Let it be said that I fucking hate politics, I fucking hate two faced snakes, and I fucking hate having to be play nice. Gods, this is why they invented poison in the first place. Who the hell actually grows up and says "I want to do politics for a living?" The fact that we have to standby and listen to others talk instead of taking action just makes me mad.

Aedan let out a weak moan as he slammed his journal shut. He had to admit, he really really enjoyed the fact that Chrom was not taking him on one of his ridiculous political meet ups. After all, he was a hired mercenary. The only reason he got involved at Regna Ferox was because he knew a thing or two about the country, and the Prince couldn't just man up and yell. But Plegia? Fuck no. That place could go shove its own boot up its own ass.

So when the Shepherds arrived back at Ylisstol, only to get sent on another political clusterfuck, Aedan may have swore enough to make a sailor blush. They were supposed to be celebrating godsdammit. They had secured an alliance with Regna Ferox! They had created, hopefully, a bond that would last through the ages! And now, they were going to be sent to bumfuck nowhere so they could fight off some Plegians.

Honestly, Aedan wanted to deal with normal mercenary things. Kill bandits, protect caravans, occasionally spend too much money at the local taverns; that was all he wanted. But instead, he was fighting zombies and solving political problems. In fact, the only reason he got involved back in Ferox was because Chrom was too much of a puss to actually do it himself. Clearly, this was not in the job description. Hell, he hadn't had to deal with this crap when he was a general. No, he got his orders from the emperor, and he went and did them. Politics? Easily solved when one side mysteriously disappeared. All he had to do was walk over, pick up the pieces, and present them to other people to handle. Zombies? Well, there weren't any. The closest to a zombie Aedan had dealt with was a far too hungover staff officer trying to brief him.

Their orders were much easier said than done. There had been a few border skirmishes between Ylissean and Plegian forces. The unfortunate victim was one Maribelle, a member of the Shepherds, and daughter of a Ylissean noble. According to reports, she had been taken for ransom after one of the battles, taken when she rode out to try and help the wounded. Thus, the Shepherds were sent to go resolve the situation. Preferably peacefully.

And Prince Chrom, gods bless him, had decided to not take Aedan along, preferring a smaller group of Shepherds with more... tact.

Besides, Aedan probably would have just told the Plegians to kill themselves, stroll over to the kidnapped Maribelle and simply kidnap her back. Preferably bound and gagged because he couldn't stand Maribelle and her haughty demeanor.

But that was another matter.

Aedan reached for his flask. Aedan could feel it. The tension in the air was overwhelming. He could practically taste the anxiety.

War was coming.

And for Ylisse, that was not a good thing.

Aedan had lived on the continent long enough to know that Ylisse was the weakest militarily of the sovereign nations. Compared to her neighbors, Ylisse was the crippled old man of the group. Regna Ferox lived for war and battle, and their brief visit to the Feroxi arena only confirmed that. If they really wanted to, Regna Ferox could probably order every able bodied man or woman over the age of fifteen onto the battlefield, and all of them would be able warriors. Plegia, on the other hand, was an incredibly populous nation. Perhaps their military wasn't the most well trained, but by the gods, it was the largest. Not to mention, Plegia had elder mages, as they worshipped a fucking demon, and those guys were terrifying.

Compared to them, Ylisse was lacking. Admittedly, Ylisse was a breadbasket, and the economic capital of the continent. But she lacked military strength. Much of the fighting forces of Ylisse were militias, quickly conscripted from the townsfolk to defend themselves from bandit raids. Against trained force, they would break quickly. Exposed to the horrors of demon magic, they would rout. Fighting a troop of wyverns would result in nothing but dead peasants.

Those that were trained were elite, Aedan had seen them after all. They were disciplined, extremely well trained and armed, and they were, perhaps most importantly, proud of being Ylisse's finest. But there were, what, maybe five thousand? Six thousand? A solid number if they were deployed as perhaps a shock unit in the middle of a battle, but they weren't. Those numbers barely scratched the possible million that Plegia could simply vomit.

Even the combined force of Regna Ferox and Ylisse couldn't match that number. Even with conscripts, they could probably manage 3/4ths of that number. And that would destroy their homefront. Who would harvest the grain? Forge new blades? Fletch the arrows? Plegia had a million man host that they supplied regularly. That implied that they had the supplies, the logistics, to arm and feed over a million people without forcing people to participate in military activities. Aedan wasn't sure to be impressed or terrified.

And hell, Plegia had a navy. An actual navy, not the pathetic collection of ships that Ylisse called a navy. One with massive ships of the line, capable of engaging any other ship and bombing the living hell out of the other without barely a scratch on itself.

Aedan frowned, and took a deep swig from his flask.

Gods, what would he do if a war erupted? What could he do? Of course the Prince would like to keep him. It was a war after all, and mercenaries certainly made money during war. Besides, if he had done anything in his time by the Prince's side, it was prove that he was a good mercenary. But gods, Aedan did not want to be involved. What was the point? To fight and die for a prince he barely knew? He had known the man for, what, two months at most? Ylisse didn't stand a chance. Even with the backing of Regna Ferox, Ylisse would need miracles on the battlefield to retain her sovereignty. And hell, even if they did, there would be countless villages razed, acres of fields burned, and thousands of lives lost. Ylisse would never be the same. The capital, the city that was so tranquil and bright, would turn into a pile of ashes by war's end.

Aedan felt a small pang of sadness drift over. He took another drink. He didn't need this. Not now.

You're getting soft. Affection for a city you barely even stayed in. What would father think?

He shook his head. Perhaps a walk around the camp would clear his mind. After all, he had cooped himself inside of his tent since daybreak. The Prince had ordered only a few men, a small delegation and a small unit of Royal Guardsmen, to accompany him. He, along with his older sister, were to meet with the Plegian king, who had deigned the border skirmish worth his while. The rest of the men, the Shepherds, along with an entire battalion of Ylissean soldiers, and a company of Pegasus Knights were camped outside the surrounding villages, just near enough to provide a quick reaction force if things went south.

Aedan didn't want to think about what would happen if things went south.

They were prepared for it though. That was why they took nearly 1500 trained men to a simple negotiation. That was why each of those 1500 men were the best soldiers Ylisse could train. That was why they were armed to the teeth, with more weapons and material than a normal battalion should have.

Aedan let out a loud groan. "Fuck it," he muttered, and took to his feet, intent on leaving the confines of his tent. Maybe lunch was a good idea?

The sun shined brightly today, without a single cloud in the sky to block it. Birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and a sweet breeze rolled across the plains.

Lovely day for war.

Aedan strolled through the camp, making his way to the mess tent. It felt… odd, perhaps. As if everyone were too happy and too carefree to be soldiers. As if they didn't know what was going to happen in the future. Laughter rung out like chimes. People darted around, goofing off and acting like idiots. And while the camp sentries stood there, stone faced and hawk eyed, the minute they were off duty, it was off to go drink and play.

It felt wrong. So very wrong. Perhaps Aedan was simply too used to the camps that he had always been in. Everything quiet, and far too serious. But that was the Oslian way.

The Oslian way was to sleep with a dagger in your hand, and your back against the wall.

The Ylissean way was to sleep without a care in the world.

He frowned. Yes, they were too carefree. What if an attack happened right now? If the Plegians ambushed them from behind? Were they so trusting in their sentries to alert them? If the Plegians attacked with Elder magic, they could lay waste to the camp from kilometers away, while entrenched and well protected, further than anything the Ylisseans could throw at them. And what if they were to strike with fast moving cavalry? They could probably raid the camp, set fire to the supply caravans and move on without taking too many losses. And wyverns? They were even faster than horses, tougher than steel, and more ferocious than a cornered bear. An aerial attack would probably decimate their forces. A blow like that would not only kill off quite a few men, it would shock them, and absolutely murder their morale.

"Fuck," Aedan muttered. He was getting stressed out just thinking about this. Perhaps it was simply force of habit that made him so twitchy. His camps would never be so...lacking.

A few minutes of wandering got him to the mess tent. It was a massive tent, olive drab and boring, but easily the most sought out tent for the food within. Laughter and shouting exploded from inside, filled with the clanking of spoons against bowls. A small part of Aedan wanted to turn around and walk away. He was not in the mood for everyone's loud and obnoxious shit. He wanted some shitty field rations to go.

That apparently wasn't going to happen. As he stepped into the mess line, he looked forward, feeling slightly eager to get food into his belly. What he saw was not like what he was used to.

What in the fuck.

Aedan stared at a soldier's plate. That wasn't a hard biscuit. And those certainly weren't field dried jerky strips.

Buh?

Was that something… green?

"What the shit," he muttered to himself as the cook in front of him lopped a pile of… no rather, the cook in front of him spooned a ladle full of hot soup into a bowl and placed it onto his bowl. Placed it, rather than dropped it unceremoniously. Another cook arranged for a plate with a fucking sandwich on it onto his tray as well.

Aedan looked at the food as if it were alive.

The food bothered him. What the hell? Was this supposed to keep? Fresh vegetables? What the hell was this? It wasn't salted? Or pickled? Or dried? What the hell? And the meat? Looked like it was just made.

It was a simple lunch, quick and easy to prepare. A lovely looking little sandwich with meats and cheeses and fresh fucking vegetables, and a quaint looking bowl of soup.

What.

Where the hell were the hard biscuits? Where were the dried meats? This shit would rot in days.

Aedan shook his head. Fuck it, he was hungry, and he wouldn't complain about this. No soldier would complain about good food being served. Perhaps the cooks had a few extra boxes of fresh supplies or something. Maybe they found a town nearby and managed to procure some vegetables. Still, Aedan felt wrong. Maybe he'd have to talk to Chrom or something when he got back.

"What the shit," he said again, leaving the line and looking through the tent for an empty seat.

They were practically at war and they were chowing down on good food... They weren't at a fort, nor were they remotely close to any garrison. He didn't understand.

"Gods."

Aedan took a seat towards the back of the tent. Even he was surprised when he found a table near the corner without anyone sitting in it.

Still, not wanting to tempt fate and have someone he hated immediately slide over and try to talk to him, he jumped down on to the table, and started to pick at his food.

And of course, the minute he sat down, someone else decided that he needed a friend. Another man, tray full of food, walked over and plopped himself in the seat in front of Aedan. Aedan barely lifted his head to see who it was, but the shaggy black hair, the rather unique style of dress, and the pair of swords that hung by his waist told him all he needed to know

That was the man Khan Basilio sent with them. Lon'qu, a swordmaster from Chon'sin, and the guy who made Aedan look like a total dumbass during the duel in the arena. Aedan was still confused as to how he had managed to survive a fireball to the back, but he looked as if he hadn't even been burnt at all. Maybe the healers were just really damn good.

He nodded at Aedan.

Aedan nodded back.

Even if he had only known the man for maybe a week, Aedan rather liked Lon'qu, if only because he kept to himself. The man was reserved and quiet, something that Aedan appreciated compared to the massive cast of extraverts that populated the Shepherds. He didn't shove his nose into anyone's business besides his own. Simply put, he kept to himself and didn't annoy people. That alone was good enough for Aedan.

Lunch continued in silence, or at least, as much silence as there could be when they were in a mess tent filled with people who were, and this completely baffled Aedan, drunk. At fucking mid day. Ridiculous.

Another person decided to take a seat at the unpopular kids table.

Oh I see how it is. The minute I sit somewhere they swarm to me. Should I feel complimented?

Short silver hair, pinned up perfectly in a high bun. Professional, dignified air. Head carried high, almost as if she were a haughty noble looking down upon her servants. Armor, nicked and scratched with years of use, looked as shiny as the stars at night. By her side was a jeweled sword, more for formalities sake than actual combative use, and across her back hung a quiver, not of arrows, but of short spears designed for throwing.

Phila, Wing Commander of the Pegasus Knights of Ylisse.

Almost hilariously carrying a tray of food. Aedan suppressed a giggle as he saw her. Sure, she was human like everyone else, and she needed food just as much as anyone else. But still, she was too serious all the time, so much so that Aedan was pretty sure she was just an automaton or something. So when he saw the woman carrying a plate of food and looking around like a the new child at the academy, he couldn't help but feel amused.

"Wing-Commander," Aedan greeted with a slight nod.

A nod was her response. "Aedan, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, before taking another bite out of the sandwich. Turkey.

"Please. We're both off duty. For now, I am just Phila. No rank at the mess table." She took one of her hair pins out, and let her silver hair cascade down her shoulders.

Do you want to promote fraternization? Because that's exactly how you get fraternization.

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated anyway. Phila gave him a look, but a smile lit her face.

"So, Aedan and…" she paused for a second as she racked her brain. "Lon'qu? Tell me about yourselves. Where are you from, Aedan? You have a bit of an accent, but I can't place it."

Aedan made a face. That wasn't the question he wanted to hear, especially coming from the Wing-Commander. It certainly brought to mind many… concerns he had with the woman. Yes, he knew that the Pegasus Knights were elite warriors, disciplined and tough, but what if the woman in charge were weak? If she were afraid of sending her soldiers to die? Aedan swallowed a gob of spit that settled in his mouth.

"With respect, ma'am, but why?"

"I make it a point to know all my soldiers," she said. "Does it seem so strange that I am concerned about my subordinates? They should be healthy and cared for. It is only right."

There's where you're wrong. Makes them people, more than expendable tools to throw en masse.

Aedan didn't acknowledge that Phila was right on the "healthy" part, but he certainly didn't say that, and he certainly didn't say what he thought. Instead, he said, "overseas. From far off. In Valm. Parents were soldiers there." It wasn't a lie, per say, but it was certainly far from the truth.

Phila tilted her head. "From the other continent? Valm? Quite a far distance from home. The last I heard the continent was in a terrible war."

There isn't war anymore. Black banners hang over every country from Chon'Sin to Oslia. The invader has won.

Aedan made an affirmative noise.

"Will you tell me of your home?" she asked, daintily putting taking a spoonful of her soup.

No.

"Not much to say. Grew up in a small home in the inner city. Parents were soldiers. Served a few years before having me," he said. It wasn't untrue. He felt like he was going to be thinking that a lot in this conversation. After all, his home was fairly small for a major household. There were plenty of nobles with estates far more opulent than his. His parents were soldiers, and he certainly did grow up in the inner city. It was just that his father was a General and he lived in the capital.

"So you must have learned swordplay from them? From what I hear, you are quite the swordsman."

Can we not have a conversation?

Aedan hummed, doing his best to not be the center of conversation. "Not nearly as good as Lon'qu over there. Nor Robin or the Prince."

Lon'qu glared at him and silently gave him the look of "why in the name of sweet fuck are you dragging me into this conversation?"

"Ah, but not many are as skilled as the Prince," Phila said with a warm smile. "And the lady tactician is quite skilled herself. Although, I must wonder how you are with the blade," she said tilting her head to Lon'qu. "I have truthfully never seen a swordmaster in combat."

Lon'qu shirked away. "I am good with the blade," he said, as if he were cornered by a man eating monster. Aedan looked on with some amusement, as Lon'qu quickly grabbed his tray. "Excuse me, I am done," the swordmaster said hastily, eager to leave the conversation.

Scared? Of authority? Or of women?

"See ya," Aedan mumbled under his breath. "Asshole, leaving me to deal with this." He was glad that the mess tent was so loud, because then no one would be able to hear him curse Lon'qu to hell and back.

Phila said her goodbyes as well before turning her attention back to Aedan. "Although, you never did answer. Your swordsmanship, you must have learned from your parents?"

You could say that. Learn isn't quite the right word though. Survive might be better.

"I suppose," he replied slowly. "My father taught me a bit when I was a boy."

Well. More like beat the lessons into me.

Aedan paused, but then continued. "I learned most of it through my travels." Through campaigns, sure. Death is the best motivator.

"Travels? Then you have been far?" Phila laughed, an elegant and graceful one, "Of course you have. Please, where have you been?"

Fucking hell, is fifty questions over yet?

"Too many to list, I'm afraid."

"You must certainly have a few of note."

"Perhaps."

Phila frowned, and then sighed deeply. "Sometimes, I wonder what the Prince sees in you. He calls you his friend, you know."

"Probably my caustic wit and personable charm," Aedan muttered sarcastically, dunking the last bits of his sandwich into the soup. Although that was rather interesting to note. Aedan for sure wouldn't be his own friend. He was an asshole.

"I'm sorry?" the Wing Commander asked.

"Nothing, ma'am, just mumbling to myself," he replied quickly. Then, grabbing his tray, he stood up. "It was a lovely lunch, but I must be leaving."

A deep rumbling shook the earth. The noise died immediately.

Aedan turned, faster than ever, his eyes darting toward the entrance to the tent. Whatever was left of lunch was forgotten. He dropped his tray with an unceremonious thunk!

He knew that sound. Urgent drumming and horn blasts ringing in the distance. It was a sound that his ears had heard all too many times.

"Shit," Aedan mumbled. He nearly sprinted out of the tent, his body carried by his instincts.

The camp perimeter, that's where he needed to get. If what he thought was coming, there would be a messenger, anything, racing back to friendly lines with the word.

He pushed and shoved his way through the camp, carving a path through the crowd of people that wandered out to figure out what the noise was.

It's coming.

There, in the distance. A single pegasus rider flying as fast as her steed could take her.

Sumia.

She descended from the skies, her knuckles white from clenching her lance. Dirt and mud stained her face. Blood drenched her pegasus's groomed white mane. Aedan's heart hammered in his ears.

Sumia screamed frantically as she approached the camp. "Healer! I need a healer!"

Behind her laid Robin, bloodied and unconscious, one hand gripping the stump of what used to be an arm in a vice grip.

Shit.

"Healer!" Sumia shouted again. Her Pegasus landed awkwardly onto the ground before collapsing under the weight of the two riders. Aedan sprinted over.

Sumia jumped off and dragged Robin off of her Pegasus, plopping her down on the ground. "Healer!"

Two medics ran over, bandages in hand.

Then came Aedan. He went straight for Sumia.

"Sumia! What happened?!"

She didn't answer. Too busy sobbing.

"Sumia, dammit!"

Sumia shook uncontrollably.

Aedan grabbed her shoulders. "Sumia, godsdammit, look at me."

She shook, breath coming out erratically, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Sumia," he said, sterner. "What happened."

Sumia took a few deep breaths. Tears poured down her cheeks. Lips quivered. Hair, damp with blood, matted against her forehead.

Finally, she managed to speak.

"Maribelle is dead."

"We're going to war."

Let's pretend this was a good chapter and call it a day.

Read, review, do whatever.