9. War

Frederick knew his wife had been restless. She loved their life, it seemed, and all their habits, but he knew it was too easy for her. She needed more difficult patterns, more duties, greater challenges (greater even than raising a child, which she took to like a professional, which only made him fall even more deeply in love with her).

So he challenged her to a spar one morning, before the new recruits, to show them what they should aspire to. He was comfortable enough with his own skills, but it was really Cordelia that he wanted to show off. She had such an easy grace in battle, such a ferocity. "Genius", they'd called her, and while she hated the name, Frederick knew it described her well. The new soldiers should be able to see it, and know what they had to work toward.

So now he faced her in the ring, spread his feet, tipped the lance he held up to the most defensive position. "Are you ready?"

"Whenever you are, dear," she said. The squires nudged each other but Frederick only smiled. She looked so slight on foot, without her pegasus, but he knew better than to underestimate her.

Sure enough, she struck first, and he felt adrenaline kick in almost immediately as he blocked. It was easy to pretend that he was fighting a real war again, when he fought Cordelia, because no one else could give him such a challenge.

He'd fought for victory for so long, with her, and her spear was nothing compared to her heart. How long had it been since his proposal? Five years, three months, and twenty-nine days. And still she did not love him.

He thrust at her next; she knocked the tip of his lance aside easily.

Their son was two, now. A beautiful boy with his mother's eyes and hair the same shade as his and Severa's. He took a long time to start speaking a toddler's small sentences, but finally did so with clarity and correctness—no baby talk for his child. Lately he'd taken to grabbing sticks off the ground and trying to fight the chickens, which exasperated Cordelia but made Frederick grin. He'd been right to introduce him to swordplay early.

He pushed her back and struck high, but she dipped and countered low. They both missed, just barely. They parted. Circled.

Keeping himself calm, as a father, had been a challenge. As an infant, his son could barely hiccup without Frederick running to his side in worry. Cordelia often had to remind him that he'd stifled Chrom, Lissa, and Severa by turns, and that he should relax before he made the same mistakes. He tried to listen. Eventually hiccups and sneezes and gurgles passed with only a stiffening on his part, although once the boy learned to walk all the panic returned at once. And crying was something he could never tolerate. While Cordelia was usually a little tougher on him, to teach him to use his new words instead of wailing, Frederick was always quick to pick him up. Severa, the first child, had lived through a time of unimaginable suffering, and he couldn't stand the thought of this second child suffering at all, not even from a simple bump to the head from waddling into the kitchen table.

He landed the first hit, which skidded off her epaulet with a loud ring. Some of the recruits cheered for him. She didn't even flinch, but struck his lance out of the way and surged forward, and he only dodged just in time.

They'd struggled with naming their son. Frederick had always assumed he'd name his first son after his Exalt, out of respect for him—and love for him, for he had not seen Chrom since the war, and sometimes missed his charge fiercely. But Cordelia had shaken her head and insisted that Chrom was absent from their relationship, and she intended to keep it that way. She suggested they name their child after Frederick's father. And he kissed her then, really kissed her, as he hadn't been able to for months, since they'd been so tired from caring for the baby.

Soon they were locked in a long combination of parries and ripostes, both of them refusing to give ground, until sweat ran into his eyes and her face was red.

In the mornings, before Cordelia woke, he'd taken to touching her face. She had such sharp, beautiful features, and seeing them on Severa hadn't been quite the same as seeing the same ones rounded on their son, the child they'd made together, and knowing he'd grow to look more and more like her. He would brush the tip of his finger over the bridge of her nose, her high cheekbones, her brow and jaw and thin lips and the rim of her ear. And then she would smile and stir and mumble gibberish. Sometimes he heard his name.

"Ha!" she cried, breaking his thoughts, and he realized he'd become distracted as the shaft of her lance came cracking down. He blocked it with his and shoved her away, but didn't manage to throw her off-balance. She came at him again with another cry. He jabbed for her head and she ducked under it, earning gasps from the crowd that had gathered while she rolled forward and came up under his defences, her point landing just under his chin while she knelt before him. In a real battle, it would have gone right up to his brain.

He cast down his lance in defeat and took a step back before anybody mentioned how close they'd gotten. It took him a moment to realize it, since he'd become so accustomed to having her that close—lying against his side at night, curling her arm through his when they stood side by side.

When had that started happening, he wondered, as Cordelia bashfully tried to wave off the cheers that the recruits were throwing at her.

"That's how it's done," he told them. "Now back to work!"

"Sir!" they chorused.

"Thank you," said Cordelia softly once the crowd had dispersed. "I really enjoyed that—giving something my all, once again."

"You certainly haven't become rusty," he said with a smile. "If you prefer, we could do this more often. In the mornings before I leave, perhaps."

"If our son doesn't run out of the house and decide to join in."

"Well, someday he must."

"I should go home to him," she said, and he nodded. They had a couple of servants to help keep the fief in order, and they could look after the child for a little while, but truthfully Cordelia was no better than he was about getting nervous, and preferred to be at the boy's side whenever she could. He kissed her face before she left, and ignored the "ooh"-ing of the younger recruits.

"Sir?" one of them asked timidly once she was gone, breaking the drill he was conducting with his partner. "Did you let her win?"

"What?" Frederick was affronted. "I would never. It's an insult. Cordelia earned that victory with her talent; nothing more."

"I just don't understand, sir."

"What is there to understand?"

The recruit couldn't say. His partner finally ventured, "Where did you find the courage for it? Are you not emasculated, losing to your own wife?"

Frederick's reaction surprised even himself: he laughed.

"That's it," said the first recruit glumly to his friend, "we've finally stressed him to the breaking point. He's gone mad."

"I've done no such thing," he said when he could speak again. "You boys simply don't understand, yet. Pray you find such a woman to marry, yourselves! One who is strong, and who will always be honest with you."

"But don't you need to be stronger than her to protect her, sir?" the second asked. "You're her husband, sir."

"That isn't how our marriage works," he answered. "We each protect each other, for neither of us is perfect."

A "cuckold and a bitch", Severa had once described them. Now it was different. Now their flaws balanced out: her insecurities made him feel better about his own anxieties, his quirks made her feel more normal, his stifling loyalty told her she was loved while her reckless selflessness told him—

"I guess it's easier to lose to a woman when she loves you, huh, Commander Frederick?"

For a second, he was unsure of how to reply. And when he found the words, they had nothing to do with Cordelia.

"I'm sure Sir Sully would have a good response for you. You have a choice between ten laps while thinking about what you just said, or repeating it to her."

The boys took off running immediately.

He neglected watching them to look at Cordelia, now just a speck in the sky, flying toward their fief.

Is it easier? he wondered. Don't you love me yet, in some small way?

It felt like it, sometimes. It truly did. But for years, he'd fought this war, and for the first time, it crossed his mind that despite the peace, despite Grima's death, he might have lost. It hurt his pride much worse than a silly spar.

"Commander Frederick!"

He turned to find Stahl jogging toward him, smiling as usual.

"Stahl," he said back. "I was just threatening some recruits with your wife."

"Oh, good," he said. "She was saying that they seem to get more and more spoiled every year. I guess that's the price to pay for winning the war, so they can grow up with plenty!" As if to directly contradict this, his stomach rumbled. "Anyway, I have a message for you, from Cordelia."

"What?" He looked toward the speck again, but it was gone. "But she was just here."

"Yeah, but I ran into her as she was leaving. She told me she forgot to tell you something: don't be late, tonight, because she's making your favourite dinner."

"Oh," he said, pleasantly surprised. "That's kind of her. Did she say why?"

"Well," said Stahl with an odd laugh, "not really. She looked back at you though, when she said it, so you know what that means!"

Frederick didn't. "I don't understand."

"Sure you do—that softness to the eyes that people get when they're in love?"

"I know you read people well, Stahl," he said, trying not to snort his disillusionment, "but perhaps you read a bit too far, sometimes." He'd certainly never seen such a look.

"Perhaps, Commander," the knight agreed right away. Too easily. Frederick realized Stahl was just letting him win this one—maybe realizing it was a subject that Frederick didn't want broached.

"Well, thank you," he said, pleasantly. "Tell Sully that I said hello."

Stahl promised to and left with another bright smile. Frederick folded his arms and watched the spot where his wife had been, wondering.

Author's Note: Frederick the Wary, Frederick the Merciful, Frederick the WOMEN'S RIGHTS PROPONENT. Also, I'm making Sully a "Sir" since in her supports she's so adamant about earning that title (which would be handed down in her family regardless of actual knighthood, which she hates). "Lady" isn't quite the same since you don't have to do any martial training to be a lady (Maribelle would not agree, but Parasol Fu is a whole 'nother story). Also also, I was super hesitant to give their kid a name, so that's why we have all this "the boy/the child/the etc." nonsense. Sorry about that.

Just one more chapter left! It feels so crazy.