Hilda is still swinging and parrying blows with the Freikugel-wielding commander when she notices the swamp water begin to disappear, as though becoming dried out in a drought. Although surprised, she has to make sure she doesn't get too distracted or else she's pretty sure this guy will take her head off. They've already torn gashes into each other's arms, bloodying her sleeves, and despite the fact they're pretty much blow to blow right now, she's certain that any wrong move and she'd be dead.
Still, she chooses to jump off her wyvern for just a moment, foregoing the despair of her boots getting wet and dirty in the remnants of swamp mud, and continues to swing. All the while, she chooses to shout out to the Alliance and Kingdom soldiers alike behind her: "The swampland's cleared!"
Her final swing cuts through the commander, from the crook of his neck down to his sternum.
Lilia swoops by on Echo, Ascalon tearing through jet-black armour. The speed of her pegasi adds to the force of the Fimbulvetr spell, and she manages to knock the foe off his horse and onto the muddied earth below— directly into Dimitri's path. With Hilda's voice resounding out that it was safe to cross, their soldiers have been crossing the remnants of swampland to cut down enemies, both ancient and Agarthan alike.
The enemy commander shows no signs of being physically in pain, in spite of the frost and ice crawling up half his body. Instead, he casts another bolt of lightning, like the goddess' arrows of judgement, directly at her. She dodges one, but the second manages to clip her shoulder. She hisses at the aftershock, the static thrumming through her skin. Despite the concern she sees in Dimitri's good eye, she shakes her head; she can be tended to later, for now they must take out this commander.
Dimitri seems to understand what she means, as he's quick to rush forward, Areadbhar in hand glowing with a grim energy as he swings down on the foe. The sheer strength of the blow caves in the enemy's armour, and the reddish glow glints off his empty blue eyes, right up until they glaze over in death.
She lands Echo and jumps off, avoiding the corpse with even her gaze. The man is likely long deceased, a walking corpse like those in the ghost tales older girls whispered at the church orphanage when she was little, but she never enjoys looking at the dead. It's hard to avoid these days, though.
"The battle's not over yet." She says softly, looking to where, across the battlefield, a demonic beast beats its ferocious wings.
Dimitri tears Areadbhar from what could very well be his ancestor, sparing a glance of respect. "Then we fight on."
Lorenz crosses the wastelands atop horseback, Thyrsus in one hand and lance in another.
Initially he was just cutting down foes in order to clear a path, to redeem the great Gloucester name after the embarrassment of his father's actions, but soon one of the enemy commanders falls into his sights— a man, travelling across the muddy field on foot, healing his allies and cutting down Lorenz's own with powerful white magic. What had truly taken his attention was the staff in hand, a near replica for his own.
He scoffs, and raises his chin as he sends a blast of Ragnarok. It hits close enough to the Bishop that the debris deals damage as well, drawing the foe's attention to himself; just as he'd wanted.
"The truth of what you lot, or at the very least, what the real Ten Elites have done will no doubt shake the people's faith in the noble houses," He aims another blast. "So we must defeat you here and now, to show them that we are not beheld by our ancestor's actions!"
Catherine huffs a laugh as Thunderbrand crosses blades with another sword of the exact same make. Both swords hook on each other, the branches clanking together, creating bright and vibrant red sparks of lightning. She kicks out with one leg, giving an ample amount of space between herself and this Mortal Savant, keeping a wary eye on the tome on his hip.
"Now, Lysithea!"
The white-haired girl flips open the tome to a page, and begins to cast. The magic circles she creates glow so bright they nearly hurt her eyes, the pattern intricate and incomprehensible to someone like her with no skill in the branch of Reason magic. Still, she knows the spell will be powerful, as when Lysithea snaps her eyes back open, they're almost glowing.
She holds a hand out. "Move away, Catherine!"
A light plunges from the sky, crushing the foe.
Sylvain rests the Lance of Ruin against his shoulder. Already tales of allies facing foes wielding the very same Relics have travelled across the battlefield on the lips of healers and squires, so he's not particularly shocked when a heavily armoured knight swings at him with his own lance. He manages to block it with his own, the blood-red glow of the real lance lighting up the shadows of the enemy's helmet, giving him little glimpses in between the gaps.
He sees the red hair and frowns; if they're fakes, they're damn good ones. And if they're not... Well, he'll just have to cut them down anyway. He's already put his brother to the blade, what's the point in fretting over the blood of his ancestor?
He rears back with the lance, charging up the sparks of red lightning, shooting off several shots of powerful energy at the knight. The blasts create concaves in the foe's armour, but the enemy just powers through, unnatural in every movement. Sylvain grits his teeth as the tip of the foe's lance bites into the skin just beneath his ribcage, painful and sharp. He knows he'll have to find one of the healers after he takes this guy down.
He builds up a Ragnarok in his off-hand.
"Woah!"
Annette just barely manages to dodge a wyvern rider flying past her, swinging a massive magical hammer directly at her. She's lucky she'd been floating with magic at that time, otherwise she's sure with how clumsy she is, she would've tripped and fallen straight into that attack. It's super weird to be attacked by her own family's Relic. The Crusher she wields and the one in this man's hands are different— her Crusher glows, pulsates with ancient and arcane magic, in comparison to the cold silence of his own; matching its wielder.
"I can't lose this fight...!"
Gritting her teeth, she grips Crusher's handle in both hands and swings.
Felix grunts as a lance slices through his sleeve, spilling deep red blood onto the muddied earth below. He adjusts his arm with the Aegis Shield on it, glaring at the Falcon Knight attacking him. Her long, deep navy hair spills from beneath her helmet, her eyes cold and empty as they look at him. He'd rather she look angry— then it wouldn't feel so much like he's facing a familiar corpse.
His Thoron blast clips her pegasi's wing, but she simply forces the beast to power through it. He can't help but grin; this challenge is well worth the blood he sheds. His blade cuts through the rider's steed, trying to get her to land so he can get the most out of this fight. He knows full well what their shared shield does, knows because her next swing is deflected by a magic glow, knows because his next shot of magic doesn't do as much damage as he hopes it to do. It's most definitely exciting, to face someone who's just as fast as he is and has the same Relic at their disposal as he does.
"As fun as this is, I have to win this fight." The second she jumps from her injured pegasus, he begins to swing the Sword of Moralta. It is a battle of blows and blocks, of dodges and glints of magical interference from their twin shields. He wonders if it's because they both have Major Crests, that this battle is so fierce, so evenly matched. It's the sort of battle he longs for, something to really dig his teeth into and enjoy, but he knows he has more important things beyond it.
He kicks at her stomach. "I wouldn't know what to say to my father and brother if I fell here."
He has a role he has to fulfil; not just because it's what they would have wanted for him, but because it's what he wants. Perhaps in another world, he would've just wandered the continent searching for the next foe to test his skills against, but now... now he has to make sure that their deaths weren't in vain, that the future will be better than the now.
His final swing separates her head from her shoulders.
Claude finds himself facing off against an archer on horseback.
He thinks, wryly, that compared to the others, he doesn't look much like his ancestor— though when the man looks up at him soaring through the sky, he vaguely sees a resemblance to his mother and grandfather; in the shape of his blue eyes, and his brown hair. Maybe he sees a little bit of Judith in there too. When he meets those familiar eyes, he can't help but ask:
"Hey... Can you speak?"
The archer just stares at him, deadly silent. Claude wonders, briefly, if he's even going to move; but soon he sees his ancestor reach for his quiver, and he becomes fully aware of the situation. Even if he hadn't seen that motion, the dead glaze in the archer's eyes told him more than any possible words could have.
"Just puppets controlled by Nemesis…" Riegan lets an arrow fly from his own Failnaught, and Claude tugs on the reins to his wyvern in order to move her out of the way. Though the arrow hits, it doesn't get anything vital; clipping against pure white scales. Still, he'd felt the pressure of that arrow as it'd flown past his head and into the distant sky above. "Well, they're the strongest puppets I've ever known."
At his waist is the Sword of Begalta, sister-blade to House Fraldarius' Sword of Moralta, but he's not sure if he should use it. Normally, in a battle with an archer, he knows he should close the distance and take him down in close-combat. He's an archer himself— such a weakness is one he knows well. But call it pride, or maybe he wants to tear down the history of Fodlan with this ancient weapon, but he chooses to notch an arrow himself.
The battle of the sky and the earth begins.
Arrows soar through the air, whistling like summer leaves. They tear through his leather armour, extra punch added to each blow thanks to the way Failnaught's energy wraps around each arrow. He gives as good as he gets, several of his own arrows sticking out through the gaps of his foe's armour. If he's being honest, he can probably dodge a fair number of these; but he worries for the safety of his wyvern if he keeps flying through this sort of danger for much longer.
He aims for the sky above them, and pulls the string taut— without an arrow. Energy builds up between his fingers, and he fires it off into the air. It creates a ball of magic energy, arrows of pure magical energy falling from the heavens like shooting stars. Each blow knocks the enemy back more and more, and he can finally see the perfect shot made for him.
He fires one last arrow, and watches Riegan fall.
When he gets home, Khalid decides he'll light a lamp and lay out some food for his soul.
Lilia dodges a blast of dark magic and the swipe of a flying Demonic Beast's clawed wings. As a flier with high magical resistance, she's mostly serving as a distraction for the long distance mages alongside Ingrid and Constance, so that way their less magically-inclined fighters can get up close to help take down what's left of the Agarthan army that fights alongside Nemesis' ancient soldiers.
It's far easier to deal with these foes now that the generals have been taken care of, as the few archers that are left have been easily picked off by cavalry and infantry, keeping the skies open for their numerous pegasi knights and wyvern riders.
Annette swings Crusher, the magic shooting off of it in waves of powerful spikes, slamming into foes and fizzling off like dust, leaving deep indents and burns in skin and armour. There are few human foes left, leaving only the Demonic Beasts truly in their way, so cutting through what remains of them has become the easiest task, especially for those drained from their fights against the powerful Ten Elites. She fires off an Excalibur between a swing, the blades of wind cutting at the limbs of the nearest beast. Wiping sweat from her brow, she shouts out, "Gosh, is there any end to them?"
Lilia lets out a weak laugh— she hopes. Even if they manage to defeat all the human enemies remaining; which, as she glances down to the earth from her position at the sky, seems nigh, they still have quite a number of Demonic Beasts descending upon the battlefield, and she feels as though they're drawn here by the very energy that Nemesis exudes. Of course, she doubts that's actually the case, but still. It's as though he gives off enough darkness, enough hatred, enough magic, for them to be interested in this place.
Dimitri swings his lance, grimacing. "This is just the last push. We will win."
Even though he too, is tired and injured, the lingers of the wound Edelgard dealt to him still visible in the way he swings Areadbhar, he leads them all on. It's times like this where she can almost feel Rodrigue's pride from the heavens, rushing through her veins alongside her own. She smiles at him, fires off a quick Nosferatu and then readies Ascalon for war. "We can do it!"
Byleth stands across from Nemesis, a muddied field between them. His breath comes out slow, purposeful, just like he was taught a long time ago by his father. It's surprisingly quiet, the sounds of war coming to a close as the final foes draw their last breaths. Even the sound of the remaining beasts feel small, muffled by the distance. Or maybe it's the nerves, this bubbling rage deep in his stomach that he knows doesn't quite belong to him.
He eyes the scars marking the man's body, thick and large and deep, certainly not made by humans or wyverns. He knows, deep down, that those were made by the Nabateans— Sothis' children. And maybe thinking about that helps him connect to that anger inside, helps him become steel.
He pulls the Sword of the Creator from his side, and feels the goddess' power flow from his body into the sword, setting it alight in glowing flames of light. He holds it in front of him, standing at the ready, and watches as Nemesis' eyes— strange, with black sclera and glowing red irises— widen.
"That sword… You bear the Crest of Flames, just as I do." He growls out, lifting his own Sword of the Creator up. Byleth glimpses down at where his blade lacks a Crest Stone; within Nemesis', there are two. It takes him a moment to recognise the Crests, but he soon realises they're that of Timotheos and Noa.
His eyes narrow. How Those Who Slither in the Dark, the Agarthans, obtained those, he's unsure, but he's almost certain it wasn't through moral means.
He takes a sharp breath, and kicks off his back foot. He should strike first— if he gets first blood, then he can try to take the advantage. He's not sure how many times he can use his Divine Pulse again either, so he has to make every hit count. He swings his blade, transforming it into its whip-like state. It soars through the air, aiming to slice through Nemesis' skin.
In spite of him taking the first move, Nemesis catches the whip-sword with his own dark version, his lips curling into a snarling grin. Byleth grits his teeth, and tries to release his sword from the other, yet the two end up in a struggle.
"I do," He decides to finally answer. "But unlike you, who stole it, She gave it to me."
Nemesis growls at that, so Byleth takes the chance. He uses his free hand to draw a magic circle, and casts Bolganone. The fire swirls out from his hand and towards the revenant general, burning hotter than even the sun. It scorches even the earth below, burning away what's left of the grass and drying mud into cracking dirt. It swirls and burns around Nemesis, and at first Byleth believes he's done some damage— but soon he changes his opinion, as he sees the Sword of the Creator cut through the flames. His tongue clicks, but at least he's gotten his own sword free from the clash.
Suddenly, an arrow soars, and pierces through the thick flesh of Nemesis' shoulder. Byleth doesn't bother taking his eye off the enemy; he knows who it is. The sound of Samir, Claude's white-scaled wyvern, soaring high in the air rings in his ears, the powerful strokes of his wings whipping up the air.
"Need some help, friend?"
Claude's voice is familiar, cheeky as ever, though he can hear signs of exhaustion underneath the cheer; this battle, this war, has gone on too long.
The snarl Nemesis gives would terrify weaker men. "You… feeble creature!"
"Ouch," Claude mockingly clutches his chest, as though wounded. "Guess I'll have to show you what this 'feeble creature' can do."
Nemesis seems to be surprised at that, but not fazed. Instead, he smirks. Something in him says something is wrong, Byleth can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, feel a dark weight on his shoulders, as though Sothis herself is grabbing them and screaming in his ear to be careful. In an attempt to get ahead of that, he rushes forward, kicking up dirt and dust beneath his feet.
Their blades clash together, sparks flying off the sharpened bone of their weapons. His first realisation is that Nemesis has the weight and size advantage here, every clash leads to him being pushed back and forced to attack once more from a different angle. He has the advantage of being more nimble, but… It's definitely forcing him to think on his feet.
This back-and-forth continues, only stopping when Nemesis gets a lucky hit in, his mirror blade slashing through Byleth's body. With a quiet gasp, the world pulses around him— and he takes himself a few seconds back. This time, he dodges the blade and a kick that follows, and uses Aura at a close range. With that bright pillar of light magic doing a direct hit, he takes a few steps back and shouts.
"Claude!"
"Got it!"
A flurry of arrows fly, but are knocked away by a snarling Nemesis, waving his sword and baring his teeth like an animal. With a growl, the ancient king tears that very first arrow from his shoulder. "You are a foolish child."
"Tough talk from a guy who's lived too long," The brunette's brows are furrowed, his voice sharp and serious. "Allow me to fix that!"
Nemesis stands there, silent, staring at them both with those eerie eyes. Then, he suddenly swings his shoulder back, and begins using his sword as a whip. The red glow lights the evening air, and Claude pulls his wyvern further up into the air to dodge, while Byleth slides beneath. The second the sword begins to recoil back to its original shape, he moves again to attack, throwing a weak Fire spell and swinging his divine blade.
Unfortunately, it regains shape too fast, and Nemesis is able to block, but he catches the attention long enough for another one of Claude's arrows to fly through from above. The Liberation King swings to knock it down, and the weight of the air coming off it manages to knock Byleth himself several feet away, rolling through the dirt to soften the fall.
"You are all pathetic weaklings!" With a voice like broken glass, sharp and dangerous, Nemesis barks. "You lack the courage to challenge me in lone combat."
Byleth forces himself up. Sparkling, in the corner of his eye, is Failnaught in Claude's hands, charging up a powerful blow. He can see the tension in the man's neck and arms, muscles working to keep the string pulled taut as sparks fly off the magical arrow.
"Yet we have the strength to scale the walls between us, to reach our hands in friendship, so we can open our true hearts to one another!" Yet instead of firing the arrow directly at Nemesis, he sends it high into the air, its glow blending with the red autumn sky. Then, with the ancient revenant's eyes off of him, he jumps from his wyvern's back, and unsheathes his Sword of Begalta. "That's how we win!"
He lets out a war cry, raising the sword high and charging in. With his attack so easily telegraphed, Nemesis easily knocks him out of the way, but as he moves to finish the Riegan duke off, Byleth intercepts. He can feel the Sword of the Creator's power swelling, the deep red glow almost giving off a sparkle, like a deep red aurora.
They ready their blades to clash once more, and just barely, barely— he hears Claude snicker. Then, as the Dark Creator Sword is about to swing down and meet his Sublime Creator Sword, his arm is pierced by Claude's arrow. Taking the advantage, he swings up as hard as he can, slicing through the flesh of both his arm and torso, leaving a thick and deep gouge through the skin and sinew. His blade even clashes against the enemy's sword, shattering it into shards of brittle black metal.
Nemesis lets out a groan of pain as he falls back, wound pouring out a black ichor that turns to ash when it hits the ground. His eyes slowly lose what little light remained, and he can hear the watching soldiers begin to cheer.
Byleth however, simply watches as what remains of Nemesis' army begins to turn to dust, including the man himself. He can't describe what the emotion in his chest is; it's unfamiliar, feeling like victory and sorrow all at once. Maybe Sothis is sad her revenge took this long to achieve.
He sheaths his sword.
He can hear footsteps approaching, but he just continues to stare at the setting sun.
"Future historians will refer to this day as the new dawn of Fódlan," His student, his friend, says with a smile clear in his voice. "Of that, I have no doubt."
Byleth turns, smiling softly. He holds his hand out, words failing, but actions always speaking louder. Claude's eyes are gentle as well, but almost sad, and when he takes his professor's hand, the grip is firm.
"It's up to you now, Teach. As for my path…"
Those eyes turn east, on the setting sun.
Lilia can hear the front lines cheering, and she knows what must've happened.
They've won, she knows it.
Feeling like a heaviness has been lifted from her body, like a fog has been dispelled, she can't help but smile and laugh. The joy is so sudden, so warm and light, that it's almost overwhelming. Finally, finally… they're free, free from the constant spilling of blood, of fear.
"Dimitri!" She cries out, looking down from her perch atop Echo.
The man looks up at her, his single eye glowing— matching her happiness. She can hear her friends and comrades celebrating around them, but her eyes are all on him.
Without even thinking, she slides off her saddle and drops through the air. She trusts him, and doesn't fear the fall. There's nothing safer than knowing he's going to catch her, and when she feels his hands grasp her waist, she only feels comfort.
Placing her hands on his broad shoulders, she grins at him. "I love you!"
"Mm," He hums softly in agreement. "As do I. I love you, Lilia. So very much."
She leans in, and their lips meet.
A rising flame was alight as the flow of time carved a new history for Fódlan. The long reign of the Adrestian Empire finally met its end when the Imperial Capital, the city of Enbarr collapsed, and the ambitions of the Fell King Nemesis were crushed, averting what could have been the greatest crisis in the history of Fódlan.
After five and a half years of war, a new age was set to begin. With Fódlan united as the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, Archbishop Rhea, still weak from her imprisonment, stepped down from her position, and the Church of Seiros began to take the needed steps to reorganise.. Including appointing a new archbishop. Prince Dimitri formally ascended the throne, beginning his reign as the king of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, which now included former Alliance and Imperial territories. The leaders of this unified Fódlan began their walk down a seemingly endless path— one toward a world that would cherish differences in race and belief, one where all life would be valued equally.
Texts from the time show the new king's path for a world free of oppression was supported by both the new archbishop and foreign leaders alike, from the queen of Brigid to the king of Almyra...
hiiii loool i'm back after (checks watch) nine months
long story short not long after i published the last chapter i got a job
as a early childhood educator! so i am. very busy and have not much time to write,
but i have been workin on this on and off! and, bc i am sick rn so i had time to finish this finally!
but! kyaa second to last chapter of the main story! the next one will be
wrapping up the main storyline, and then after that i'll do a few sidestories/omakes
to wrap everything up ! the next chapter may take a little while, i'm...
doing a lot of IN DEPTH research. but i promise it wont take AS LONG as this one did