Chapter 14: Eighth of August
An awkward silence permeated the tent as the two occupants packed their things, each seemingly avoiding the other's eye. Severa had been pointedly avoiding conversation with her mother during their stay in the shared tent—but the only words the two had shared, Cordelia kept close to her heart.
"Good night, Severa." Cordelia reached to douse the final lamp, then turned toward the tent flap; she had the night watch, after all.
"…G'night."
A tiny smile played on Cordelia's lips as she recalled the way her heart had fluttered. Severa had been facing away at the time, and what she'd said was hardly a mumble. But it was something.
Cordelia shut a box and paused, surveying the rest of her equipment absently. Muscle memory would be enough for her to pack up—gods knew she had had enough packing experience over the years—so in times like these, she allowed her mind to wander.
"You deserved more from me than one sword and a world full of troubles."
"Oh, father!" Lucina cried, running into Chrom's arms.
Cordelia's fingers curled into an anxious fist, and she frowned and glanced over her shoulder at Severa. She noticed she'd caught her daughter's gaze; Severa hastily turned away to resume packing.
Cordelia relaxed her hands. What…? She's so hard to read. What does she want from me?
She resumed packing as well; her gears were turning, analyzing the situation, figuring out an angle. What would Robin do? Cordelia wondered. He had been the type to always know what to say. Were he Severa's mother—ah, father, she meant; she smiled inwardly as she recalled the confusion with the alternate Robin—he would probably already have this whole situation sorted out. Severa had always been attached to Robin, obviously. Who hadn't been? The man was a natural at working with people.
So, what would Robin do? I suppose he'd have already figured out what Severa's issue stems from, and would have cut it off at the source. She paused. Or… perhaps he'd realize that that topic was too sensitive, and he'd avoid it entirely…
Cordelia quietly cleared her throat, not turning away from her work. "Severa?"
Severa made a sort of acknowledging grunt.
"How was the battle?" She looked over her shoulder at Severa, smiling slightly. Small talk. Maybe that's all we need.
Severa didn't turn, however, nor did she even stop packing. "It sucked."
Cordelia tilted her head. "What happened?"
"It just wasn't a fun fight."
"That's too bad. You seemed to be enjoying yourself when you were slaying Roro's duplicates."
"That…" Severa paused, if only for an instant. Then, back to work. "…The masked guys weren't fodder. Weren't being treated that way, at least."
Cordelia was almost ecstatic. Pleasant conversation! Pleasant conversation with my daughter! Someone pinch me! "O-Oh?"
"Yeah." Severa finished filling up a box, and she slammed it shut, leaving the noise ringing in the tent. "They had a healer. Wouldn't back down. Had to kill her."
That was a pinch. Cordelia sobered slightly. "I see…"
Severa shrugged. "No big deal. I-I mean, she was just an Einherjar." She shrugged again; this time, Cordelia caught the forced nonchalance. "Think her name was Natalie, or Latasha or something. …Doesn't matter."
"…I see," Cordelia replied quietly. She almost followed with "It wasn't your fault," or "You did the right thing," or something along those lines, but she bit her tongue—that wouldn't win her any favors with Severa. Instead, she elected to change the subject. "Well, I thought you looked heroic. Did you know your father wanted to leave the side of Lord Roy just to fight beside you?"
"Whatever."
Cordelia giggled. "He told me afterwards, 'Cordelia! Daughter is amazing Hero! Why you not choose to be Mercenary, eh? Make whole family alike!'"
Severa tried her very hardest—face turning red and everything—to not give her mother the satisfaction of laughter at the spot-on impression. It did rob her of productivity for a few moments, as she leaned against the same box, facing down, mouth screwed shut with all the determination she had.
After a moment, she finally let out a choking sputter of a chuckle.
Cordelia glanced over at her, concerned. "Are you alright?"
"I'm f-fine." Severa wiped her mouth and resumed her work.
"Mm."
Silence reigned once again.
Cordelia sighed. Severa lost Natasha. She was close to that Einherjar, b-but that old man, he—
She froze, fighting her emotions in much the same way that Severa had been a moment prior. Though this was an entirely different, opposite emotion.
Catria, Cordelia thought weakly.
She had briefly dueled the pegasus knight. She'd even tried calling out to the middle sister of the Whitewings—tried to get her to remember. But that was gone.
'Even if the real Catria couldn't, this one can grow past this feeling. This is not meaningless.'
Perhaps I was wrong, then.
It wasn't long before Cordelia found her job completed. Her bedroll was folded, her clothes were all put away, her personal items and such were secured… She even had time to run another count, and still Severa hadn't caught up.
Cordelia turned toward Severa and began to approach. "I've finished, so would you let me help you?"
Severa huffed irritably. "I don't need your help, Mother."
Cordelia hesitated. What would Robin say? "…I know you don't need my help, but this makes it go faster."
"I'll pack at my own pace, thanks."
Okay, NOW what? "This isn't about you, Severa. We need to be out of here as soon as possible." …I hope?
Severa didn't reply for a moment. "…Fine, whatever. Just don't get in my way." She shot Cordelia a fiery glare. "…And I don't fold my shirts six-by-six, just so you know. So don't get any funny ideas."
"O… Okay."
Cordelia moved to Severa's side, quietly helping her along.
That stings a little. She KNOWS I like to fold my shirts that way…!
As the majority of the Shepherds packed their belongings for the return trip to Old Hubba's mansion, an identical situation played itself out four different times.
At the Annas' warning (and Sumia's firsthand experience), they each thought they knew what to expect, and each lowered themselves into the Bath Elixir with trepidation.
For Nowi's turn, she reacted with a yelp, and she fled from the bath. It took several minutes of coaxing from her husband before she would try again, and Libra still had to hold her down until the pain faded.
Nah was next. She didn't want to rely on her father to keep her steady, so she clutched her towel tightly, braced herself, and lowered herself into the water.
Tiki and Chrom both waited outside—and exchanged an uncomfortable glance when they heard Nah's squeals of "Ow! Ow! OW!" from within.
Nah's face was flushed red when she finally exited the tent. She smoothed out her dress and walked past Chrom and Tiki without meeting their eyes.
"Ladies first?" Chrom chuckled weakly. Tiki laughed as well, and tried to accept, but Chrom waved it away. "I'm joking. You should take a longer bath, given how strongly the Sickness seems to affect you, so I'll go first to let you have more time after."
"As… As you wish, Lord Chrom."
Chrom entered the tent. Libra had drained the previous bath and filled a new one, and was measuring out a handful of the Elixir's powder.
Chrom waited hesitantly, watching as Libra methodically drizzled the powder across the water, and then began to stir it with a pole.
"I-I'll take it from here."
"Very well, Your Eminence." Libra handed the stirring pole to Chrom, and he left the tent.
Chrom swirled the water around, staring at it uncomfortably.
"So you're the super healing stuff, huh?" he mumbled. "Takes a lot to make a Manakete scream in pain like that…"
He let the pole rest, feeling the concoction had been stirred enough, and he hesitantly undressed. He hissed quietly at the touch of cloth against his wound, but he braved it and eventually disrobed successfully.
Taking the towel Libra had left for him and wrapping it around his waist, Chrom stepped into the water one foot at a time. Odd tingles traced up his toes to his ankle—not altogether unpleasant, and honestly Chrom couldn't tell if he was fabricating the sensation from his imagination.
What is wrong with me? Chrom thought suddenly. I'm a warrior—I need to face this like one! Head on! It's just some water! Stop being afraid of stupid things, Chrom!
He eased himself down.
Libra and Tiki, standing outside the tent, both winced at the sharpness of Chrom's pained scream.
"Even Chrom," Libra noted, raising his eyebrows.
Tiki sighed.
Chrom huffed impatiently. He'd been in the bath for nearly twenty minutes, and the pain had mostly subsided. Mostly.
Looking down at his hip injury—truthfully the thing he was most looking forward to being rid of—he expressed his irritation at its continued stinging with an angry grunt. It didn't even seem to be improving.
"Libra!" Chrom called.
Libra's head poked in, though he tactfully looked at the ground rather than at the half-naked Exalt. "Yes, milord?"
"Get me Sumia," Chrom ordered irately. "I've got a question."
"At once, sir." Libra disappeared.
Chrom tapped his fingers on the rim of the tub as he waited. Giving his wound another look, he tried to check if it was more mobile than before by twisting himself slightly. After the agonizing, fiery pain died down, he decided that a second attempt wouldn't be necessary.
The tent flap moved, and Sumia's head appeared, her gaze similarly averted. "What's the matter, Captain?"
Chrom was pleased to hear that. 'Captain,' from Sumia. It had been too long. However, his current frustration tarnished his satisfaction in the moment.
"The Bath Elixir isn't doing anything about my injury," he said irritably. "How long is it supposed to take?"
Sumia furrowed her eyebrows in thought. "Hmm… Well, Grima stabbed me in the leg, so that's comparable, right? It took two hours or so before it was back in perfect shape, though that was after a week of natural healing."
"Two hours…" Chrom muttered to himself. Then, to Sumia, "Well, how long before you could tell it was taking effect?"
Sumia blinked. "A… a matter of minutes. It always throbbed, Captain. Twenty-four hours a day. When I entered the Bath Elixir, though, it stopped hurting halfway through my conversation with Blue."
"Yeah, well—this is not doing that," Chrom snapped. "Whatever. I'll worry about it later." He began to pick himself up out of the water.
Sumia flushed red. Her gaze fixated even more strongly on the ground rather than on Chrom. "Chr-Chrom—just let it heal, okay? Take your time."
"No." Assured that his towel was affixed around his waist, Chrom exited the tub. "Tiki needs it more than me. If this is enough to cure Outrealm Sickness, then that's enough for me—at least for now."
"Ah… if you insist. Excuse me…" Sumia retreated out of the tent, leaving Chrom alone again.
Chrom's face glowed with irritation as he carefully worked his way back into his armor.
Preparations were nearly complete. The Shepherds' camp was still quietly bustling along, uprooting tents and hauling luggage into the convoy. Chrom found himself without work for the moment (at the insistence of the many more able-bodied Shepherds) so he simply leaned against a tree, staring at the Outrealm Gate silently glowing a short walk ahead of him.
The Outrealm Gate was a challenge, he realized. He perceived the Outrealm Gate as the future—the goal—but also an impediment to that goal. An obstacle to be overcome.
If I was a smarter man, I could probably find a metaphor in that, Chrom thought to himself, chuckling weakly. I'll just leave that to the historians. He settled for looking at the sky: a calm blue void that didn't fill him with anxiety. He clicked his tongue when he saw how low the sun was hanging; today had simultaneously been very short, and very, very long.
When Chrom's eyes eventually returned to the Outrealm Gate, he noticed two figures approaching from it. One of them appeared to be pushing some sort of…
"Lord Chrom!" said Seliph brightly as he approached. He and Lena both wore smiles. "We can't thank you enough for your help. Truly."
"Milord, we are in your debt," Lena added. "It took us a century to escape that madman… and now, thanks to you, we are finally, truly free."
"All in a day's work," Chrom replied. "Anyway… what's with that?"
"Ah! It's an olive branch, you see." Seliph pushed the wheelchair closer. "Marth did say he's told you the whole truth, so… on his behalf, we would like to offer you this, at least until your wound heals. It came from Old Hubba's mansion."
"A wheelchair?" Chrom murmured tiredly. "Your Highness, I appreciate the offer, but—"
"There is no shame in it," Lena insisted, with a serious expression. "Milord, your injury is no light matter. You require rest. This allows you to remain mobile without aggravating your injury further. Just because it happened a whole day ago doesn't mean it's too late for it to get infected! In fact, if you'd let me look at it right now—"
Chrom stayed her with a gentle hand. "That won't be necessary. I accept your gift." Too tired to argue this again… and I appreciate the sentiment regardless.
Lena and Seliph both beamed.
Maribelle had been equally pleased that Chrom had accepted the wheelchair. Now, her hands rested on the grips of the chair as she, as well as most of the rest of the Shepherds, waited with apprehension for news from the other side.
A form appeared from the Outrealm Gate—soon revealed to be Morgan, beaming from ear to ear and nearly jumping in excitement.
"It worked!" she cheered. "Nah's totally fine!"
The Shepherds gave a laid-back cheer, and the tension disappeared.
"That's wonderful news, dear," Maribelle whispered to her husband. Chrom gave an affirmative grunt.
Sure enough, when he was pushed through the Gate himself, he didn't feel the characteristic pressure the travel usually exerted on his chest. He easily kept his breath, and the swirling lights didn't induce so much as a headache.
"Well?" Maribelle asked as they alighted on green earth.
He looked up at her and smiled. "Hardly even felt it."
Pity entered Maribelle's eyes. "…Seems it's difficult for you to be happy so long as you have that injury, hm?"
"…Yeah."
Maribelle quietly wheeled Chrom away from the Outrealm Gate, towards the mansion looming in the distance.
A mass of dozens filled the lawn before Chrom, who was alone on the mansion's front porch. Chrom felt uncharacteristic unease in his chest; this was far from the first time he had made a speech in front of such a large group, after all, so why…?
He shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair—that was it. He hated sitting like this. Made him feel smaller, less confident. But he didn't exactly have a choice.
These people were friends, though. His eyes met face after familiar face, and his confidence slowly returned.
He cleared his throat. "Shepherds, we've had a… well, a long couple of weeks, to say the least. From Grima returning, to the preparations for our journey into the Outrealms, to the Einherjar War, it seems like we haven't had a moment's rest since June. Well, tonight, we're going to have that moment's rest. You—all of you—have more than earned a little celebration. Now that the Einherjar War has ended, we finally have the time for it, and more than enough reason." He smiled widely. "Plus, we have a very special birthday boy among us. But we'll properly embarrass Inigo later." He gestured a thumb at the mansion's front door behind him. "Tonight's agenda: feast, party a little, and then have some hard-earned sleep. Don't overwork yourselves, because we're leaving for the Springrealm tomorrow." He faced the door. "Now, let's get inside."
"Raidin' my pantry… Eatin' my food…"
Basilio rolled his eyes. Old Hubba had been grumbling to himself like this during the whole walk, and it hadn't eased up upon entering the mansion. The West Khan was now leading Old Hubba to the basement; in lieu of a dungeon, the wine cellar would have to do. Old Hubba was handcuffed and would soon be attached to the wall, but his motions were stiff and uncomfortable thanks to the injury Sumia had given him, so he wasn't much of a threat regardless.
"Gods, have some humility in defeat, wouldja?" Basilio rumbled, grinning. "Plus, Chrom was nice to ya. Alive for another day, eh?"
"Spoken like someone who knows how ta lose," the old man muttered. "An' now I'm all disappointed. Y'know the only thing that's died so far is Leila? She's the only one I got!" He pouted.
Basilio frowned. "You're a weird one, old man. You sound more, uh… more glum than angry."
"Eh." Old Hubba waved it away. "Ya win some, ya lose some. Guess yer right, One-Eye, I should just take the loss."
Basilio beamed. "Bahaha! That's the spirit!" He roughly patted Old Hubba on the shoulder in approval. "Now I'm no expert on redemption, but—"
"Whoa-ho there, big guy," Old Hubba chuckled. "One thing at a time! I'm still in the 'gettin' over the loss' phase."
"Can't blame me for tryin', can ya?"
The dining room was quieter than Chrom had expected it to be. The table was packed with Shepherds, and though small conversations were scattered throughout the table, it certainly lacked the festiveness of the dinner following the battle at the Dragon's Gate.
Suited Chrom just fine. He was sitting at the head of the table, but they had actually moved the table's chair aside to allow him to stay in his wheelchair instead. Eating dinner in this little prison, he thought irritably, jostling himself into a more comfortable position. Oh well. With the dinner quiet like this, he could properly think to himself, and…
…The more Chrom tried to force himself to prefer the quiet, the more he missed the frivolity. Sure, he wasn't in the best of moods, but it definitely wouldn't hurt if the others were more cheerful.
Couldn't fault them for it, of course. The whole "Old Hubba's a rat bastard" thing had taken them by surprise, and it had been a long, long couple of days.
Chrom sighed, and resigned himself to—
Clamor from the opposite side of the table stole his attention, as well as that of the rest of the Shepherds. Gregor was climbing atop his chair, wine glass in hand, a resolute expression on his face.
The foreign mercenary looked over the table. "Why everyone is being so glum?!" he exclaimed, seemingly indignant. "Do Shepherds not realize what this is meaning? Einherjar War is over, friends! Victory is ours for seemingly thousandth time, eh? Let us celebrate! Drinks, raise drinks!" He raised his own wine glass, and waited as the rest of the Shepherds followed suit.
Chrom smiled slightly, and raised his glass high.
"To another war under Shepherds' collective belt!"
"Hear, hear," a few voices echoed.
"To finding of Robin soon!"
"Hear, hear!" Several more voices joined in that time.
"And, now for most important thing…" Gregor turned to face someone else at the table, grinned widely, and gestured at him with the drink in his hand. "To young birthday boy of today, who deserves lots of the celebrating! Happiest birthday, Inigo!"
"Hear, hear!" echoed the entirety of the Shepherds present, and suddenly the entire attitude of the feast shifted. Dishes clinking, voices raising, and the smiles… Chrom felt a little warm, seeing those.
He sat back in his wheelchair and enjoyed the hubbub of the room. Bits of other conversations floated into his ears—stories they hadn't had the chance to tell.
"…And I almost fell off my horse, I was so amazed!" Stahl laughed. "I mean, Ephraim and Eirika were moving like water! In sync! Wish that I had that sort of…"
"…Bahaha! It was a fight for the ages! My Ragnell and the legendary Ike's, fighting as one? Our foes stood nary a chance…"
"…Like, like that time at the Dragon's Gate fight," Lissa chattered, patting her husband on the arm eagerly. "Vaike was all 'look at me I'm a teacher or something,' and BOOM, I snuck in with a Bolt Axe! Haha! Ol' Hector never saw it coming!..."
"…So yeah, I was just in the middle of the chamber, and the Einherjar just about had me cornered. But suddenly, what comes sliding right towards me but a handy little shield?" Smirking, Gaius waved down the table at Chrom. "Hey bud, thanks again for the Fire Emblem!"
"No problem," Chrom called back with a grin. "Glad you didn't get any scratches on it."
The table laughed, and so did Chrom.
He settled down, still wearing a smile. He just looked over the Shepherds. Tharja and Lon'qu were trying to look antisocial in the corner; Nowi was trying to pull Libra into a conversation; Miriel was having some sort of intellectual discussion with Laurent…
Chrom's smile twitched. When's the last time we've all been together like this? Sure, yesterday's dinner, but before that? He exhaled. Was it… the postwar celebrations? No, even by then, a lot of them had already disappeared. I guess… everyone kind of lost touch after the war, didn't they?
He looked at Gerome, and Panne, and Flavia.
It almost feels like a reunion. His smile was growing bittersweet. Like our story already ended, and we're back for one last hurrah.
Chrom noticed Inigo; he was currently spreading his infectious laughter, seeming to enjoy the attention for once.
When we find Robin, what then? Chrom wondered. Do we all scatter once again? Disappear to the four winds? I don't love war, but I love the Shepherds. It's a shame that we only unite in times like these.
He thought of Marth's original story. A hundred heroes united under one roof. Done with war, done with misery. Just life—life and companionship.
Chrom's train of thought chugged along Marth's story, before making a stop at Marth's odd relationship with Caeda. He frowned, curious as to how that would go down now that the air was cleared. He shrugged it off, however; it wasn't his business.
At that thought, Chrom searched the room for Sumia, and fortunately, she wasn't too hard to find. Unfortunately, she was currently engaged in conversation with probably a quarter of the table. Guess I'll wait.
She seemed elated to be back. When Chrom remembered how Sumia had been following the death of the dissonant Grima, he couldn't help but smile at her rejuvenated self.
"This seat taken?"
Chrom glanced up to see Cordelia hovering over the seat nearby, holding a wineglass. "Of course," he said amiably, pulling out the chair.
Cordelia took a seat. "I was trying to talk to Sumia, but I couldn't get a word in edgewise, what with all the attention she's getting," she laughed. "The Shepherds are almost back at full strength, hm?"
"Yep. One to go."
"Heh." Cordelia took a sip of her drink. "Poor girl. She'll probably be held up deep into the night in conversation."
"Yeah. She's going to share a room with her daughters, and knowing them…"
Chrom and Cordelia chuckled.
"Cordelia," Chrom said, "would you extend my compliments to Severa? I know she's been… less than agreeable lately, but her performance on the battlefield today was exemplary. The way Morgan spins it, Severa was essential."
Cordelia smiled pleasantly. "If I get the opportunity, I'll certainly relay that."
She and Chrom fell quiet for a moment, just listening to the festivities.
Chrom noticed Severa sitting farther down the table. Her arms were crossed and her eyes were averted, very staunchly not partaking in the cheer.
"…How are you two, by the way?" Chrom asked softly.
"Better," Cordelia unenthusiastically answered, whilst watching Severa from a distance. "I mean, we had what was almost a conversation earlier. That was…" She took a breath. "It felt like a dream."
"Hey."
Cordelia looked at him curiously.
"You'll work things out," Chrom asserted. "I believe in you and Severa. You'll be just fine, I know it."
Cordelia found herself lost in Chrom's inspiring gaze, and felt a familiar fluttering in her heart. She then shook her head quickly, brushing off those antiquated feelings. Honestly, Cordelia, are you a child? "Thank you, milord. I think I needed to hear that."
"Do she and her father get along well?"
"Inexplicably." Cordelia sighed. "She's so open with him, yet won't give me the time of day." She paused. "Though I suppose the only thing that's really open between them is Gregor's wallet…"
Chrom chuckled.
Brady was seated close to the door, so he was the first to notice when someone was trying to exit. Frowning, he left the table and followed her out.
He closed the door behind himself; the well-lit dining hall had disguised the passage of time, so he was surprised to find that night had quite thoroughly fallen over the mansion.
"Luce?" he asked quietly. Up ahead, his sister turned, startled.
Lucina put a hand over her heart, sighing in relief. "Goodness, Brady, are you trying to tax my heart?"
"Heh. Naw." Brady put his hands in his pockets as he approached. "Leavin' so soon? I was thinkin' about turnin' in myself, and if yer turnin' in too then I won't feel so bad about leavin' the party."
Lucina was on the verge of going along with that. However, she bit her tongue. This is my brother. "No… well, I admit that I am fatigued, but that's not what I'm doing. I was walking to the infirmary."
"Mm." Brady bobbed his head. "Checkin' on Marth, then."
"Yes. I haven't spoken with him since…"
Lucina let the end of the sentence hang.
Intending to change the subject, she tilted her head. "I'm sorry to see you leave the festivities so soon, Brady. You deserve rest, of course, but you could certainly use some of the cheer."
"Yer callin' me grumpy?" Brady chuckled. "I ain't never seen a blacker kettle than you."
Lucina blinked. "A-Assuming you're referencing the idiom, then wouldn't I be the pot?"
Brady groaned. "Whatever, Lucina! Point is, yer in a glass house or something, and shouldn't throw rocks. Or something."
Lucina rubbed her chin. "…I believe I've heard that one before, but…"
Brady facepalmed. "Just—Just go talk ta Marth."
"Very well." Lucina started to turn away, but she paused. "Brady?"
"Huh?"
Lucina smiled. "Do you recall when we were younger? Do you remember my eleventh birthday?"
Brady blinked. "Wha… That long ago?"
"Do you?"
Brady sighed. "…Yeah, I remember."
"You forgot to get me a present that year," Lucina said. "What you did for me instead was much better than any gift, though. If you're up for it, I'm certain Inigo would appreciate the same."
The princess turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing throughout the dark, empty halls of the mansion. It wasn't long before she disappeared into the shadows.
Brady shook his head, smiling in bewilderment. "How does she remember that…?"
He glanced behind him at the door to the dining hall. Light, as well as sound, leaked out of the room.
Brady reached for the doorknob and very slightly opened the dining hall's door. He then turned away and moved toward the stairs, heading up to his room.
A candle was lit, spreading a warm glow throughout the infirmary. Marth blinked awake and forced himself to sit up and look composed for his guest. He wasn't exactly dressed well—barely dressed at all, in fact—but he did what he could.
"Good evening, Your Highness." Lucina smiled softly as she sat at the foot of Marth's bed.
"L-Lucina?" Marth stammered. "What… To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"How are you feeling?" Her voice was hardly a whisper. The infirmary was empty aside from her and Marth, but it was so dimly, peacefully lit that she didn't want to break the silence too harshly.
Marth smiled. "Thank you for your concern, milady. I'm quite all right. I believe I'll be in top form come morning, thanks to the work of your healers."
"You and the rest of the Einherjar are coming with us, right?" Lucina asked. "The rest are mingling elsewhere in the mansion, I'd imagine, since none of them joined the Shepherds at the feast."
"If Sir Chrom and Lady Morgan wish it, then they shall come," said Marth plainly. "The Einherjar are theirs, of course."
They were quiet for a moment.
"I-I heard your story," said Lucina. "Secondhand, I mean. My father relayed it to me last night."
Marth winced. "Lucina… the story I told yesterday was incomplete. There was more to it than that."
"I… thought so."
"Then, you share your father's skepticism, it seems."
"Hmhm… Perhaps not quite as much. I couldn't shake the feeling that the story was a little too clean, however."
Marth swallowed. "…Indeed. I suppose you'd like me to relay the truth, then…"
"That isn't necessary."
Marth's eyes returned to her with surprise. "Pardon?"
Lucina smiled once more. "You have told my father, yes? If he knows, then he will tell me when the time is right."
"Lucina—" Marth leaned forward slightly, an urgent look in his eyes. "Lucina, no one deserves to know more than you. I… I caused you heartache beyond what I inflicted on the others."
Lucina's expression twitched. He was right, she knew. Yet, the pain in her chest hadn't relented. The guilt remained, even in spite of the truth.
"I played with your feelings," Marth stated. "I manipulated you. I specifically targeted you to relay the message to Seliph. Do you yet exempt me from blame, Lucina?"
Lucina's eyes turned away. "I can't fault you your actions, Marth. You did what needed to be done."
"You can't be serious."
Lucina frowned, glancing at him. She could be mistaken, but she thought she'd noticed a hint of pleading to his tone.
Grimacing, hugging an arm to his wound, Marth sat forward to stare more intensely into his descendant's eyes. "Lucina, why must you be so forgiving? You mustn't treat me so gently for having the appearance of your ancestor. I am not Marth."
"But you are."
Marth paused, readying an argument.
"You are Marth," continued Lucina, in a small voice. "Prince Marth, descendent of Anri, the man who would become the legendary Hero-King."
Marth's next breath vanished.
Lucina's expression was solemn; her gaze moved to the darkness. "…You are an ancestor I can be proud of, Your Highness. We've all made mistakes…"
Her eyes finally returned to him. Steadily, resolutely, she concluded, "The difference is what you make of yourself henceforth. And that, Prince Marth, I leave to you in full confidence."
Marth's thoughts had disappeared: gone into the winds. "L-Lucina…"
"Prince Marth." Lucina gently lifted off of his bedside. Smoothing out her tunic, she turned back. "Good night."
But, before she could return to the darkness, Marth was able to pull himself together and form a new thought: "Lucina, wait."
She paused. Marth marveled at the nobility of her poise—the lone candle in the tenebrous infirmary cast her in a heroic light.
Marth turned his attention to the table at the side of his bed, at the inconspicuous object lying on top. Lucina followed his gaze.
Her fingers twitched, as did her stoic expression.
Marth placed a hand atop his card. "…Lucina, come closer."
As she slowly complied, Marth took the item between his fingers and faced her. "This card is yours, Lucina. Take it."
Lucina was uncomprehending. "But…"
"Take it, Princess Lucina."
Lucina shook her head. "No… you keep it, Marth. I appreciate the symbolism, but it is entirely unnecessary…"
"Please," said Marth. He placed an anxious fist over his bandaged chest, as if grabbing the hidden wound. "Old Hubba struck me down… How do I know if he defeated me?"
Lucina paused to process that. "Y… You didn't surrender… so that should be enough, right?"
"I must be certain." Marth stuck the card forward, determination in his eyes. "Lucina, I knowingly and willingly surrender to you. Please—take good care of me."
Lucina watched the offering with a conflicted expression. It took a moment, but in the end, she did indeed accept.
Marth felt a weight ease off of his shoulders as the card left his hands. It could have been imagined.
Lucina became suddenly grateful for the darkness; the longer she stared at the card, the more her hand trembled.
"Thank you."
Both said the words at once.
After an instant of shock, the lords both broke into much-needed smiles.
"…Good night, Marth."
"Likewise, Lucina."
"Shh. Do you hear that?"
A portion of the dining room table became quiet.
"No?" said Virion. "What seems to be the matter?"
"Hey!" Ricken called out, and other conversations lulled. "Everyone, be quiet for a sec!"
Though glances were exchanged, the rest of the room humored the young mage.
All was still for a moment.
Cherche broke the silence first, her eyes moving curiously to the partially-open door. "Is that…?"
"A violin," Panne stated, her ears twitching. "It's coming from the ballroom, if you're curious."
Chrom frowned. "We have a ballroom?" How much of this mansion have I never seen?
"I am curious, now thatcha mention it," Donnel said, as a smile began to grow on his face. To his wife's chagrin, he stood, offered a hand to her, and asked, "Care for a dance?"
Olivia flushed entirely red, but of her options, accepting was the least embarrassing. "O-Okay…"
The dining room watched, bemused, as Donnel led Olivia by the hand out the door. There was a brief pause, but another arm caught the door before it closed.
"How about you, Miriel?" said Kellam, hovering by the exit. "Want to dance?"
Miriel adjusted her glasses. "…If this happens, it will become a trend. Probability suggests that the others will follow us to the ballroom should you commit to this. Kellam: answer me one question." Her eyes narrowed. "Are you willing to accept the ramifications of your decision?"
The knight scratched his head. "Uh, I just wanted to dance, really…"
Miriel sighed. "As you wish." She stood from her chair. "I suppose it's been some time since we've had such a romantic occasion."
"P-Please leave it at that, Miriel." He offered her his arm, which she took, and the two left the room as well.
There was another pause.
"…Welp, Teach would hate to prove Miriel wrong!" Vaike noisily pushed himself away from the table. "Y'all comin' too?"
A sudden commotion of moving chairs filled the room as the rest of the Shepherds followed them out, some more reluctant than others.
Chrom sighed, wheelchair-bound and helplessly watching the others abandon him. However, to his relief, he was able to catch Lissa's eye and wordlessly inform her of his plight; she smiled wanly and moved to help him, pushing against the flow of exiting Shepherds.
The dining room had fallen quiet by the time she'd circled around the table to him. The silence was replaced by the clicking of his wheelchair as Lissa pulled him away from the table and worked toward the door.
"A moment of peace," Lissa giggled quietly. "That's a rarity. …Say, Chrom, when's the last time you and I haven't been too busy to talk?" She looked down at his mess of hair. "I mean actually talk, obviously."
"A long time, for sure," Chrom agreed. "It's been all work and no play since we found Grima in that field."
"For sure. And even longer since it's been us and Emm."
"You're right… We don't see her for almost seven months, and she gets back just in time for another adventure." He sighed.
"Yeah. That really sucks, huh?"
Lissa, absentminded, didn't realize that it's not polite to use a wheelchair to open a door. Chrom winced, growling a reprimanding "Lissa…"
"Oh. Sorry 'bout that."
…
The simple symphony of a lone violin permeated the halls outside the dining room. If they couldn't hear it before, they could now.
Chrom smiled at the sweet noise. How nostalgic. That must be him.
"No time like the present, right?" Lissa suddenly said. "How are things, Chrom?"
"Hm? Ah, well, things are okay, I guess. Glad the Einherjar business is wrapped up."
Lissa leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. "Any personal secrets to divulge?"
"N-Not really." Chrom flinched away. "Don't do that."
Lissa leaned back and continued pushing, disgruntled. "You need to have more fun, Chrom."
"It's hard to have fun when my nose is constantly stuck in affairs that matter."
"Huh, 'affairs that matter.' Never heard that euphemism before."
Chrom rolled his eyes, but couldn't help a tiny grin.
Lissa followed the music to its source, the only sound besides the faint violin being the rolling of wheels against the floorboards. Turning down a hallway, she and Chrom could easily pinpoint the ballroom as the important-looking doors at the far end of the hall, the ones with light peeking out.
"How about you?" Chrom asked. "Have any stories to tell, yourself?"
Lissa gave a brief sigh. "Y'know, we've been in a lot of fights lately, but I've still had a lot of time to myself, y'know? No, I don't really have any stories to tell, but I've had a lot of time to think."
"What about?"
Lissa paused, gathering her words. "…What comes after. You know—peace. I, ah… After the end of the war, I didn't really have much to… to do."
Chrom's eyebrows furrowed. He understood perfectly what she was saying—Lissa, bored; go figure—but her manner of speech, her hesitance, implied that there was more to it than that.
"Are you saying you preferred the war?" Chrom ventured.
"No! No."
Lissa slowed down as she neared the doors, and released the wheelchair's handles; Chrom turned himself around to face her.
Lissa folded her arms with apparent discomfort. "The war was awful, Chrom. I wanted it to end."
"Then was it… Was it about our allies?" Chrom gestured at the door behind him. "Did you miss them?"
"I—Maybe?" Lissa threw her hands up. "I don't know! All I know is that I didn't feel unhappy after the war with Plegia. Even though that peace was TWICE as long as it's been since Grima died, I didn't feel—uh—I didn't feel like…" She trailed off, clearly frustrated at her inability to articulate.
Chrom tilted his head, frowning, and waited for her to compose her thoughts.
Her arms were now crossed a little more irritably, and she looked away. "It's like… last time, even though that war was over… even though we'd just lost Emmeryn… there was still such a bright future, right?" Her eyes darted over to Chrom, then back into the darkness. "You were Exalt… all our friends were still around…"
Her voice fell to a faint whisper. "I was single…"
Not too faint to escape Chrom, whose eyebrows raised in response. "What?" He leaned forward slightly. "Lissa… do you not love Vaike?"
"Of course I do!" Lissa exclaimed defensively. "I love him so much! It's not that I don't love him, it's that I'm married." Her cheeks flushed with color. "Gods—that's still not what I mean! I mean—I mean, when I was single, it felt like I had so much left to do, it felt like I was young."
"You are young, Lissa."
"But I don't feel like it!" Lissa's face was still red, but her arms finally fell to her sides—she had found the words she was looking for. "Chrom, it feels like everything's already happened. I'm married. We saved the world. Peace is what's next, and it's all that's next."
"Ah…" Chrom finally understood. "So… Once we're done here in the Outrealms, it's all over. We return home to our quiet lives… everyone scatters across the world. We might not see any of them again."
Lissa turned her eyes downward. "So… you've been thinking about the same stuff, huh?"
Chrom grimaced.
Lissa took a shaking breath. "…S-Sorry, Chrom. I guess I just wanted to come clean, talk to somebody about it."
"Lissa," Chrom said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow, we're going to a Harvest Festival," he said determinedly. "You, me, and Emmeryn. The rest of the Shepherds, too."
It took a moment for her to comprehend, but when she did, Lissa's expression lit up. "That—That's awesome!" She laughed, hugging her brother. "Thanks, Chrom!"
Chrom winced, patting her back. "Hey, not too tight…"
"Sorry." Lissa backed off. "Listen… Could you not tell anyone about the things I said?"
"Of course."
"Thanks, bro." Her cheer suddenly returned—forced or not—and she faced the doors. "Now. Let's get dancing!"
She pushed the door open (with her hands, this time, and pulling Chrom through after), revealing a sprawling ballroom.
Lissa's smile grew wider, and her eyes starry, as she absorbed the massive room. "Ha ha! Man, Chrom, your son's a real guy, huh?"
Sure enough, on a dais at the far end of the ballroom sat Brady, his eyes closed peacefully as he continued to work his instrument in isolation.
"He sure is," Chrom replied.
Lissa watched the many couples slow-dancing throughout the room. "Oh, wow," she began, excitement hitting her tone, "I have a chance to actually slow dance with Vaike for once!"
She rolled Chrom against the wall. After ascertaining his comfort, she said brightly, "Talk to you later, Chrom!" before disappearing in search of her husband.
Chrom smiled, sitting back and taking in the peaceful scenery. "Have fun," he murmured to the air.
To the kind melody of Brady's violin, an impromptu slow dance took hold of the Shepherds.
Nah wriggled uncomfortably on her toes. She had been in the "reluctant" group, dragged along with the rest of the more-enthusiastic Shepherds to the dance. When she had been walking toward the ballroom, she had entertained the idea of escaping in the darkness to her bedroom—until she saw that the only other person with the gall to do that was Severa. It's probably for the best that I don't follow her example.
So now, like many others, she stood awkwardly at the fringe of the dance floor, waiting for… the end of the festivities, perhaps, or maybe just someone to talk to. Morgan was nowhere to be found at the moment, unfortunately.
What she wasn't expecting, however, was someone asking her:
"Mind if I take this dance?"
Nah blinked, wide-eyed, at the hand Libra was offering her. "F-Father?"
Libra smiled warmly.
Nah glanced around at the others standing on the fringe, to realize that the number of "others" had been steadily dwindling as they accepted similar invitations.
Nervously, Nah took her father's hand.
Libra chuckled.
Cynthia's face was bright red, most likely a shade of red she had never seen on a face before.
"Uh—Uh—"
Inigo didn't waver, his hand and his smile steady as he awaited her answer.
"O-Okay."
Cynthia slid her palm over his, and felt him squeeze it reassuringly.
"Maribelle," said Chrom with a calm smile. "Hey."
Maribelle was smiling as well, hiding a hint of mischief; her hands were clasped behind her back as she approached.
"Hello," she replied softly. She unclasped her hands, reaching out to Chrom with one. "May I have this dance, milord?"
Chrom's eyebrows furrowed curiously, wondering if she was serious, but his smile didn't falter. He removed a hand from his armrest and brushed his fingers against hers. She smiled at his acceptance.
Maribelle took his other hand and, maintaining eye contact, began to gently sway from side to side, mimicking the slow dance being performed a dozen times over elsewhere in the ballroom. Chrom smiled in understanding, and though he was unable to follow along, he matched her gaze and her smile.
Maribelle bent forward, putting her lips to his ear. "I couldn't bear to leave you out of this, dear," she whispered.
He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against hers, if only for a moment. "I really appreciate it." He moved his head and allowed her to stand straight once more. "I love you."
"I love you, too."
This time, her expression reflected the words, and she continued her dance in place.
Emmeryn rested her cheek atop Frederick's shoulder and closed her eyes. She and her knight swayed slowly to Brady's gentle tune.
"Do…" Emmeryn whispered quietly—the first word she had spoken since accepting the dance. She felt Frederick shift slightly in curiosity. "…Do you remember what you said?"
"Of course I do."
Of course he does, Emmeryn thought solemnly. Dancing so intimately, how could he not know what I speak of?
"In the gardens… in Ylisstol." Her voice was faint, and she felt as if she could fall asleep like this. It had been a long day, yes… but there was no denying this feeling of safety. "You remember your proposition to me, yes?"
Frederick's fingers adjusted to link through Emmeryn's more comfortably. He seemed to be taking that time to find a response. "…What of it, milady?" he asked in a measured tone.
"Nothing," Emmeryn almost said, but she didn't. Rather, she let his question hang: let their pleasant dance continue uninterrupted. She wasn't sure why she'd brought it up, herself. She couldn't forget the answer she'd given him. Perhaps I'm more exhausted than I believed.
So she changed the subject. "Sir Frederick, I must thank you for your service to me. For the last seven months, you've been… you've been a most valuable companion."
Another pause from Frederick, perhaps as he tried to decipher the correlation between her previous sentences. He finally settled with, "Thank you, Lady Emmeryn."
"You've continued to help me… even after we returned," resumed Emmeryn. "Even here, in the Outrealms, you always stay by me, a constant vigil, in combat and out…"
Frederick frowned. Emmeryn's head nestled securely into his shoulder.
"We are not traveling the world anymore," Emmeryn continued without pause. "My journey is done… You needn't remain affixed to my side any longer."
"Ah, but I was never relieved of my duty," the knight claimed. "My position as your bodyguard was never lifted, Your Highness, so I continue my efforts even now."
That brought a smile to Emmeryn's face, and then laughter. She buried her head into his shoulder to muffle herself.
She briefly pulled up for air. "Ah! Ah, what a Frederick thing to say…" Emmeryn lifted her hand from his other shoulder to wipe her eyes, before returning it to its position. Her smile seemed to be permanent.
The pair swayed quietly. Even Frederick wore a small, coy smile; however, though slowly, it did fade.
"Then… Lady Emmeryn. Do you wish to relieve me of that duty?"
Emmeryn's smile adopted a degree of melancholy. The answer Sir Frederick wanted was painfully obvious to Emmeryn, but her own wish was much less so.
The smile returned in full, and she shook her head, her gilded hair brushing against the knight's neck. "…I leave you to your own devices, Sir Frederick."
With a glance up, Emmeryn caught a hint of a reciprocated smile on Frederick's face. "I understand, milady. I'll act… as I see fit."
"I would have it no other way."
The pair fell silent once again, both wearing small, pleased smiles and continuing to sway in an ambiguous dance.
Whenever Nah closed her eyes, she could see the hint of his smirk, the Grima in his eyes. She hated herself for it. She'd successfully avoided thinking of that dream since the other day, but now… dancing with her father, she couldn't help but remember the last time they'd directly spoken.
'I'm your father, you know. You may always come to me if anything troubles you.'
Yet, she'd been avoiding him for gods knew how long. The last couple days, of course—even in times they'd been near each other, she'd been able to dodge conversation—but of course it went farther than that, deeper than that.
She furtively glanced up at him, but he was obviously already watching her with a paternal smile, and she quickly looked back down. Maintaining eye contact is just one of those things, apparently.
She wondered why he hadn't said anything yet. He was just smiling at her, infuriatingly. She had expected some questions, maybe a "Why have you been avoiding me?" Or hey, maybe "Why have you been avoiding me AND your mother?" to be inclusive. But, no questions. Okay: acceptable. But not even small talk? She thought he'd try to break the ice somehow, but he was entirely silent.
Nah had overheard Cordelia talking to Chrom earlier; she and Severa had apparently had a conversation a couple hours ago. But in that situation, Cordelia initiated, Nah thought sourly. Apparently I'M the one who has to initiate with MY dad, gawds.
Nah blinked. Did I just think "gawds"? And am I really comparing myself to SEVERA? She took a nervous breath. Something's wrong here.
Nah tried to speak, but her throat was clogged. An "ahem" later, she looked up at Libra. "Uhm, Father…"
"Yes?"
Her hand squeezed anxiously on Libra's shoulder. "About the last few days…" But she cut herself off, shaking her head intensely. "N-No, not just the last few days. Ever since I joined the Shepherds, I, I've been really distant, and um, y-you're my dad, y'know? I… I'm sorry for…"
Libra chuckled quietly, prompting Nah to trail off.
"Nah," Libra began, "there's no need for you to apologize."
Nah rolled her eyes. "You're my father. You need to show some authority. Ground me, or something."
Libra laughed again. "How like you to ask for a punishment, even if you don't deserve it."
Nah huffed shortly. "…Why is everyone so free with their forgiveness, Father? I do bad things—I don't act the right way—and then people let me. It isn't right! …Let me at least finish my apology!"
Libra's smile faltered slightly. Perhaps to himself, he murmured, "How… like you, indeed." Then, to Nah, he resumed. "You are not the one at fault, Nah. Circumstances aren't as simple as right and wrong. I trust that you had your reasons to keep me and your mother at arm's length… and someday, I hope to hear what those reasons are." Libra tried to catch her eye. "Perhaps we shall sit down over dinner sometime, just the three of us?"
"That…" Nah began, but her throat was clogged. "A-Ahem… That s-sounds great, Father…"
Libra noted the way her voice shook, and how she was now trying to hide her eyes behind her hair.
"I'll love you regardless," Libra nudged. "If you didn't wish to speak of it, then…"
"Just—" Nah interrupted. "…Can we just, just dance quietly for a minute…"
Libra leaned closer to place a kiss on his daughter's head. "Of course, dear."
They danced without words, in brief solitude.
Other conversations flowed throughout the room, matching Brady's violin, so the 'silence', if it could be called that, didn't last long.
"Look at you two, getting along like a coupla buddies!" Nowi exclaimed, her hands on her hips. (Nah made to wipe her eyes as quickly as she could.) "Sorry to interrupt, but Nah, would you mind giving up your daddy for a dance?"
"Uh… sure," Nah murmured, and she let her father go.
Libra gave Nah a little smile, before he turned to his wife and began to dance with her—a much more energetic dance with Nowi as the leader.
Nah took the moment to catch her breath, crossing her arms. She wiped her eyes once again, feeling increasingly foolish. Why would I expect Dad to act any differently than that? He's a paragon of forgiveness. Of course he won't… disown me, or whatever.
Her hands tightened on her arms. 'How like you to ask for a punishment.' Tch. What does he know? And even if I AM like that, it's not like I don't deserve a little judgment. I disappeared after the war without even a note. Only Morgan even knew where I was! Honestly, if that fake Robin had never shown up, they… they probably never would've seen me again.
She realized she was still standing near the center of the dance floor, without a date. …Guess it'd be best if I called it a night. After searching around for the door, she started to move that way.
But then she felt pressure around one of her hands, and she was being pulled. When her shock relaxed into confusion, she realized that Morgan was the culprit, holding one of Nah's hands up and grinning from ear to ear.
"Mind if I take this dance?" Morgan asked cheerfully.
Nah's mouth tried to form words, but her surprise was still overpowering her. "Wha—ah…"
"I'll take that as a yes." Morgan raised her free hand flaccidly, her eyes moving from Nah's waist to her shoulder. "Where do I put this? Am I being the man, or are you?"
Finally, the situation coalesced for Nah. Morgan's smile proved to be infectious. "I accept your offer, thank you very much," she teased, resting her hand on Morgan's shoulder. "You asked me, so you're gonna lead." Putting up appearances, maybe, but Nah would be the last person to make a scene by getting emotional.
Morgan's smile grew, and she placed her hand on Nah's hip. "Nice!"
The pair started to slow dance. It took about five seconds before Morgan stepped on Nah's toes.
Awkwardness seemed to be the theme of the night, at least for some. Cynthia and Inigo had watched Nah's thing go down, and Cynthia was glad to see Emmeryn and Frederick getting along, and she was amused every time she and Inigo made a complete rotation so she could watch Maribelle and Chrom being all cute some more. All this made possible by the constant, ineffable charm between Cynthia and the birthday boy, because that awkwardness seemed not to be rearing its head here.
"There's another one," Inigo murmured, chuckling and nodding over Cynthia's shoulder. "Your sister stepped on Nah's toes again."
Cynthia snickered. "Really? How's she that bad at dancing?"
"We were all beginners once," Inigo replied with a grin.
"Easy for you to say, Mr. Dancing Prodigy," Cynthia scoffed playfully. "If slow dancing was hard, nobody would do it. Even a beginner doesn't mess up that much!"
Inigo just shrugged, still smiling. "People have different talents in different places."
"Heheh. I guess."
They danced quietly for a moment. Both wore small grins. Breaking the trend so far, the two were able to maintain casual eye contact the whole time.
Brady played a soft bridge.
Cynthia opened her mouth to speak, but she hesitated to collect her words. Inigo tilted his head with interest.
"How's your, uh, your little problem been?" Cynthia asked.
Inigo furrowed his eyebrows, smiling wider and shaking his head. "Which one was that?"
"The other day, when we were in Jugdral," Cynthia said, shrugging slightly to seem relaxed. "Remember? You said you were having girl problems."
"Lack thereof, you mean! Hahaha. Yes, I remember."
"How'd that go?" Cynthia's grin slightly adjusted into a smirk. "Ever get a date from an Einherjar?"
Inigo shook his head. "Nope, though I guess that might be for lack of trying." Matching her smirk, he said, "You see, I've had my eye on someone else recently."
"Oh?" Cynthia said with mock surprise. "Pray tell: who is this mystery lady?"
"Well, let me tell you!"
Inigo grasped her hand and slid his other arm more comfortably around Cynthia's waist—in the process, pulling her closer.
She smiled a little bit. Coyly of course.
Inigo's grin was wide. "You see, I've known this particular girl for a very long time." He leaned in close; she tilted her head to allow him to whisper into her ear, "Truth be told, I've had a crush on her for years."
"Is that right?" Cynthia let Inigo pull away. "A childhood friend, hm? What's she like?"
"Where to start… her beauty, I suppose," Inigo began. "Were I a better musician, I could play a harmony on the subject of her wonderful eyes alone."
"You don't say?"
"I do! And her silken hair, her fair skin…"
Cynthia fluffed one of her pigtails, snickering. "Even when she literally just got back from a fight, hasn't bathed since yesterday, and is still basically wearing her combat gear aside from the steel?"
"Especially then! The look of war suits this beauty." He winked. "Though the girl has no bad look."
Cynthia giggled. Inigo shared in it.
Brady's song began to mount in intensity.
Once collected, Cynthia cleared her throat and gave her date another smile. "While I apprec… while I'm sure she appreciates the compliment, she can't be all looks, can she?"
"Oh, the gall to even suggest such a thing!" Inigo seemed appalled, but then nodded in exaggerated understanding. "Though I suppose I'm the one at fault for your assumption. I am remiss to have forgotten to mention her heroism, her accomplishments, her simply ir-re-sistible cheer…"
The corners of Cynthia's smile wilted. "…I hear she's been a little lacking in that last bit lately."
But Inigo was undeterred. "Ah, so you've heard of this majestic beauty! Have you spoken with her, perhaps?"
"Ahem… Yeah, sure have." Cynthia bobbed her head, thinking on her feet. "She talked about this one guy she had a crush on."
"Oh?"
"Yup. Guy's a shameless flirt. Really a weirdo about that sort of thing."
Inigo's smile seemed a little more forced. "A-Anything positive to say, pray tell?"
"Well…" Cynthia brushed her thumb along Inigo's hand. "…The guy was weird, no doubt, but… he was a nice guy, y'know? Hopeless romantic. And, and he could put his money where his mouth is. He's reliable, and funny… sometimes intentionally funny, even."
Inigo nudged her. "Is this gentleman handsome, perhaps?"
"Eh…" Cynthia scanned her eyes up and down Inigo. "…He could use a bath…"
"Oh, stop it," Inigo whispered with a grin. "Maybe we should just be honest with each other, hm? Enough of this dancing around." He hesitated, looking around. "Uh, the metaphorical dancing, of course. The literal is quite pleasant."
"Yeah." Cynthia paused. "So… honesty?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
Inigo took a breath and smiled again. "Well, I'll start. So, that girl I had a crush on? Totally Noire. Mind if I ask her out?"
"Definitely, since I was talking about Gerome."
They both laughed. Cynthia pressed her head into Inigo's chest to stifle her giggles; Inigo placed his chin atop her head.
Cynthia's laughter ended with a content sigh. She and Inigo swayed together, intimately, much more intimately than before. Inigo was the first to break this warm silence.
"So… what, then?" he murmured into her hair. She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm pretty sure I haven't gotten this far before. What happens next?"
"Sh." She'd removed her hand from his shoulder to cover his lips, as she pulled back. "Just… wait."
"Wait…?" Inigo mouthed, though he did indeed wait.
Cynthia was meeting his eye. He figured he ought to reciprocate.
Her hand was back on his shoulder, gripping tighter than before. Not a painful tight, just an anxious one. One that shot tingles up his spine, for sure.
Inigo noticed, when Cynthia took a breath, that she shivered slightly.
Oh man. Oh man, is this it? This feels like it's it. What're we waiting on?
He didn't really have much to do, though. He was looking into her eyes, dancing, waiting. It took a moment to realize what she was actually waiting on—the only other thing happening—Brady's song.
The song was still mounting, up and up. It resonated throughout the room.
The rest began to disappear. The conversations, the footsteps, the breathing—the background noise faded away, leaving just the music.
Cynthia pulled a little closer, her eyes flitting downward for an instant.
This REALLY feels like it's it.
Inigo leaned in as well.
His nose brushed against hers. Cynthia pulled back for a second, then moved in to touch noses again.
Inigo almost felt her lips. There: there, they touched again, but barely. She was uncertain, maybe—savoring the moment, also maybe.
Of course it couldn't stay like that. Inigo and Cynthia hadn't come this far for hints and maybes. They had held onto this for longer than just the past few days.
The violin, the song they had been dancing to all this time, picked up. At long last—very, very long last—they hit the crescendo.
Cynthia and Inigo finally met each other in the middle. Their lips pushed together intensely, meeting again and again.
Cynthia dropped his hand, moving both of hers to the back of his head. While he put his hands firmly on her hips, she grasped gentle fistfuls of his hair to pull him in. All pretenses of dance were gone.
"H… hap…" She pulled away briefly, meeting his gaze once again with wide eyes. "H-Happy birthday…"
Inigo shushed her with another hungry kiss.
They were stuck that way, as intense as the crescendo they kissed to.
However—to Inigo's eternal disappointment—they both relearned the lesson that even the best part of a song has to fade sometime.
The music faded out naturally and slowly, maintaining the tempo while subtly draining away the intensity… very unlike the two lovebirds in the present, who cut off the kiss quite suddenly.
Cynthia pulled away harshly, as if awakening, and her grip on his hair relaxed. When Inigo had his bearings back, he noticed that she was blinking repeatedly, shaking her head clear.
Inigo brought up a half-smile. "Th-That was…"
"Gods, what am I thinking?!"
It was Inigo's turn to blink, as his smile withered. "What?"
Cynthia seemed… Inigo hated to use the word disgusted in this situation, but it certainly seemed accurate. "Gods! I can't believe I just kissed Inigo!"
Inigo started to get a little hurt. "Hey, that's—"
"With all I know about you?" she continued. "With all the stories you've told me? With all the stories I've heard?" Cynthia shuddered. "Gods, a little flirting was one thing, but this?"
"That's hardly fair," Inigo said, frowning now. "Where is this coming from, anyway? Not five minutes ago you were—"
"Inigo, you're you," Cynthia insisted. "You're—this, this womanizer person, and I fell for it! Ugh, I fell for your stupid charms! What does that make me, huh?"
Inigo started to get… more than a little hurt. "Cynthia…"
Cynthia took an impatient breath, seemingly composing her thoughts in a more tactful way. "…Look. I don't hate you, Inigo, and I never could. We've been friends, like, forever."
Her hands were on his shoulders now, and they resumed dancing normally. Cynthia shot a few furtive glances around, as if hoping that they hadn't been spotted in their moment.
"But it's…" Cynthia sighed. "It's hard to trust you, knowing how you are with girls."
Inigo started to stutter a response, but Cynthia put up her hands: "I know, I know what you're going to say! You'll say I'm different, you'll say…"
She sighed again, this time more exasperated. "It's… it's that I feel like, um… like my feelings, and your feelings, aren't the same. I-I mean, I doubt… that your feelings are as real as mine."
"B-But they are!"
Cynthia rolled her eyes, and she took a breath to prepare.
"My feelings for you, they're—"
Inigo stopped his confession, as Cynthia had said the same words as him.
"Hm?" said Cynthia. "No, you continue."
"Uh…" Though briefly deterred, Inigo summoned his resolve. "Right! My feelings. I feel that—that it was fate! That, all this time, I've been blind, yet—yet—Gods, would you stop that?"
"Hm?" said Cynthia. "Am I bothering you?"
"Wh—yes! Stop saying everything I'm saying while I'm saying it!"
Cynthia pursed her lips. "Then say something original."
Inigo was at a loss, caught in her trap.
"That's somewhere in the middle of the list of your pickup lines," Cynthia stated. "The fate one. If not fate, compare me to roses or something. If that fails, compare my eyes to the moon."
Inigo cursed inwardly. He had had both of those speeches fired up and waiting.
"Inigo, all your professions of love are meaningless," Cynthia said tiredly. "You say them to every girl you meet, and they follow a formula. I would know better than anyone. I'm your wingman."
Cynthia knew this would go one of two ways: Inigo would buckle and apologize, or he would stick with it a while longer. She was curious, though; if he buckled, who would he complain to, if not Cynthia?
Inigo chose the second. "I'll prove it to you somehow," he said. "I understand that you've heard it all before, but if you give me a chance to…"
He trailed off, glaring at Cynthia. She was doing it again.
This time, however, Cynthia wasn't bothered by him stopping. "…a chance to prove myself, you will never regret it, my beautiful rose. Please—let me see your hand!"
Inigo rolled his eyes as Cynthia took one of his hands in both of her own. She inhaled deeply, and smirked.
"Ah—the fantastic scent I expected," Cynthia continued. "Truly, it matches your beauty. Now—please, milady. This aroma—it's perfection incarnate. I could never live without it, now that I've acquired a taste. Please, forget everything I've said before; look into my eyes, and tell me. Do I truly not deserve even a chance?"
They both fell silent, Cynthia looking up into Inigo's eyes.
Cynthia tilted her head. "…Was that what you were going to say?"
Inigo looked away. "…It's… 'now that I've tasted perfection, I could surely never withdraw from it'," he muttered.
Cynthia rolled her eyes and dropped his hand. "Good night, Inigo."
She walked away, away from the dance floor and toward the exit.
Inigo watched her go. A lost feeling creeped through him.
The song slowly petered out, at long last.
"Hey," came a voice from behind. When Inigo turned, he saw Brady on the dais at the other end of the room, his voice carrying across the ballroom—evidently toward Inigo, given where Brady's eyes were.
Brady gestured with his bow, grinning. Everyone's attention was now on the violinist. "I'd like ta dedicate that song to Inigo," he called. "Couldn't getcha an actual gift, given, uh, the circumstances an' whatever, so… hopefully this was good enough. Happy birthday, brother."
All eyes rested now on Inigo, at a time he'd very much rather they weren't. He forced a sheepish grin when much of the ballroom started to approach him, all giving him belated birthday greetings.
Whenever he could, he cast glances toward the door, as if hoping to see her.
She was long gone, of course.
Brady had played another, softer song once the birthday-wishers had left Inigo alone. When that was done, really, so was the night; over the next half-hour or so, most of the Shepherds gradually filtered out, the party winding down.
However, Brady was determined to be the last one out. A few Shepherds remained here and there throughout the room, mostly conversing, but the dance was over. Brady was finally able to relax his bow, and he hunched forward to lean on his violin like a cane. Glistening with sweat, he plucked his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.
He paused when he heard footsteps approaching. Brady acknowledged his sister with a grunt and a curt nod.
Lucina stopped a few paces away, wearing a smile. "I'm proud of you, Brady. I believe the Shepherds really needed something like this."
"Yeah, well." Brady shrugged, looking away. "Glad I could help somehow."
Lucina's smile faltered. "What does that mean?"
Brady scoffed. "Yer proud of me for playin' a song, Luce. It really ain't nothin'."
"I—I didn't mean to degrade your other achievements, Brady, I—"
"I know that." Brady gave her a sideways look. "I ain't sayin' you're the problem. I am."
"What?! Brady—"
But Brady waved away her exclamations, sighing. "Gawds, Lucina, stop bein' so dramatic. It's just that, you an' Pop, yer so important, y'know? Ugh, I heal, I know, healers are important, whatever, I know." He sighed again, more gruffly. "It's just, like, I feel a li'l less significant, y'know? You'll be the one remembered in the history books. I'll just be… Lucina's brother." He looked down at his instrument. "…Glad I could help tonight, at least."
"Brady…" Lucina murmured sadly. "Where did this come from? I never knew you felt this way…"
"Mm." Brady shrugged dismissively. "Didn't come from nowhere. I'm just bein' whiny, I guess." Grunting, he stood, violin and bow in his hands.
It took a moment for Lucina to realize that Brady was muttering something. She hastily tried to catch the words, but it was mostly inaudible; she could only grasp, "…wieldin' the Falchion…"
Lucina shook her head. "What was that, Brady?"
"Nothin'. I said it was nothin'."
That was always a surefire sign of Brady wanting to drop the subject. Though reluctant, Lucina obliged him.
"…Hey."
"Yes, Brady?"
Brady looked at her again. His voice fell to a whisper. "What're we gonna do about… about you-know-what?"
Lucina frowned. "…I don't know, Brady. Father didn't want us to hear that conversation, but we did."
"Why, though?" Brady muttered. "I thought Pa'd tell us as soon as he was outta the medical tent, but…"
"He's keeping it a secret because of Morgan," Lucina replied. "He thinks the information would hurt her."
They both fell quiet, contemplating an obvious—to them—elephant in the room.
"…But why would he think that?" Brady murmured. "Far as he knows, Morgan's strong… she could take news like that. Right?"
"Morgan's in a sensitive place right now, I suppose," Lucina whispered. "With the way she broke down earlier, and her mother returning… maybe he feels that that sort of knowledge would be too much right now." She cast her eyes downward. "Regardless… it's for the best that she doesn't learn."
Brady's eyes similarly turned to the floor. "Same for everyone, really."
"Yes."
They were silent once again.
Ending the silence, Brady hefted his instrument and brushed past Lucina. "Everyone's just about gone. You should think about turnin' in, too. G'night."
"Good night."
Alone in the massive ballroom, Lucina paused for a moment more, pensive. However, it wasn't long before she too exited the empty room, welcome to calling it a night.
The infirmary was almost eerily silent. Chrom had been surprised to learn that this was not actually the same room as before; he had responded with "There's a second infirmary that I didn't know about? Are you kidding me?"
Regardless, he and Maribelle were alone in this identical room to the one Marth was staying in. Near one of the several stark-white beds, Maribelle took Chrom's hands and helped him out of his wheelchair, still wearing the smile she'd been unable to shake since the ballroom. Chrom was riding a similar warm feeling, not letting the sting of his injury defeat his smile once he stood.
But, while Chrom winced, Maribelle's expression suddenly fell into a serious one. She moved around him to push the chair away, then turned back to Chrom. Suddenly, she put her hands on Chrom's shoulders, and firmly (though not roughly) pushed him against the wall.
Her hands fell away. "Remove your shirt."
Chrom's eyebrows furrowed. Though his wife's face seemed serious, he continued to smile slightly, curiously. Curious about her intent, curious about this uncharacteristic forcefulness… but, he obliged anyway.
As was normal of late, Chrom took a while to take the shirt off, but Maribelle was patient. It wasn't too long before Chrom stood half-naked in the candlelight, wearing his same grin.
"Well?" he asked in a whisper. Nobody could've heard him if he'd raised his voice, of course, but the room was so quiet already—and now, with Maribelle's eyes exploring his torso, even the tension seemed fragile enough to cut through with words.
Maribelle gently placed her hands on his pecs, then dragged her fingers down, her eyes following the motion.
Chrom closed his eyes, enjoying the pleasant tingles of her fingernails.
Maribelle's hands stopped around Chrom's waist. Her eyes, similarly, were fixated downwards, simply staring.
"Mari—?" Chrom began, but was cut short when Maribelle fell to her knees. "Whoa, what are you—"
Stinging pains shot through Chrom as Maribelle immediately took to unwrapping his bandages. "M-Maribelle—!"
"Quiet."
The last of the wrappings fell away. Chrom reached for anything to support himself, and placed one hand on the wall, the other wrapping around a bedpost. It was when Maribelle's fingers began to pry around his wound that he realized he'd entirely misread this situation.
He was too winded to fight Maribelle, instead just trying to weather the excruciating pain. Her fingers were not being kind to the injury, ungently poking and prying; he even felt blood trickling down his hip.
It took a while, but when she finally released him from this torture, he slid down the bedpost to his knees, still holding onto it for support. He gasped for breath, feeling sweat coating his body.
Maribelle stood over him, silently analyzing something between her fingers.
"M…" Chrom began breathlessly; slowly, he pulled himself up the bedpost, back to his feet. His mood was thoroughly killed. "M-Maribelle… why…?"
"It's as I suspected." Maribelle showed Chrom whatever it was that she found so important.
Chrom squinted; dim candlelight reflected off of the red metal in Maribelle's hand. "Is that…?"
"A lingering fragment of Siegmund, yes. The blade was already damaged when you were stabbed, and it seems that some of it was left behind inside your hip."
"It's so big…!"
"Indeed."
As Maribelle turned away and placed the shard atop a bedside table, Chrom lifted himself onto the bed. He rubbed his face, moaning exhaustedly.
Maribelle picked up a rag from the table and began to wipe her hands. "With that gone now, will you use the Bath Elixir again?"
Chrom waved it away. "No… I don't want to waste it like that. I'll just let it heal naturally… If I stick to that wheelchair and avoid combat, it'll be gone in just a couple of days. Like Emm promised."
Maribelle's head turned in quiet acknowledgement, flicking her golden hair over her shoulder. For an instant, she stared at him with… a neutral expression? Chrom was having trouble reading her.
Another thing he didn't read was her smoothly striding over to him, placing her hands on his shoulders once again, and pushing him back onto the bed. She pinned both of his wrists over his head.
Chrom's eyes were wide with concern. She'd certainly betrayed his expectations last time. But… from this close, he could see her eyes, deep into her eyes. She was…
"You're so reckless," she whispered. "You constantly put yourself in danger… constantly get hurt. You leave me to worry for you."
Her eyes did not leave him, and wouldn't. She wanted him to see this concern, this pent-up worry.
"And it isn't fair," she resumed, her voice soft—to not break the silence, to show her concern, because she could go no louder. "It isn't fair, Chrom, because you and I, we are not equals."
Maribelle had Chrom pinned, and her words were premeditated; it was clear that he wasn't in a position to reply.
"It's absolutely infuriating, Chrom. I cannot argue with you, ever. You—you are the Exalt, beacon of Ylisse. The only wielder of Falchion. You can't not act… every reckless decision, every dangerous choice, you make because you must. So often, I wish to… to chastise you, to argue… to tell you your decision is the wrong one… but I can't."
Her hands tightened on his wrists. Chrom winced at the minor pressure from her fingernails.
"Do you understand, Chrom?" Her voice was a faint breath. "Do you see why? I want to be angry; whenever I see this injury, I want to… to scold you, to tell you that you've brought it on yourself with your rashness… but it isn't my place. It's no one's place, Chrom."
She paused for a moment, still staring into Chrom's softened eyes. "I had to get this off my chest. These—these worries, they've… they've been eating at me for some time. And if I c-cannot argue with you any other time, then… this will satisfy me for now."
In that moment, as Maribelle's hands slunk away, Chrom saw the last few days very clearly. He had joked with Morgan about it all being a dictatorship, but… that was true. Nobody could stop him from participating in the Einherjar War; nobody could talk him out of dueling Eldigan; even when he was nearly crippled from injury or sickness, nobody could stop him from fighting in battle anyway.
His first thought was, That's only logical. He was Exalt, ruler of a nation! Of course this was no democracy. He couldn't be wrestling with others over every decision, or would anything have ever gotten done?
But, for his second thought, he took a step back and looked at the situation. This was war, yes, but this was not marriage. He was Maribelle's superior in rank, in position… they weren't equals, and Maribelle couldn't argue with him. Had she been more vocal in opposing the Einherjar War, would he have simply dismissed her opinions like he did the rest of them?
She had warned him about his injuries, and he had ignored her—because he could.
And he was paying for it now. If he'd let her, she could've found the shard of Siegmund, and he would be back on his feet by now.
Guilt began to rise. He started to understand Maribelle's recent attitude, her coldness… her hostility. It was frustration. Frustration he could still not ease. Chrom had no words to assuage her fears, because she was right about all of it.
Before she could climb off of the bed, he caught her wrist. He had nothing to say, but he looked up at her with somber eyes, and she looked back with the same expression.
He gently tugged at her wrist as an invitation. She gradually accepted, crawling back over him and sliding her hands underneath his back. She rested her head on his bare chest, letting out a quiet breath.
Chrom stroked her hair, staring up into the black ceiling.
"I… I s-still love you," Maribelle murmured, in a quivering voice. "I could never not love you…"
"I love you too, Maribelle. You know that."
The lone candle quietly burned away as the couple rested in that gentle repose.
The eighth of August came to a quiet end.
Next time:
Arc 2 - Quintessence
Chapter 15 – Harvest Scramble