Chapter 12: Einherjar Heaven

or: Last of the Einherjar

The tent flap rustled. Taking pause from unfurling their temporary sleeping arrangements, Nah and Katarina faced the newcomer.

Morgan grinned as she moved to place a stack of papers atop a storage chest. "Heya! How's it coming over here? Feeling good, Nah?"

Katarina put her hands on her hips, surveying the tent. "I think it's been going fine…"

"Yeah. I'm feeling better, at least." Nah peered over Morgan's shoulder. "What're all those papers?"

Morgan waved it away. "Logistical stuff. You probably wouldn't care about it."

"Yeah, you're ri—"

Morgan explained anyway. "See, this right here is a manifest of the Einherjar."

"Oh, okay." Nah intended to drop the subject there, in the hopes that Morgan wouldn't continue. However, after a pause, Nah realized that she actually was curious.

Sighing, knowing that she was basically asking for a long-winded speech from Morgan, Nah reluctantly enquired, "The manifest, huh? How come?"

"Well, it's not THE manifest," said Morgan. "Not Old Hubba's, I mean. I filled this out during his lecture earlier. It's a list of all the Einherjar we've saved so far, from Shanna to Ephraim. So it doesn't include Eldigan's last twenty-nine folks, but it's still comprehensive."

Nah nodded. A part of her wanted to be surprised that Morgan could compose the entire list from memory; the list was over sixty names long. However, she understood that it really was effortless for Morgan to remember such things.

"What's it for?" Katarina asked.

But Nah was rapidly losing interest, so she swiftly tried to change the subject. "Hey, Morgan. When Chrom told us earlier that the mansion wasn't safe, what did he mean?"

Morgan smiled. "I'm glad you asked! Both of you, I mean. Because the answer's the same for both!"

Nah exchanged a curious glance with Katarina.

"Well, I guess I'm not glad," Morgan continued. She tilted her head. "I mean… it's not exactly good news."

"Morgan, I had to go through the Outrealm Gate," Nah said sternly. "I deserve to know why I had to faint in front of everyone."

Morgan put up her hands in defense. "Fine, fine!" She grabbed the manifest and approached the other two. "See, I broke the list up into two columns: 'Einherjar under my command' and 'Einherjar under Old Hubba's command.'" She pointed at the second column. "You see, I abbreviated Old Hubba to 'OH'. Saved some ink."

"Yes, Morgan, I think we got that."

"Well duh, I just explained it to you." Morgan pointed. "See, Old Hubba has nearly all of the Einherjar. The ones we got on Talys, the other ones we got on Talys, and the ones we got in Jungby. Shanna, Celica, and Sigurd. And unfortunately, I was wrong: Old Hubba does have most of the Einherjar we got at the Dragon's Gate. Still, the ones that are mine are these—" Morgan tapped the first column. "We have SOME the ones from the Dragon's Gate—Ephraim and Eirika's party, including you, Katarina—as well as Caeda and Lyn. These guys are the Einherjar that I brought with us, since they're mine."

Katarina shrugged. "So what does this have to do with anything?

"Yeah, why split the list like that?"

Morgan took a breath. "Okay. Are you guys sitting down?"

Nah threw her hands up. "Wh—Do you not see us standing right in front of you?"

"Hmph. All right, Ms. Sassy-Pants. Have fun falling over when you faint in shock." Morgan crossed her arms. "Guys, bad news. Turns out Old Hubba isn't our friend. He's actually a piece of crap who tried to kill my dad, did kill a few Annas, and plans on killing all of us as soon as we've gotten the rest of the Einherjar for him. He's a psychopath who's been murdering people with his Einherjar for decades."

Nah's jaw dropped; Katarina recoiled a step in shock.

"What?!" Nah exclaimed. "You're—messing with me, right? That can't be true."

Morgan rolled her eyes. "Okay, he's allegedly a murderous psychopath. Chrom doesn't buy the story, even though it makes perfect sense."

Katarina's eyes were wide. "Wh…You…" Her eyes flicked toward the tent flap. "I think I… need some air."

Morgan frowned. She and Nah parted to let Katarina through.

Katarina's heartbeat resounded loudly in her ears as she walked through camp, pointedly keeping her eyes down.

She knows! Katarina thought. How? How did she find out?! I don't know what to do! Clarisse just said I had to watch them… She shook her head. I need directions.

Her eyes slowly widened. …Yes! Directions!

Katarina picked up the pace. It wasn't long before she had left the Shepherds' camp behind.

The foliage provided perfect shade for Katarina's infiltration, and with ease, Katarina slipped past Eldigan's night watch and entered the Gallian fort.

She now found herself in the center of the fort's main chamber. Enclosed by mossy bricks, the claustrophobic halls all looked annoyingly identical.

Was it left? she thought. Or was it down the right?

"We sleeps on the left, yes."

"Yes yes."

Startled, Katarina whirled around—to thankfully find two of the Legion approaching her. She sighed with relief, putting a hand over her heart.

"Geez, Roro," she scolded, "you could've really scared me."

"We meant to inspire no fear, no," one whispered.

"Yet you tremble, Reese. What gives you that fearful stench?"

"She knows it is dangerous for her here, mm? We works for Eldigan; she's does not."

Katarina shook her head. "It's the Shepherds. They know! They don't trust Old Hubba anymore."

Both scratched their chins identically—or rather, where their chins would be were it not for the masks. "Hmm…"

"Acceleration, then…?"

"Mm, yes. Yes, make haste, make haste."

"Haste must be made."

Katarina took a breath. "So what do we do? What are my orders?"

"Confer."

"Confer with Clarisse, mm."

"Mm."

Katarina frowned. "How am I supposed to get in touch with her? She's always so well-hidden."

"I suppose so; I consider that my strong suit."

Katarina was startled once again by the surprise voice. From the shadows came a tall blonde, watching Katarina analytically. The sniper adjusted the bow slung across her back and crossed her arms.

Katarina smiled. "Clarisse!"

Clarisse returned the smile. "Hello, Reese. You've been doing very well so far."

"Y-You too, Clarisse! You're always so… so…" Katarina searched for an appropriate adjective.

However, Clarisse cut her off, her serious expression returning. "So they no longer trust our master. It seems we will need to execute the sabotage come daybreak."

"Mm, or now," one of the Legion mused.

"Yes, we could slaughter them, yes. While they sleep, roro."

Clarisse shook her head. "No; we are at a disadvantage in the night. We may have the initial cover of darkness and the element of surprise, but they have superior numbers and extremely powerful warriors. Not to mention, they have more than a few fighters capable of excellent night-vision, unlike Eldigan's army. My scouting reported several thieves and even a few Manaketes, not to mention a few other beast-like soldiers I don't know the capabilities of."

"So, what, ambush them during the day?" Katarina asked. "That seems like a terrible plan. Er, I mean—"

"No. We attack just before daybreak. We will strike with the element of surprise, under cover of night: but when they have gathered their bearings and mount a retaliatory assault, we will have the sun at our backs."

"Th-That's a great plan, Clarisse!" Katarina beamed. "How can I be a part of it?"

"So you're telling me… that there are enemies camped a half-mile into the woods?" Eldigan's voice dripped with skepticism. "And you're saying that I should march all of my warriors, through the woods, in the dark, to face these alleged combatants?"

The solitary Roro inclined its head meekly. "Yes, yessss… It seems suspicious, but I's swearing I tell the truth, roro… The Algol, it said to oust intruders, mm?"

Eldigan's eyes narrowed. "Those are our orders… but I don't know about leaving this fortification unmanned. What if it's a trap, meant to lure us out?"

"Mm! Roro, roro—we will hold the position ourself, yes!"

This voice came from behind Eldigan. He started in surprise, his hand clenching around Mystletainn—but then sighed irritably and relaxed his grip. "…Ah yes, I forgot. You're called 'the Legion' for a reason. Sneaky sort…" He turned his attention to the first Roro. "So you're telling me that you'll guard the fort on your own?"

Roro nodded its head emphatically.

Eldigan sighed contemplatively. "If you're telling the truth… then I suppose I don't have much choice in the matter. Which way?"

Both of the Legion giggled. "You… will know the way soon, roro. Uwee hee hee…"

Katarina took a breath. I'm sorry, Morgan.

She raised her palm into the sky, and a ball of Fire came forth. The camp came to life with a pale red glow, and a faint raucous of the awakening Shepherds grew.

Said raucous had reached a fever pitch, but was now fading into the distance. Now all that was left was the red.

Katarina's fingers twitched. Her vision was blurred from the pain; she could hardly see. Nothing could save her from the death Cynthia had forced upon her.

She stared at the pool of blood coalescing around her. Red, red, red.

And—blue. Blue… fire.

Her hand, it—it was vanishing. She was enraptured by the sight. Arcane flames at her fingertips, yet she had no control.

Where do these thoughts go? she thought. These—memories, do they just… vanish? When I wake up again… will the me of now be gone forever?

Is there a heaven for us?

Her eyes closed.

Emmeryn stumbled. The lifeless Katarina she'd tripped over continued to fade away as Emmeryn fell forward into the dirt. A costly error: the enemy paladin, Marcus, was swift with retribution for Emmeryn's mistake.

But an allied guardian had other intentions. Twin silver lances clashed, and with another swing, Marcus circled his horse away, retreating to press his assault elsewhere.

Emmeryn's guardian—Frederick—turned to face her. "Milady, are you hurt?"

Emmeryn stood on wobbling feet. She felt blood in her palms, and she wasn't sure it was hers.

Regardless, she nodded. "Th-Thank you for…"

"Milady, we haven't the time. Astride my horse, Lady Emmeryn: we ride!"

Emmeryn inelegantly clambered atop Frederick's horse, eventually planting herself behind him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she nodded. "R-Ready!"

"Arcfire in hand?"

"Mm-hm!"

Frederick slashed his reins. "Hyah!" And his armored horse rode into the fray.

The Shepherds formed a knife, a wedge. An angular wall formed beside Chrom as they facilitated his journey through the Einherjar formation.

"Onward! Clear me a path!" Chrom cried. His Falchion helped him carve his route. "We end this today, Shepherds!"

Yet his wall was falling away one by one, to fight smaller, unavoidable engagements. The Einherjar would not simply let Chrom through; a battle would have to be fought, whether Chrom was a part of it or not. Not everyone would make it through to see Old Hubba.

As Chrom's guard dwindled—more and more Shepherds caught up in combat, unable to protect him any longer—the fight became tougher. Spells and steel flew, with a chaos uncommon to such a relatively small engagement.

It wasn't long before Chrom had only his tactician. Morgan grasped a steel sword in one hand, a Thoron tome in the other. She was as capable a fighter as a strategist, Chrom was now learning—through her protection alone was he making it through.

After all, his hip burned with an unholy fury. He hadn't had the opportunity to reapply the painkilling salve following his duel with Eldigan, nor his stitches; each swing of Falchion drew a gasp from the Exalt.

"Chrom!" Morgan called over the chaos. Her eyes scanned the field for any unoccupied Einherjar with eyes on Chrom; for now, however, all enemies appeared to be engaged elsewhere. "I can't go with you to fight Old Hubba. I'm needed here."

"I understand," Chrom said. "I'll take him alone."

"Good luck," said Morgan, shooting him a sideways grin. "I'll spare you the "good luck" kiss, and give you a "well done" one when we're through."

"Please don't," were Chrom's final words to her before heading for the woods.

Through those woods was Eldigan's encampment—the direction Old Hubba had escaped in. Chrom limped for the dim foliage, barely lit by the morning sun.

But the braying of a horse, and clear hoofbeats bound for Chrom, drew his attention. It was a white stallion, carrying a foreign standard.

And astride the horse was Sigurd, Tyrfing in hand.

Chrom's grip tightened on Falchion. "Sigurd…"

Sigurd didn't respond. Rather, he raised his weapon, and his horse broke into a dash.

He's dead, Chrom thought, grimacing. He raised Falchion, and grunted loudly as he deflected the passing horseman's strike. He felt a red wetness trickle down his side, shaken loose from the exertion.

As Sigurd circled around for another pass, Chrom suppressed bitter disappointment. Old Hubba cleaned house while we were gone. Killed all of his Einherjar, resurrected them… with orders to be silent and kill without remorse. He remembered Marth's story of Beatrice's killer. …Does Hubba not see the irony?

Chrom sighed, thinking of the pleasant conversation he had shared with Sigurd the other day. That's gone, he thought sadly. That never happened, now. …And now I have to fight ANOTHER Jugdrali wielding a holy weapon. He furrowed his eyebrows, holding his wounded side and watching Sigurd. So how am I gonna pull THIS off…?

Sigurd had steered his horse full circle and was now hell-bent on the Exalt, who readied his Falchion defensively.

But a swish of blue slid in between—Chrom briefly hesitated, startled, at this potential new foe.

But the man's back was to Chrom, and he glanced over his shoulder to give the Exalt a reassuring grin. "I'll take this," said Ephraim, grasping Reginleif. "Do what you have to do, Sir Chrom."

Chrom was taken aback. I don't even want to get into what's ironic about THIS. "Thanks," he said. "I promise, I'll make everyone's efforts worthwhile."

"I don't doubt that." Ephraim faced Sigurd. "Now, be on your way! I'll deal with this miscreant."

"Right," Chrom said. "You don't pick fights you can't win."

Ephraim shot him an annoyed glance.

Chrom sighed and limped for the woods.

Chrom was now alone, heading through the foliage. The sounds of combat faded behind him. His ears rang from the new silence, and he took this moment to gather his thoughts.

Thought number one: he was pretty tired.

Thought number two (and this one was confirmed by a downward glance): he was losing blood at an alarming rate.

Chrom leaned against a tree and dug into his satchel for a piece of cloth. Finding it, he doused it in water from his canteen, and—clenching his teeth in expectation—he pressed the cloth against his wound.

"Mmgh!" he moaned, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. The initial daggers were slow to subside, but subside they did, leaving a dull pain in their wake. Continuing to hold the cloth against the injury, Chrom limped toward the Gallian fort.

It wasn't long before Chrom broke through the trees, finding himself atop a hill overlooking the ruined fort. His eyes were immediately caught by the only movement to be seen.

Chrom's eyes narrowed. The movement was Old Hubba, moving at a surprisingly quick pace for one needing a cane.

Chrom glanced down at the sheathed Falchion on his hip. It's time. He began to clamber down the hill.

The cobblestone walls of the fort were mossy and claustrophobic; a damp heat hung in the air. Chrom found himself short on breath, though he knew that that was not entirely owed to the humidity.

More importantly, the halls were dark and winding; Old Hubba had a plethora of places to hide. Chrom took quiet steps, keeping his ears open.

A click of noise down a hallway; was it a cane? It could've been dripping water for all Chrom knew, but it was as good a lead as any. He finally dropped the cloth from his hip, freeing his hand to draw Falchion. The sliding of metal against scabbard made a small amount of noise, causing Chrom to wince, but he had no choice but to continue regardless.

He made slow, careful movements as he approached a room at the end of the hallway. Patience and caution, he thought, amusing himself. Now that I think about it, that advice applies to pretty much ev—

"OOF!" Bright lights, harsh pain in his nose. He was on his back before he knew it, clutching his broken nose.

Old Hubba stepped out from his hiding place behind a corner, holding his chest and panting. He leaned against his cane; the wood was now bloodied from the blow it had inflicted on Chrom.

"Ahoy! Nerd!" Morgan pointed at Laurent. "I need you!"

Laurent sighed, pushing up his glasses as he hurried over to Morgan. Even in the middle of combat… "What is it, Morgan?"

Morgan pointed. "Look—those guys over there have weaker magic resistance. I need our mages concentrated over there."

"I was utilizing my own magic resistance to combat mages on the opposite side," Laurent noted. "I acted as a shield."

"We have healers for that," Morgan said, waving it away. "You're our punch-packer when it comes to magic. You and me are pairing up here."

Laurent hesitated. "I-I'm sure Princess Lucina requires my help more—"

"Lucina can take care of herself! I need your help, Laurent. Would you stop questioning me for five seconds?!" Morgan placed her hands on her hips. "In case you haven't noticed, I AM your tactician. Until Dad gets back, that's not gonna change. I know you don't care for me, but you are going to get over it."

Laurent pushed his glasses up, impassive. "…I see. Very well, Morgan, I am yours to command."

Morgan huffed impatiently. "Good." She continued analyzing the surrounding battle. The Shepherds had this well in hand for now, but that could change at any moment. The numerical difference between the two armies was less severe than she'd like.

"I need those paladins gone," she said. "Marcus, Seth, Titania. They're the biggest threats. Help me take them out."

"As you command."

Chrom lay on his back, still dazed. His nose throbbed.

And Old Hubba was wheezing for breath, slumping against the opposite corner of the room.

Guess he's too exerted to finish the job, Chrom thought weakly. He struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, and was able to slide himself across the stone floor to lean against the wall; recognizing that he had time to catch his breath, he found his reddened cloth and placed it against his hip wound.

The two winded men glared warily at each other from across the room. A weaponless standoff.

"Wh…" Chrom tested, breathless though he was. "…Why, Old Hubba?"

Old Hubba closed his eyes, panting. "You know why. Marth… he told you. He knew… everything. Had all the details himself…" He opened an eye. "…Guess he didn't piece it together neither, considerin' you don't know." The ancient man groaned as he leaned forward to look Chrom in the eye. "I knew it was suspicious when Morgan asked about Leila. Ya knew I destroyed that card, huh?"

'That card,' Chrom thought bitterly. "So, what?" he snarked. "You plan on destroying all of them, then?"

"Very good!" Old Hubba chuckled. "Ya figured out what Marth couldn't."

Chrom blinked. "I—I was kidding! That's seriously your plan?!"

"'Course," Hubba grunted, sitting back. "Soon as I got all of 'em back, an' disposed of you lot… down the gutter they'd go."

Chrom shook his head, disbelieving. "Not to repeat myself, but why?!"

Old Hubba settled into a comfortable position against the wall, still watching Chrom. "My inheritance," he mused, "my Einherjar… keep fallin' in the wrong hands. It's not what my ancestors would've wanted of 'em."

"But they would be fine with you destroying them?"

The old man ignored him. "The wrong hands… Algol's. Bea's murderer." He looked away somberly. "…Mine."

Chrom was surprised into silence.

"I don't regret a thing I've done," Old Hubba clarified. "Everythin'… It's all been to protect me, an' to protect my home. What happened to Bea…" He shook his head wistfully. "It was so stupid… so preventable… It shoulda never happened."

Old Hubba's eyes now moved upward to meet Chrom's. "Y'know… If I'd ever wanted to, or if Algol had gotten his head outta his ass, we coulda challenged Ylisse, with my Einherjar alone. Just sixty or so of my Einherjar are takin' your Shepherds evenly—if I'd had the hundred ones of our family a century ago, I coulda taken the Inrealm by storm." He looked away. "An' that's not even countin' all the other ones…"

All the other ones? Chrom thought. …There are MORE?!

Now, Old Hubba's expression welled with anger. "They're monsters," he snarled. "Beasts. Automatons. Perversions of human life…" He clenched his jaw. "What if there was an Einherjar of you, huh, Chrom? Or—Or one of Beatrice…" His voice cracked. "…To call them 'real' is an insult to the dead."

Chrom spoke up. "Life is life, old man."

Old Hubba scoffed. "They ain't life, Chrom! They're just cards! 'Oh, look at me, I've got a Marth, trade ya for two Abels!'" Old Hubba scoffed. "'Let's play cards! I move my Oifey to E-3!'"

"That's chess!"

"Whatever!" Old Hubba looked away, shaking his head irritably.

Chrom took the opportunity to interject. "The Einherjar are not typical people, no… Nobody would argue that. But that doesn't mean that their lives are forfeit! They're not yours to throw away!"

A wicked glint appeared in Old Hubba's eye, and he glared at Chrom, grasping his cane and rising to his feet. "What?" he hissed, as he now stood. "Chrom, they are precisely mine to throw away." The rage hiding underneath finally burst forth, and he suddenly shouted: "They are MY INHERITANCE!"

Old Hubba took a wobbling step closer. Chrom suddenly realized that action was about to resume, and he began the agonizing exercise of returning to his feet. If we come to blows, this'll be the lamest fight ever, he thought wearily.

"You don't understand!" Old Hubba laughed. "Hahaha… You still don't understand! Marth never told you, did he? He didn't say nothin'?"

Chrom propped an arm against a wall, and he finally had both feet planted underneath him. With that obstacle behind him, he tried actually wielding the sword in his hand. "Wh… What are you talking about?" he wheezed. His face was growing pale.

"Beatrice!" Old Hubba hissed, spittle flying from his lips. "I'm willin' ta bet Marth, ah… embellished that story a little, didn't he?"

"Explain yourself, old man." Chrom hugged his side with one arm, the other pointing Falchion.

Old Hubba stopped his approach well out of the sword's reach. Chrom, unwilling to abandon the wall that was so kindly helping him stand, did not close the gap.

I don't know if I could take him in a fight, Chrom thought miserably.

"What'd he say?" Old Hubba cackled. "Lemme guess—some kinda vague, evil thief dude, huh? Willin' ta bet Marth didn't even bother givin' the guy any motivation. So uncreative. Somethin' somethin' "must kill Beatrice," wassit?" Old Hubba leered at Chrom, and saw reservations in the Exalt's expression. "Ohoho… I'm right. I know I'm right. Well, here's the facts, boy: Marth lied."

Chrom hesitated. That wouldn't be the first time. "…Okay, Old Hubba, let's "pretend" nobody has been honest to me since we entered the Outrealms. And, suppose Marth didn't go into detail about the thief that used Roy and Lilina to attack the mansion. Enlighten me."

Old Hubba smirked. He rested both hands atop his cane and leaned in conspiratorially. "Alright, Chrom, I'll fill you in. I'll let you know exactly what happened on that night a hundred years ago."

…

…

The mansion was quiet. The cleansing had ended nearly an hour ago, and Old Hubba had most of his Einherjar tidying up; this whole ordeal had left the place in a serious mess.

Old Hubba squeezed his eyes shut. He could still see Bea—Beatrice—in his arms—bleeding—

He groaned, gripping his heart and resting on his cane for assistance.

"Sir!"

Marth approached, concern in his eyes. Old Hubba waved him off: "I can stand on my own."

Marth waited uncomfortably.

"How'd this happen?" Old Hubba murmured. "How…? Who made Roy kill my wife?"

Marth gestured toward the woods. "It was… I don't know who it was." He stiffened. "Lilina…! Her card is still out there… we need to retrieve it."

"Yeah," the old man replied absently. "Marth… take me there."

"Of… Of course, sir."

The body was not hard to find. Not hard, because it was not dead yet.

The thief—the intruder—whatever appellation felt appropriate—still coughed moribund breaths, and chuckled at the sight of Marth and Old Hubba.

"Miss me… already?" the intruder sputtered.

"Be silent," Marth ordered, but Old Hubba quieted him with a hand.

"Marth, go find the card," he said coolly.

Marth hesitated. "B-But—"

Old Hubba gave him a look. "Marth."

Sighing, Marth inclined his head and gave a dutiful "As you command" before passing the grounded intruder and leaving them both behind.

Old Hubba waited a moment more for Marth to leave his sight. Then, he looked back down at the dying thief. "So. What brings ya to my Outrealm, lass?"

She laughed; her dark robes shook with each chuckle. "He got someone, didn't he," she laughed. "Roy got the job done…"

Old Hubba crouched over the young lady. "Didja think you'd be able to take all of us by surprise, girl? Didja actually think you could win? Because ya didn't. I've still got my Einherjar." He moved his cane and pressed it against her stab wound; she contorted in pain. "MINE. You won't take them."

Marth slowed from his jog as he returned, Lilina in hand. He joined Old Hubba in watching the girl with contempt.

"It was bad luck," she groaned. "Bad luck… Lilina had the drop on Marth, and she blew it. I can't believe I got that screwed…" She coughed blood. "Man… If I'd had the Hero-King on my side, who knows what I could've gotten done for him…?"

Old Hubba shook his head. "Who's 'him'?"

She waved it away feebly. "Nobody… Don't worry 'bout it. Doesn't matter anymore, since I'm pretty much dead…"

Old Hubba crossed his arms. "Who are you?"

"Just a humble servant," she said, smiling. "Just someone who wanted to make her father happy… And if it's one consolation… my life flows with his, now."

"Whose?"

"My father's," she said. "Robin's…" She shook her head, closing her eyes. "No, he doesn't go by that anymore… Grima. Grima…"

Hubba's expression hardened.

"Marth, it seems I've suddenly lost interest in this conversation. Do the honors; between the eyes, please."

"With pleasure." Glaring down at Beatrice's murderer, Marth drew his rapier and silenced her last breath.

…

…

"No…" Chrom breathed. "No, you're lying…"

"I got no reason to lie anymore," Hubba growled, turning away. "It's the endgame. All my cards are on the table… so to speak."

"That was a hundred years ago," Chrom murmured. "That doesn't make any sense… And I've never heard of time travel that far back."

"Me neither," Old Hubba said gruffly. "To be frank, I never thought time travel existed."

"Grima wasn't even alive a hundred years ago," Chrom said. "And Morgan is one of ours! She'd never… she'd…" He trailed off, and his sword slowly fell.

Sumia's words came to him: words she'd spoken hardly a week ago.

"There's so much we don't know, though. So many unclear details."

"I can't possibly believe this," Chrom whispered. "I can't believe that Morgan was…" He looked up at Hubba. "She mentioned Robin, a century ago?"

"Sure did." A malefic look in the old man's eye let Chrom know that Old Hubba knew exactly what the Exalt was about to ask.

"So… when you met Robin… when you found him eight months ago… That didn't go the same, either, did it?"

A strong voice came from behind, echoing down the halls: "Hold, Chrom! I am here!"

Entering the room to join Chrom and Old Hubba was the Hero-King himself. Marth leveled his Falchion at Old Hubba, keeping his space from the old man.

Old Hubba didn't flinch. "Ears burnin'?" he sneered.

"I'll take things from here, Lord Chrom." Marth gave Chrom a confident smile. "Rest easy, milord."

But Chrom found no solace in Marth's entrance. Not anymore.

"Stay back," Chrom demanded, holding his Falchion aloft and moving along the wall to put space between himself, Marth, and Old Hubba.

"Chrom…?" Marth's smile fell. "D-Don't do anything rash. I am on your side."

"Are you?!" Chrom hissed. "You lied to me, Marth. You lied about Beatrice's killer."

Marth paled. He turned to Old Hubba. "…You told him?"

Hubba chuckled. "Heh! Course I did. What, didja think I'd keep yer little secret? Were ya plannin' on takin' that little tidbit to yer grave?" He shook his head. "Oh wait, you don't die. You're just another thing." He gestured at Chrom. "Well, finish the story, why dontcha? Let our pal here know how you tried to kill his best friend. How you tried yer damnedest to kill Robin!"

Marth turned back to Chrom. "I'm sorry," he said. "I lied… I know. I intended to tell you the truth when we had more time…"

"I can't trust you, Marth," Chrom growled. "You lied about your death. You lied about Robin. Dammit, you lied about Morgan! You've killed an alternate Morgan and couldn't be bothered to tell us!" He gripped Falchion tightly. "And you almost got my Morgan killed! My tactician—my friend! Why didn't you tell us about Katarina?! You KNEW who she was!"

"I promise, I can explain," Marth said, but Chrom would have none of it.

"I trusted you, Marth!" Chrom shouted. "I trusted that you, the Hero-King, my ancestor, would be someone I could place my faith in! Was I wrong, Marth?" He jabbed a finger at Old Hubba, who smirked intensely. "Was he right all along? Are you just a shameless facsimile? Gods! I am sick and tired of being lied to!" Chrom took a step forward, but stumbled to a knee; he sat back against the wall, pale and sweaty, still gripping his sword tightly.

Marth seemed hurt. "Chrom…" His sword wavered.

"Heheheh…" Old Hubba turned away from the two wielders of Falchion and returned to his place against the wall. He sat down as well, resting his bald head against the corner again. "Well… this is going fine."

Marth, now the only one on his feet, placed his attention on Old Hubba. "Not for long," he said dangerously. "You have eluded justice for a hundred years, old man. I'll rectify our mistakes at last."

"You never can," Old Hubba mused tiredly. He closed his eyes. "It don't matter what ya do to me… Yer just as guilty as I am." He opened an eye to smirk up at the Hero-King. "…I do believe you were just about ta explain how ya tried to kill Robin? Hahaha…"

Marth's jaw set, and his hand tightened around Falchion. "Be silent, Hubba."

"NO!" Old Hubba suddenly roared, sitting forward. "I do NOT take orders from you, you filthy automaton! YOU TAKE ORDERS FROM ME!"

"Not anymore." Marth took a step closer, aligning Falchion with the downed man's neck. "I am a master of my own fate once again."

Old Hubba leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he panted weakly. He raised a tired, peaceable hand. "…You've… You've said yer piece, Marth." He opened his eyes. "Now it's time fer me to say mine."

His hand, under his robe—it had concealed an Arcthunder tome this whole time. Marth hardly had time to inhale in surprise.

Old Hubba's fingers twitched, and a bolt of lightning arced through Marth's chest. The prince was flung off of his feet, and he slammed against the far cobblestone wall before collapsing to the floor.

Marth struggled to all fours, smoke rising from his burnt flesh. He moaned in pain.

Old Hubba reached aside for his cane, and with it, he slowly rose to his feet. The two wielders of Falchion couldn't stand to face him.

"Now ya know the truth, Chrom," Old Hubba muttered contemptuously. "Ya know all about Marth's betrayal."

"More Legion from the left!" Cordelia shouted from overhead. "Over a dozen reinforcements!"

"Crap!" Morgan muttered. "Geez… Legion is endless until we find the original Roro." She took a breath. "Okay… okay… Swords, Axebreaker! Heroes! Do we have any spare Heroes?" She shook her head. "Forget that! All Hero-class units, to our left flank! Don't let those axes touch us!"

Morgan counted in her head as she watched the Shepherd's formation shift. Inigo and his dad… Ike and Priam, ooh, that's handy…

"Well, it's about time!" came a voice, and Morgan turned to see Severa approaching, donned in combat gear. Severa smirked. "Here I thought you'd never admit how much you need me!"

Morgan shrugged, grinning. "Sorry, Sev! Our insecurity keeps us from telling you our true feelings!"

"Can it." Severa brushed past her to join the others on the left flank.

"That isn't the worst of it," Laurent noted, gesturing to the sky.

A quartet of pegasus knights came soaring over the trees, powerful lances in hand.

"Ugh, the Whitewings," Morgan muttered. "And Shanna."

"We have been doing fine thanks to our air support, but these newcomers will occupy our fliers," stated Laurent. "This is bad news."

"Course it's bad news," Morgan muttered. "Let's—let's move some archers over there." But how to do that without leaving other areas of the formation unfortified? Morgan kicked the dirt. Gods, this is chess on Strength Tonics.

Marth smoldered in the corner, shivering with pain. As Chrom watched him, a modicum of pity started to rise.

"Don't feel bad for him," Hubba said. "He lied to ya. He hated you from the beginning. Wanted to kill all of ya for what ya did to Bea. …I don't pretend ta be exempt from blame, of course, but man, that must hurt."

Chrom propped himself up on Falchion and started to rise to his feet. "You… You didn't have to attack him," he breathed. "I thought Marth was like a son to you…"

"He was," Hubba muttered, eyeing the prone lord. "But you threw that away, didn't ya, Marth? You said I could trust you!" He knelt over Marth. "Ya told me I could always trust you. Well you LIED, didn't you, 'Hero-King'? You betrayed me, just like you betrayed Chrom over there."

Marth's hands clenched, and he struggled to lift his chin to meet Old Hubba's eye. "I… I always loved you like a f-father, Hubba…" he breathed. "I wanted… I w-wanted to go back… to how things were…" He fell back down to the cobblestone floor. "But you… you weren't… w-weren't redeemable. N-Neither of us were…"

"Then you understand what I've gotta do," Hubba murmured. "I'm makin' things right, Marth. Even though you were selfishly gonna kill me, I'll turn the other cheek." He reached over to dig into Marth's pocket. "I know how ta redeem us both, son. Here it is."

Old Hubba pulled his hand from Marth's pocket, Marth's card in his grasp.

"I'm gonna destroy the Einherjar," the old man whispered.

Marth's eyes widened.

"All of ya, gone… No one's ever gonna misuse 'em again." He glanced over at Chrom. "Any objections?"

"Don't do it," Chrom said suddenly.

The old man raised an eyebrow.

"They're life," Chrom urged. "Marth made mistakes. You made mistakes. But nobody has to die."

"This, comin' from the guy who beheaded Eldigan not even an hour ago," Old Hubba scoffed.

"I'm sorry," Chrom said. His grip on Falchion slackened. "I'm sorry… I couldn't save him. But that was a temporary affair. This, Old Hubba—this is permanent. If you tear that card, then Marth is gone forever."

Old Hubba's eyes narrowed, assessing Chrom for a moment.

Then, he smirked.

"Have you learned, yet?" Hubba murmured.

Chrom shook his head, already knowing what Hubba was about to say. "Stop this!" He raised Falchion and, grimacing, he finally pushed away from the wall. He weakly swung the sword at the old man.

Old Hubba easily sidestepped the attack, still smug. He then put a hand on Chrom's wrist, keeping the sword down with little effort.

"Have you learned, yet?" the old man repeated. He waved Marth's card. "It ain't possible to save everyone." He pressed his palm against Chrom's wound, causing the lord to wince; his hand then crackled with arcane thunder. "An' this time, nobody's gonna be saved. No one leaves this Outrealm alive… not even me."

Chrom cried out at the tingles of Old Hubba's magic tracing along the stab wound. Old Hubba grinned widely at Chrom's agonized expression.

"Had enough?" the man murmured. "Tell me when I can let it end for you."

Chrom fell to his knees, screaming in pain.

Old Hubba's smile slowly withered away, replaced by a disdainful glare. "…It's your fault. If it weren't for you and yours, Bea would still be alive, and none o' this woulda happened. Chrom, I want you to know that I really mean this, from the bottom of my heart… I hate you." He leveled his palm with the downed Exalt's head. Twitches of yellow thunder crackled from his fingers. "I don't know if there's a heaven for Einherjar… but I know for damn sure that there's a hell for you."

Chrom squeezed his eyes shut. Why is it always lightning?

Old Hubba clenched his jaw and concentrated.

When:

"I've gotcha!"

A whistle of motion echoed from down the hallway. Old Hubba's eyes flicked upward, and with no time for even surprise to register on his face, the javelin embedded into his shoulder and removed his feet from the earth. He slammed into the floor with a pained cry.

Footsteps. Chrom struggled to a more respectable crouch, tiredly lifting his head to gauge the situation.

Old Hubba lay flat on his back, his chest heaving with labored breaths while his hand limply grasped the lance buried in his shoulder. Standing over the old man, assessing his injuries, was an armed pegasus knight.

Chrom blinked repeatedly, disbelieving. "S-Sumia…?"

A deafening roar resounded throughout the Shepherds' camp, nearly halting all combat.

No, Morgan thought, as her heart leaped into her throat excitedly. That's three roars.

Palla, eldest of the Whitewings, was the first victim. A massive pair of jaws came from beneath, and Nah, in dragon form, snagged the pegasus's hoof and dragged both beast and rider to the earth.

Furthermore, chaos erupted in the rear of the Einherjar army. A second Manakete let loose her holy breath onto the Einherjar formation—that could only be Nowi.

But the third was the most valuable. Tiki—shining with a pale luminosity like only she could—struck from the most opportune angle.

"I can feel your heart," she murmured to her quarry. "I can sense its rhythm… It's much faster, now. No more hiding: your time has come."

Her great fangs tore the most precious Roro asunder, and dozens of the Shepherds' opponents vanished as blue fire.

"Hell yes! Hell yes!" Morgan screamed giddily. "Shepherds—kick their asses!"

"S-Sumia…?"

Sumia glanced at Chrom, and she immediately broke into a wide smile. "Captain! Are you okay?"

"What… What're you…?" Chrom's head spun. It's only been a few days here in the Outrealms! How is she in such good shape already? …How much time has passed back home?

Sumia drew her face into a determined pout. "Shh, no time to talk! Gotta get those injuries looked at." She turned to dig into her inventory.

Chrom took the opportunity to stand, still loosely holding Falchion. He laughed humorlessly. "Sumia… I'm… I'm glad you're here." His eyes narrowed. "…Or am I… imagining you?"

Sumia laughed. "Hahaha, no, I'm real!" She produced a staff. "Here—a Recover should do the trick, at least for now."

"W-Wait." Chrom stayed her with a hand, and gestured at the downed prince nearby. "D-Do Marth first. That bastard has… some questions to answer…"

Sumia glanced at Marth, then back at Chrom. "…'Marth'? He's not the only one with questions to answer… Anyway, Chrom, sit down. You'll just lose more blood that way."

"Right…" Chrom sat back uncomfortably.

He rested his head against the wall, trying to relax. Something nagged at him. Something from earlier. What was it?

He suddenly realized the issue. Experience. Recent experience. As he glanced at Sumia, he realized it was an experience she would share.

"S-Sumia…" He tried, but it was hardly a whisper. As Sumia obliviously brushed her hair over her ear, ready to tend to Marth, Chrom's eyes widened. "Su—" he choked. "Beh… behind…"

Sumia looked at him, curious at the faint noises he was making, and saw that he was pointing. Pointing at Old Hubba.

Her eyes widened. Oh, pegasus poop! The old man is pulling a Grima!

While the others were distracted, the old man, playing dead, had been putting all his strength into one final action: drawing a card from his pocket.

"Eldigan," Old Hubba wheezed, pressing the card against his lips. "Come forth and… finish this."

He placed the card at his side. Crouched, Sumia slowly reached for her silver lance, watching the card curiously.

Blue fire suddenly erupted from the card, eliciting a startled yelp from Sumia. The pegasus knight stood, lance at the ready.

After a moment, the fires fell away, leaving behind a tall, blond man wearing a dark sword on his hip.

He has the Mystletainn still…? Chrom thought hazily. Did he have it in his hand when I killed him, and it went with him…? Ugh, I don't even know how that works… Well… regardless, it's bad news…

"S-Sumia," Chrom coughed. "He's… Eldigan… myth… Don't hold back…"

Sumia frowned. "Eldigan? Isn't he…?"

"Who are you?" were Eldigan's first words, delivered as a demand.

Sumia was briefly taken aback, but then collected herself and glared at him. "W-Well, I could ask you the same question, sir! Where did you come from?"

Eldigan scoffed. What a ridiculous ques…tion… Hm, where DID I come from? …Questions for later. "You are trespassing, madam. Leave, and take your allies with you."

Sumia put her hands on her hips. "And how am I supposed to do that, hm? In case you haven't noticed, sir, they're really hurt! Let me heal them, and then we can talk." She turned away in a huff.

Eldigan blinked, surprised. "I… I suppose I can't argue with that. However… I have a sneaking suspicion that you are my enemy, and we should not even be having this conversation."

"That's… just Einherjar talk," Chrom mumbled.

Eldigan's gaze snapped to Chrom. "What?"

Chrom shook his head, laughing weakly. "N-Nothing…" Sumia, you wonderful girl.

"I'm sure you can wait, big guy," said Sumia to Eldigan, and she knelt over Marth, her staff taking action.

The claustrophobic interior of the Gallian fort maintained a brief, awkward silence.

"Mm, this is a real doozy," Sumia murmured, inspecting Marth's injury. "My money's on thunder magic, though I'm no expert…" She glanced at Chrom. "We need actual healers, Captain. I can't do this on my own."

"Well… we have plenty of those," Chrom chuckled. He wiped his nose of blood.

Old Hubba suddenly broke his silence with a coughing fit. "Eld… Eldigan…" he breathed.

"Sir?"

"What're you waitin' for…? I was out for five minutes… I thought they'd be dead by now…"

Eldigan blinked. "I gave them a warning to leave, sir. Once their wounded are fit to move, they will be on their way."

"What?!" Old Hubba weakly hit Eldigan's ankle—the only part of Eldigan he could reach. "You… moron! Just… kill 'em!"

"Oh!" said Eldigan, surprised. "I see. Right now, then?"

"For gods' sake, yes! Now!"

"Very well." Eldigan drew the Mystletainn. "Milady! It seems a decision has been made. We fight, now."

Sumia sighed impatiently. "NOW?"

"Yes, now."

"Ugh." Sumia stood, reaching for her lance once again. "Honestly, Mr. Eldigan, you're irritating. Here I am, just trying to save my friends, and you want to kill us? How unsportsmanlike!"

"Unsportsmanlike…?" Eldigan's pride flared. "Are you implying that my actions are less than knightly?"

"Well, yeah!" Sumia said, brushing her hair over her ear. "I don't want to fight you at all, and you're all "oh, better listen to this old dying guy!" Doesn't it seem fishy to you that you're being told to kill us, the nice people with terrible, terrible injuries, by a creepy old man?"

"Creepy?" Old Hubba muttered, dejected.

Eldigan hesitated. "I…"

"I'll fight you if you want," Sumia said, hefting her lance, "but honestly, can't we both just save ourselves some time and effort, and just let bygones be bygones?"

"Bygones be bygones…?"

Their quarrel kept on. Chrom shook his head as the two bantered. This is the stupidest…

He started to fade in and out of consciousness as Eldigan and Sumia continued to argue.

"…is outside my control, milady. I can't simply…"

"…ose orders even matter? You don't even know why you're doing this…"

"…relevant! I would be throwing away my pride… vanquished, by words…?"

"…Honestly, Mr. Eldigan, you're coming off as a terrible judge of character…!"

Until, after many minutes of loud bickering:

"Fine!" Eldigan shouted. "Fine, you win! You win. I surrender. I shall not fight you."

Sumia beamed. "YES! Woohoo! I knew you'd come around, big guy!"

I don't believe this, Chrom thought.

Old Hubba closed his eyes, rumbling with a small groan.

"Shit."

"Hoo!" Donnel grinned from ear to ear, dusting off his hands as he surveyed the quieting battlefield. "We sure gave 'em what-for, huh?"

Inigo chuckled. "Seems so, Father. High five?"

"High five."

The swordsmen high-fived, of course.

"We should really see if the others need us, however," Inigo said. "There may be stragglers yet."

"Uh-huh." They started toward the other side of the formation.

Donnel placed a hand on Inigo's shoulder as they walked. "Son, I've gotta say, you've been makin' me proud lately. Yer fightin' is a sight ta see!"

"I'm just glad to carry on the tradition," Inigo replied sheepishly. "You're such a natural, I—"

"INIGO, WATCH OUT!"

A heavy weight impacted in Inigo's chest, and he felt himself rush backwards into the dirt. The breath left his lungs.

Blinking, and raising a hand to shield his eyes, he found his assailant (maybe?) as a bright, white pegasus; its rider stood nearby, leaning against a lance.

"Whew!" Cynthia said, grinning widely. She offered a hand to help Inigo up. "That was a close one! Good thing I saved you."

"Mmph…" Inigo groaned as he regained his feet, rubbing his smarting head. "Geez, Cynthia, your pegasus isn't light." He looked around, confused. His father's expression was as dumbfounded as his own, further perplexing Inigo. "Saved me from what?"

"Hm?" Cynthia didn't meet his eye. Both of her hands grasped the lance, as she wriggled on her toes. "From, uh… a straggler. No, an arrow! There was an arrow, but I knocked you down, so you're safe now."

"Really?" Inigo crossed his arms, grinning. "So, we should really take care of that archer, huh?" He glanced over Cynthia's shoulder. "Come to think of it, I don't believe I see any archers."

"I took him out, is why," said Cynthia hastily.

"Really? And you STILL had time to come save me from the arrow? I must say, that's almost impossibly fast."

"Y-Yeah, I'm pretty great," Cynthia laughed nervously. "Anyway, uh… Sorry about earlier."

Inigo's face fell. "…Oh."

"Yeah." Cynthia's eyes flicked toward Donnel, then at the ground.

A grin grew on Donnel's face. "…Say, Inigo. Come ta think of it, I should prolly check on yer mother. Cynthia, wouldja mind keepin' yer eye on my son for a minute?"

"Uh—S-Sure."

Still grinning, Donnel let the two be.

Cynthia still leaned on her lance. She stood on one foot, twisting the other one into the ground anxiously.

She chuckled quietly. "Heh… I guess I was pretty mean earlier, huh?"

"You had good reason," Inigo admitted quickly. "It's my fault for, uh… pressing. I mean, yesterday, you made yourself pretty clear, right…? When, uh… I tried to kiss you, and…"

Cynthia blushed, still not meeting his eye. "Uh-huh."

An awkward silence.

"So uh, I should go, then," Inigo stammered. "…Later?"

"Later," Cynthia said, nodding. She bit her lip. "Um—w-wait. Olive branch."

Inigo hesitated. "Olive branch? What do you—?"

Cynthia closed the short gap and placed a quick peck on his cheek. Color instantly rushed to Inigo's face.

Cynthia then retreated back to her supportive lance. "Um… now we're even. For… for me yelling at you. And hitting you." She gripped her lance and hurried over to her pegasus.

In seconds, the beast had taken off, leaving Inigo alone.

Inigo blinked. "Huh. So… this is what it's supposed to feel like."

Morgan and Laurent noticed the pegasus alighting nearby. Morgan grinned. "Ayy, Cynthia! How's it going?"

Cynthia dismounted, feeling a hot blush in her expression. I hope Morgan assumes it's only—

"Man, you're red," Morgan said, surprised. "Worked up a sweat, huh?"

…Only that. Yes, that. Cynthia forced a smile. "Y-Yep. You guys too, probably."

Morgan nudged Laurent with her elbow. "Not like it takes any effort to get Laurent here to work up a sweat."

Laurent's eyes narrowed. "…Are you implying I am out of shape?"

"Well, it's not much of an implication if you explain the joke, huh?" Morgan muttered. "Anyway! I haven't taken a headcount yet, but so far it's looking like we've got no casualties. We even took a few of the Einherjar prisoner." She grinned mischievously. "Cynthiaaa… You know what this means."

Cynthia grinned similarly. "Oh, you bet I do. Action-hero-plan-success high-five?"

"Action-hero-plan-success high-five!"

Cynthia and Morgan high-fived.

"Man, it's been too long!" Morgan said. "Makes me feel so alive!"

Laurent adjusted his glasses judgmentally.

"Anyway…" Morgan grew more somber. "There were so many we couldn't save. Tons of Einherjar…"

Cynthia's eyes narrowed. "You aren't… blaming yourself, are you?"

Morgan sighed. "I shouldn't, right? …I mean, it's not like Dad could save everyone all the time. He had to kill a LOT. Right?"

"You act as if you were not present then," Laurent said. "You have killed before, Morgan. It's possible you'll have to do it again."

"Yeah, yeah…" Morgan ran a hand through her hair. "…I'll never like it, though."

"Of course. That seems to be the most logical retort." Laurent sighed. "There are always times when we must—"

Laurent's moral was interrupted by a call from overhead. Circling on her wyvern, Cherche shouted: "One more Einherjar to the west, from the foliage! Orders, Morgan?"

Morgan frowned. "Who is it?"

He was unarmed. Or, his sword was sheathed, rather. The black Mystletainn sat, untouched, on the Lionheart's hip.

Eldigan's expression was grim. "I was told to retrieve healers, as well as Ladies Cynthia and Morgan."

"By whom?" Laurent asked warily.

"By your Lord Chrom," he said. "He and Prince Marth are gravely wounded."

Cynthia and Morgan exchanged a glance. Morgan crossed her arms. "…And what about Old Hubba?" she asked. "You were under his command last I saw."

"I was, but I…" Eldigan sighed, embarrassed. "…I would prefer not to go into detail. You may bring as many fighters as you wish if it grants you peace of mind, but please, your allies DO require your aid." He gestured at the woods, indicating the fort beyond.

Morgan turned to Cynthia. "What do you think?"

"I dunno," Cynthia said, scratching her head. "Old Hubba's a sneaky little buttmunch, but he's not all that smart. I don't think we'd need more than just the two of us and some healers."

"Yeah," Morgan said, nodding. "Good plan." She circled her hands around her mouth and bellowed, "Cherche! Get me a headcount, wouldja? And get Cordelia started on drafting me an after-action report!"

As Cherche flew off to fulfill Morgan's order, Cynthia nudged her sister. "Seriously?"

Morgan shrugged sheepishly. "What? Those dang reports are no fun."

The halls were musty and cramped and miserable. This fort seemed to possess the uncanny ability of draining away all of Morgan's hype about Gallia.

"It was totally the Annas," said Morgan.

"Nah," Cynthia muttered.

The two healers trailing behind Morgan and Cynthia exchanged a glance. "What're you talking about?" Lissa asked.

Morgan glanced over her shoulder. "Hm? Oh, nothing. Me and Cynthia have a bet going on."

"Really?" Maribelle asked. "What about?"

Morgan laughed. "Well, we both thought that Chrom would probably have trouble with Old Hubba, and somebody would swoop in last-minute to help him."

"I bet on Marth," said Cynthia. "I mean, who else? I can't have been wrong, since the big guy said he's here." She jabbed a thumb at the blond man leading the way.

"And I said it was the Annas," Morgan added. "I figured, Marth would show up, Hubba'd whip out Eldigan, Marth would get his butt kicked, and, ooh ahh, an Anna shows up at the last second and solves all our problems!"

"Ah—" Eldigan began, but Morgan shushed him with "No spoilers!"

"You're overestimating how great the Annas are," Cynthia sighed. "When have they ever showed up when we needed them? I mean, c'mon. They could've warned us about Hubba any time in the last three days. But they didn't, did they?"

Morgan still grinned, ignoring her sister. "And this Anna that appeared—she's here to explain everything! Ooh, ahh!"

Lissa and Maribelle giggled softly.

"…Seriously?" Chrom mumbled. "It's only been…?"

"Yup!" Sumia said brightly. "So no worries, huh?"

"I guess," Chrom said, "but that doesn't explain how…"

He trailed off as he heard a voice echoing from down the hall.

"Yeah, they can't fool me," Morgan was boasting as she turned the corner. "I've got the Annas all… all…"

Eldigan turned around to face his entourage. "We've arrived."

Old Hubba was resting in the corner, breathing weakly, his hand limply resting on a large red stain near his shoulder. A nearby javelin, bloodied at the tip, gave away the "why."

Marth and Chrom were both leaning up against a wall, beaten and battered; Marth didn't appear to be conscious. Their temporary caretaker halted her staff, and she stood and turned, smiling nervously at the newcomers.

"S-Sumia?" Lissa murmured, surprised. Maribelle then tugged on her friend's sleeve, reminding Lissa of the moment. "Right…"

Maribelle and Lissa brushed past Morgan, Cynthia, and Sumia, to begin their work on the two wounded lords.

Meanwhile, the reunited family was frozen. Cynthia and Morgan both wore identical expressions of shock.

Cynthia was the first to crack: a sniff. Morgan next, with a handful of tears.

Then, as one, they both gave in and rushed into their mother's arms.

Sumia wrapped her arms around her children, losing the battle to tears herself.

"You're back!" Cynthia sobbed, burying her face in Sumia's shoulder.

Morgan was barely intelligible. "I m-m-missed you s-so much, Mom!"

"I'm here now," Sumia whispered soothingly, brushing her fingers through her daughters' hair. She hugged them close. "I'm not going anywhere."

…Old Hubba rolled his eyes.

Next time:

Chapter 13 – R&R

Author's note:

I think the most important words of this series are a few that Sumia said in the epilogue of Dissonance, the ones that Chrom thought of:

"There's so much we don't know, though. So many unclear details."

Such is Fire Emblem Awakening. But that's what I'm here for: to give some explanations, and, more importantly, to further obfuscate even more. After all, if "unclear details" is Awakening's M.O., then who am I to bastardize the source material by clearing everything up?

Take time travel, for instance. You thought that was pretty simple, didn't you? Heh. Heheh. Heheheheheh.

(The second-most-important words, we can all agree, are: "Do you think being inappropriate is funny? Because… it is. But it's still inappropriate!")