But we didn't, we could just take everyone alive." He chuckled dimly. "How many did we take? I could ask Morgan… but it's something like fifty Einherjar, right? Fifty people defeated, not killed… I actually started to entertain the thought that we wouldn't have to kill anyone while we were here, not even Algol."

Emmeryn frowned.

"I didn't think I had a problem with killing," Chrom continued. "I killed so many during the last two wars. Gotta be dozens of Plegians and Valmese and Grimleal…"

"It's natural to not wish to take lives, I think," Emmeryn said. "You got… out of practice, so to speak, and you realized how much you appreciated… not having to kill."

Chrom nodded. "Guess so…" He nodded over at the center of the chamber, where Ephraim had fallen. His heart sank. "It had been so long, it felt like it was my first kill all over again." And Grima didn't count—I pretty much just finished him off. Nah did the real fighting then, but with Ephraim, it was all me, every step of the way…

"Your first kill…" Emmeryn mused. "Do you remember it?"

"Vividly," said Chrom. "Me and Vaike, we were out hunting… when we were ambushed by… was it bandits? Or Plegians? …I figure I'd remember if it were Plegians… so bandits. Um…" He frowned, concentrating. Maybe not so vividly.

Emmeryn suppressed a giggle.

"Yeah… I only had a hatchet, and I killed the guy. I was… thirteen. Twelve? …Fourteen?" He shook his head, closing his eyes. "It doesn't matter… I was real shaken up about it, but you were so nice to me afterwards, Emm."

Emmeryn winced; she couldn't remember that, of course. Chrom was hardly in a state for tact, so, ignoring that, she asked, "Eyes open, please…"

Chrom sighed as he obeyed. He inspected his sister's face. "Emm… I can't remember, but have you killed?"

Oh. Emmeryn pursed her lips, and nodded slowly. She fixed her gaze on the wound she was mending.

"Do you remember it?"

"Always," she said quietly.

She had only ever killed one person. She had witnessed many, many deaths, but only one had been by her hand.

"Ardri," Emmeryn murmured.

Chrom shook his head. He didn't remember.

"The Grimleal who attacked the village," she said quietly. The one who murdered so many village girls. The one who murdered Rjorn…

"Oh," Chrom said. "Him… I hardly remember him, I was so distracted by you." He tilted his head. "Did it feel good, to get revenge? He killed a lot of people, I heard." Oof. Now that I mention it, Robin told me not to bring this up. Eh, whatever.

Emmeryn was relieved that Chrom had not read her journal. If he knew about Rjorn, she would get pity, and she did not want pity.

"It did, in a sense. He taught me that… not everyone is entitled to life. That killing is sometimes the right thing to do." A lesson I'd learned before, yet ignored.

"Oh…"

"Also I threw up and passed out afterwards," she said, glancing up at him, "so there's that."

Chrom walked stiffly. The bandages were thoroughly uncomfortable, and the wound still hurt—like a bitch, in fact—but he was alive, and he could walk on his own.

Guess that makes today a victory, he thought dryly. Well… after this last hurdle.

The Outrealm Gate stood ahead of him, glowing innocently, but Chrom just knew that dastardly door had nefarious plans in store for him.

"I don't wanna," he muttered.

Morgan laughed. "I bet. You'll be okay, though. Emmeryn?"

Emmeryn nodded. "I'll be waiting for you on the other side. I'll catch you if you fall… okay?"

Chrom nodded, forcing a smile for her. She touched his arm, then left through the arcane portal.

"Gah… I don't want to faint in front of Emm," Chrom complained.

"Good gods you sound tired," Morgan said, surprised. "Never heard you whine so much, Captain."

"Hush," Chrom said, grouchy. "Let's just get this over with."

Chrom winced, preparing himself, and marched through the portal.

Chrom staggered onto green soil, his hand grasping at his chest as he panted for air. He waved off Emmeryn, muttering, "Just gotta… catch my breath." He grasped his side, as well; it felt like all his staggering about had pulled a stitch or two.

"Let me take you to the infirmary…" Emmeryn murmured, concerned. "We'll fix you right up."

"Mansion… has an infirmary?" Chrom asked. Morgan shrugged. "How big?"

"'Conference room' big," Morgan said.

"Works for me," Chrom replied. "Infirmary it is. B-Bring the new Einherjar in there… I'll explain, like before."

"You sure? Pretty much any of us on the senior staff can do that."

Chrom nodded. "I'm sure."

"'Kay…"

Morgan looped Chrom's arm around her shoulder and helped him walk. Emmeryn took his other arm.

Chrom grimaced. This trip through the Gate wasn't nearly as bad as before… but it's far from acceptable.

Morgan soon left to gather the rest of the Einherjar, leaving Emmeryn as Chrom's crutch.

"Lord Chrom!" came a voice from behind: Seliph's. "Did everything go well?"

"Peachy," Chrom muttered. "Haven't heard from Maribelle yet, though. Say, where's the old man?"

"He left," said Seliph. "Off looking for more Einherjar. …It seems that he may be gone for a while, in fact."

"Is that right. Thanks, Seliph."

"Of course, sir."

Morgan was only now realizing her room was right above the infirmary: she could hear Chrom's voice from below. Couldn't make out the words, mind you, but…

There was a gentle knocking at the open door behind her. She hastily stood, knocking over some of her papers, and she started combing her hair with her fingers. I should really close that door!

A small girl with purple hair stood in the doorway. Well, not small as in young, small as in—well, the girl did seem young, but that's not what—

"Hi," the newcomer said quietly. "Are you… a tactician?"

Morgan smiled. "Y-Yep! The Shepherds' tactician, as a matter of fact. Name's Morgan."

"I'm actually an aspiring tactician myself," the girl said. "I-I'm not really good at it… I mean, I did just get thrashed back at the Dragon's Gate…"

"It wasn't all bad," Morgan said cheerfully. "Really, if I were you, I would've used the hidden rooms more, though. You could've concealed your reinforcements much better."

"I wanted to, but Ephraim had gotten really mad there at the end, and he insisted I… um…" She waved it away. "Water under the bridge, I guess. We're on the same side now, right?"

"Guess so!" Morgan offered a hand. "I'd be happy to talk tactics with you. What's your name?"

The purple-haired girl smiled, and shook Morgan's hand. "My name is Katarina. It's a pleasure to meet you, Morgan."

The infirmary was nearly empty; the rest of the Einherjar had been filled in and left. Turned out that Hector was one of them. Who knew. Lyn and Eliwood would be happy about that.

As of now, Chrom was echoing his explanation to the three latecomers: one of them had been caught up in a conversation with Shanna, while the other two…

Princess Eirika, Prince Ephraim, and Lord Roy sat on the bed next to Chrom's.

Chrom sat up, his hands folded in his lap. "…So yeah. Real fun stuff, this Einherjar business." He softened. "I'm sorry if… this comes as too much of a shock, or…"

"No, no," Eirika said quickly. "It's no issue at all! I'm sorry that we harassed you before, if what you're saying is true."

"It's unreal," Ephraim muttered. "It's been no time at all since we were in Darkling Woods, and yet we are here."

Chrom's eyes were locked on Ephraim. The corpse…

Roy crossed his arms, quiet.

"Well… if… if that's all," Chrom said. "There are many other people here who knew you. Natasha, for example?"

Eirika brightened. "Ah, Natasha! It would be wonderful to see her again." She faced Ephraim. "Shall we go?"

Ephraim was still serious. "…This isn't right, Eirika. It all feels…" He grasped at his vocabulary for a better word than 'wrong.'

"That seems like the sane response," Chrom chuckled. "I'd be skeptical, too."

Ephraim seemed unconvinced, but regardless, he stood and offered a firm hand for Chrom. "I look forward to working with you, sir."

Chrom stared at Ephraim's hand. That same hand was the reason Chrom was currently bedridden instead of standing at the fore of the conference room.

Ephraim's expression was serious, but it was a far cry from the hate his eyes had held merely hours before.

His breastplate was intact. It held its scars from the War of the Stones, but lacked the gaping hole Chrom had left in it earlier.

These differences were jarring.

"…Likewise, Prince Ephraim." Chrom shook Ephraim's hand, and winced at the strong grip; it shot pains through his arm and side. Thankfully, Ephraim quickly let go.

The two heroes of Magvel departed the infirmary.

Chrom noticed Roy was lingering. "What's the matter?" he enquired.

"I—" Roy began, but was interrupted as the door opened.

Chrom smiled at the faces entering the room: Lucina, Brady, Maribelle… and Priam? Chrom's face fell slightly, confused. Priam hadn't been part of the strike team, last Chrom heard.

The, uh… Sneak Squad, Chrom thought, smiling in spite of himself. Okay, okay, it's a catchy name. You win this round, Morgan.

"So, how did your mission go?" Chrom asked.

Roy felt he shouldn't be listening to this, so he inclined his head respectfully and said, "Excuse me, milord."

He left the medical wing.

Hours had passed. Hours that Roy had tried to fill with conversation; he had chatted with bubbling Shanna, spoken to cool-headed Fir, and even held a pleasant conversation with a young Uncle Hector (in which he did all he could to avoid addressing the elephant in that room).

Now, morning was behind him, and a warm afternoon had arisen—a sleepy afternoon. The timeless mansion was quiet.

Roy walked aimlessly through the halls, lost in thought. He realized he could use some fresh air.

"Einherjar," he mused, as he opened the front door to the mansion.

This was a very depressing concept. He knew the others felt the same way he did—the same despair at having their futures ripped away from them, the horrors of not being the person you thought you were. A dire situation, but… not an altogether hopeless one, not in the gentle hands of the Shepherds.

Roy growled in frustration as he paced through the grass. If this had happened during his lifetime, this would have had an easy solution—the same as the solution to any of Roy's problems. 'Talk to Lilina.'

Lilina could cheer him up no matter what the problem was. Stomachache? Lilina had a remedy. Ennui? Lilina had a game. War being hell, as it does? Lilina had encouraging words.

This would all be much, much easier if I had Lilina, Roy thought, sighing. But I guess I'll have to make do without.

Movement. Roy was alerted, and his hand reached for the bright sword on his hip. He crouched slightly, wary of any threats.

The shadow stepped forward, revealing itself to be a man—a young man, but still probably a few years older than Roy.

Roy didn't drop his guard. "Who are you?"

"Calm down. I am not your enemy, Roy."

Roy shook his head. "Y-You know my name?"

The other man paused. "…I need to get into the mansion."

"Why?" Roy demanded. "You seem to be in a hurry. And in a stealthy way, too—you aren't with the Shepherds. Who are you?"

The intruder stepped closer. "My name is Marth—prince of Altea," he said. "And I have business with Lord Chrom."

"Marth…?" Roy muttered.

"Yes. Now, if you please…"

Roy crossed his arms. "I guess… I'm new, too. It's not my business to keep you out. Just remember," he said dangerously, "it's midafternoon, and the mansion is packed full of fighters. Don't do anything you'll regret."

Marth grinned. "Trust me, Roy—I won't. My past is full enough of regrets."

Roy stepped aside, allowing Marth through. Marth hurried toward the mansion's entrance.

"Hold on, Marth…" Roy puzzled his thoughts over. "Do I… know you?"

Marth paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at Roy. "…Perhaps."

Marth slipped into the mansion.

Next time:

Chapter 9 – Legend of the Radiant Hero

Author's note:

Just missed Dissonance's one-year anniversary: it wrapped up a year and a week ago!