Genres/Ratings: War, Angst, Friendship, Family, Death. (M)

Characters: Mercedes, Felix, Annette, Dedue, Warin, Shamir, Hubert.

Summary: It was the first chapter of the end, the first strike of the last battle of the war the Empire had begun so many years before. Familiar faces dotted the hastily rebuilt and restructured streets of Enbarr, and it was with grim determination that the forces of the rebellion would put them down into their graves. The time for parley, for mercy, was over. There was nothing but death ahead now. Death either for themselves, or for their enemy. The line had gone thin, the black and white margins had been firmly drawn, and before the next dawn, blood would sink deep into the capital's soil in testament to the soldiers who fought, the soldiers who defended, and those who yielded their lives to the other.

Verdant Rain Moon

Streets of Enbarr

Morning

"Come, come, Emile! We'll make flower crowns for Mother!"

Laughter echoed in the gardens, and a small, chubby hand clung so tightly to her own that Mercedes wondered if she would lose feeling in her fingers. But he was smiling up at her so freely, with such cherub-like sweetness, that the little bit of discomfort was of no mind to her. He was so clumsy, stumbling against her legs as they raced together towards the flowers, and no matter what he did or slow he worked, the daisy chains they were building always came apart in his lap. He didn't cry, however, merely puckered his lips in a stubborn little frown and picked up his mess of a work to try and try again. He wanted to help, he insisted. He wanted to be like her, matching her effortless ease so that when she gave her finished project to their mother, he would be able to give his own to her.

She had laughed and hugged him, then, delighted with his thoughtfulness, and her heart aching with love. Her sweet, adorable half-brother, who saw the world in her hands, and wanted nothing more than her praise and her hugs whenever he was near. She had loved him from the start, and had become fierce in her desire to protect and care for him, and to see his happiness was everything. Even if it meant chains upon chains of ripped up daisies in his clumsy little hands as she instructed him over and over again how to treat the delicate blossoms the way she did... She didn't mind much. The afternoon could wane to nightfall, and she would carry him home on her back when he grew too sleepy to continue, but would be too stubborn to quit even if his head was drooping onto his chest.

He had such kind hands. Hands that would one day grow strong and protective when he became an adult, but for now were chubby and clumsy and soft whenever they clung to hers, or her dress, or sometimes even her hair when he was in a particularly diabolical mood. She knew he would grow up wise and strong, like a knight in those books he adored so much, and she was happy and proud of him for his innocent dreams. He was a good boy, a sweet, kind boy, and she never once had feared or fretted over him. Why would there be a reason to? When he looked up at her, his heart shining in the eyes she, he, and their mother all shared, and called her name with such angelic sweetness?

No, those hands would never do harm. She had no reason to be afraid... No reason to fear for him. She was his elder sister, and she would protect him to the end of her days. Even when he was older, even when he became stronger, as she knew he one day would, she would always remain his caretaker. She was the eldest, and she was more stubborn than him, to boot. It didn't matter if one day he would be able to carry her home rather than the other way around... because she would always be able to smile at him, call his name, and make sure he remembered he was safe, safe and loved and protected, because she would be there for him no matter what.

The world was churning, and Mercedes was struggling as one powerful hand clutched her throat and lifted her off her feet and from the ground with the ease of plucking a flower from the earth. Strong hands. Familiar hands... Deadly hands. She clutched at his fingers, desperately trying to pry them from her neck, but she was little more than a fly batting itself uselessly against the flank of a stallion. He squeezed, so effortlessly, and black began to creep into the edges of her vision that was otherwise occupied by the skull-like helmet that hid that familiar face, those like-coloured eyes, and the long, golden hair they had shared and giggled over in their youth.

He was killing her. Slowly, painfully, and she couldn't do a single thing to stop him. He hadn't even needed his weapon to do so, even though he held it freely in his other hand. With one hand, with just five fingers, he had lifted her clear from the ground, leaving her feet to kick uselessly in the air, and began to throttle her. All the magic she possessed hadn't been capable of keeping him at bay, and it wasn't as if she had been trying to hurt him. She couldn't. Under the mask, under his fearsome title, her sweet, innocent little brother was still in there, and no matter her training, no matter how strong her magic... She couldn't hurt him by choice. Her will had faltered at the sight of him, her magic spluttering into useless sparks at her fingertips, and he hadn't showed such hesitation or mercy, just as he had promised he wouldn't when they had last met so close to Garreg Mach.

"E... mile..." Mercedes choked out through a rapidly closing windpipe, but there was no reaction. The strength in his hand did not lessen, nor did the calm application of pressure about her throat. Her limbs were cold, and though she was staring at him, it seemed like the world about him was turning askew on its axis. Those glaring crimson eyes through the slits in his helmet seemed cold, like drops of frozen blood on slow, and she wondered what had happened to him, what she had allowed to happen, when they had parted so many years ago. Was this her punishment for it, then? The grand reaping due to her sins of failing to protect her brother? If so, why was she struggling?

Hadn't she resigned herself to this fate? To the flames, to the cold embrace of a punishing death, because no matter what good she did in the world, she could not erase the fact that she had failed him? She couldn't balance the scales, no matter how many people she aided in his stead, because she had broken her promise to him, and that was what the Goddess would judge her for when her time came due. She had thought she had accepted that, in the worst moments of pain and heartbreak and self-loathing, and yet still she kept trying to pry his fingers away with her fading strength. Her legs kicked uselessly but desperately, trying to find ground, trying to put distance between them, and a cold, detached part of her mind wondered at her struggle.

No help was coming. She had broken away from her ranks, had sought him out alone, because she had been determined to end this feud between them herself. No one knew where she was in the chaos of this attack, and by the time they realized, by the time they found her, she would be a cold, broken corpse for them to mourn over. The Death Knight was not capable of being stopped by someone like her, a healer, never a fighter, but she had gone ahead anyway despite so many promises she had made not to be so foolish. He was her brother. Even if all sense was gone from him, even if she did not recognize him any longer, he was her brother and she had to be the one to settle things... even if it resulted in her death.

Her fingers were cold, and her head was feeling light despite the pain in her throat. Flickers of memory were playing through her mind, like far away flashes of lightning through heavy cloud cover. Images of Annette smiling, greeting her with enthusiastic delight on the first day of classes in the school of magic, and promising to be her friend in the sea of strangers that surrounded them. Their laughter in the late nights, huddled under blankets and sharing sweets and stories of home and their daily doings, making promises and plans for their days off, for the future together in the Officer's Academy. That ugly fighting of misunderstood priorities and failure of communication, and the tender embrace they had shared when their professor had been thought lost, and such petty arguing mattered so little in the face of their grief.

Pictures of her classmates flickered through her kind, more rapid chain lightning in the distant storm, and her dizziness grew with each smiling face she pictured. Ashe smiling as he corrected her cooking, always patient, always sweet, as he showed her the best ways to recognize the spices she so frequently mistook for others. Petra and Raphael exclaiming with delight at the foreign sweets of Faerghus she had baked especially for them as a welcome to the Blue Lions, and their happy smiles when they had thanked her profusely for such a warm and unwavering welcome. Ingrid's exasperated laughter as she was dragged, arm in arm with her and Annette through the market, searching for the perfect make-up she so stubbornly refused to need for the ball. Dedue's quiet, firm guidance, instructing her on the lost deities of his people, and the ways of his fallen brothers and sisters that he had thought would die with him before Duscur would ever see a rebirth. Flayn joining her over and over again in the chapel, praying with her in silence for the peace that they both knew would never come without bloodshed, but still offering their hopes to the Goddess because it was all they were capable of doing. Dimitri's quiet, intense stare as he followed her needlework, believing his hands too strong and too clumsy to mimic it, but enjoying the lesson nonetheless because he envied her skill, and praised her endlessly for it. Sylvain laughing, holding her shoulders and using her body as a shield to escape Felix's wrath, once again trying to evade his best friend and actually succeeding because all of them knew Felix would never use force to get to him if it she was involved.

'Oh... Felix... I'll never see Felix again, will I?'

A current of pain shocked its way up her spine, bringing a moment of frantic clarity as the realization that her death here meant she would never again lay her eyes on Felix hit her with the brute force of a broad-axe. She would die here, leaving Felix to find her corpse, and what would be left for him after? A lonely cold life leading his father's territory alone, constantly hounded by the ghost of the promises she had whispered in his ear? Could she let go so easily, with the knowledge that she would be giving him something to mourn, rather than the healing she so desperately knew he needed? How many nights had they stolen away since that day after he had caught her speaking with Rodrigue, when he had convinced her to lay down her fears and shields, and just be selfish for a little while? She had yearned for those moments, dreamt of being able to be free and vulnerable with him if no one else, and she had taken such comfort in him, just as she knew he had in her.

"Let... go...!" Adrenaline fought the shadow, fought the weakness, and though the words were croaked and had little strength behind them... Mercedes renewed her struggle all the same. It would be fine, one day, long into the future, when old age came to claim her. Then, at least, she could go to her punishment with her head held high, because at least with a full life she could give Felix the strength to continue on without her. Leaving him now, so soon, with so much unsaid and undone... It wasn't permitted. She wouldn't add his pain to the list of sins she was willing to consign her to the flames. It wasn't allowed. It just wasn't.

"It will end soon enough... Stop struggling. Allow it to be. Or must I break your neck to make it quicker?" The hand tightened as the reply came through tightly clenched teeth, growled with all the ferocity of an animal as she kicked and clawed anew at him. Her nails were useless against the armour of his gauntlets, and his reach was far too long for her legs to get any purchase on either the ground, or him. He hoisted her higher in response, showing both his strength and allowing for gravity to put all the more pressure on her neck as he held her, and she groaned in agony even as she continued to struggle vainly. She would not win. He would not permit it, and she simply lacked the strength to beat him off. It was that simple.

"MERCEDES!"

A shriek of wind buffeted her from behind, blowing the Death Knight clean from his feet with the sheer force of the magical blast. It hit her directly, too, but as they both fell, the hand around her throat released, and she coughed and wheezed as air rushed through her bruised and swollen windpipe to reach her aching lungs. Sudden noises of violence surrounded her, blocking out even the own sound of her heartbeat, and she was only distantly aware of being tugged and pulled away, both from the ground and from the grasping reach of her brother, who roared in fury and pain as he was beset as if by lions.

Though the world was dim, Mercedes could still see the backs of her heroes far and away from her, standing side by side and trembling with wrath and rage as they met the Death Knight head-on. Dedue had inserted himself in first, a behemoth crashing against the mountain that was the Death Knight, and pushing as he may, that wicked scythe could not find purchase against the man of Duscur's silver axe. Annette stood behind him, pushing him back with her magic, and slinging spell after spell with ease each time Dedue slid to the side to give her the opening she needed to strike without putting him in harm's way. They were so practised, even after five long years apart, and they moved like silk in the river despite the violence of magic and axe and scythe all screeching against each other for dominance.

Then there was lighting, and for a brief, mad moment, Mercedes could not tell if it was true magic, or just the fury as Felix leapt in when Dedue stepped away. His sword flashed crimson, and his opponent roared again, spinning to meet him even as ribbons of blood sprayed from the wound in his shoulder. She could not see his face, neither of them, but she could well imagine the looks of rage. Felix was a wraith, moving like the wind Annette so expertly manipulated, and wherever he was, Dedue was behind him, and sword and axe hammered away as the Death Knight drew back, unable to withstand their combined assault no matter how he planted his feet.

From the ground, Mercedes could only watch with distant horror as her dear friends stood resolute and ferocious between her and her brother. Annette was one with the whirlwind she created, her tangerine hair whipping about her like flags in a storm, and her voice was a shout of rage that was so unlike that sweetly singing laugh she had grown so used to. Dedue was a stone, crashing over and over again again his mountain of an opponent, and each time axe met scythe, it sounded like a thunderclap as their great strength met and refused to give to one another's. Felix took full advantage of this, using his speed to dart about both the spells and the axe of his fellows, and his sword sought every weakness in his enemy's armour until it was painted crimson with his blood.

It felt like an eternity, watching the fighting, watching the way the Death Knight's blows began to slow, and then to falter. Dedue began to strike harder, and the great scythe could no longer parry his blows. Felix seemed to disappear about him, his sword now fully coated in gore, and Annette held her ground behind the two of them, hands raised and wind only releasing itself sparingly now as she understood she was not needed to create more openings. The two men before her were more than enough, had done enough damage to crack open his armour and pierce through his great, fearsome strength, and he would not survive to escape them again.

A spray of blood shot into the air as Felix's blade found its target, and there was a moment of silence as the Death Knight stepped forward, arm outstretched and his gaze far beyond them. Even from where she lay, half-clinging to consciousness, Mercedes could feel his stare piercing her through. Her fingers twitched at her side, wishing to reach, to comfort, but she had no strength to move them properly. She could only stare at him, watching as Dedue coldly slammed his axe into his chest, shattering the armour, the helmet, and laying him out flat on the ground with merciless precision. He would not escape them a fifth time, and he crumpled to the ground, his helmet cracking open to reveal the gaping crimson wound in his throat... He fell on his back, breaths coming ragged and choked and gurgled, before he stilled and fell prey for the shadow he had encased himself in the moment he had taken on the moniker of the end.

Tears clouded her vision, and Mercedes found herself broken as she tried to pray for him even as she heard footsteps rapidly returning to where she had been dragged away from the fighting. Strong hands lifted her, and her head was laid gently in a warm lap, and she heard Annette speaking tersely somewhere above her. A gentle hand rested on her throat, throbbing with strong magical energy, and she could hear Dedue answering some fervently spoken command, as well as the rummaging sound of a hand tossing aside items in a rucksack somewhere to her left, and opposite of where Dedue was standing by her.

More hands grasped her chin, these ones more firm than the hand she knew Annette was using to try and stem the damage from furthering in her throat. A callused thumb brushed her lower lip, pulling her mouth open, and she didn't fight it as a glass container was pressed to her lips and emptied inside. Her body winced automatically from the extremely bitter taste of the elixir, but the gloved hands on her face didn't permit her to move very far. They held her tightly, ensuring every last drop was poured down into her mouth, and Annette's fingers moved with gentle encouragement along her windpipe, urging her to swallow.

She did, unwillingly and unhappily, and immediately the enchanted concoction began its work as it met her battered throat and the magic Annette was pouring into her from the outside. Her entire neck became numb, and a soothing sort of cold spread down into her chest, ensuring her lungs could manage the air she so greedily needed after nearly being choked to death. Her head once again turned light, and she opened her eyes, feeling dizzy and weak, but searching all the same as the magic tugged at her consciousness. She knew well it was trying to put her to sleep, to allow her body to shut down and heal properly, but she resisted it all the same.

Annette's face was right above her own, and she was aware she was being laid down in her lap. Warm tears splashed onto her face, trickling down her best friend's reddened cheeks as she stared down at her with fright, relief, pain and concentration all at once warring in her eyes. She swallowed noisily, voice hitched as her hand softened at the sight of her friend blearily looking up at her despite it all, and she fought through her own tight throat and chest to speak, "It's going to be okay, Mercie... You're going to be okay. I've got you, all right? And Dedue and Felix are here. It's all going to be all right... Just rest. We'll get you home. I promise."

"Put her under." Felix spoke gruffly from her right, and her eyes flickered to look at him and see the blood speckled all over his clothes and even on his face. He was watching her with quietly simmering eyes, and his sword was still unsheathed and held tightly in his trembling right hand. He didn't reach out despite his body's obvious yearnings to do so, respecting Annette's work and clearly afraid that anything he might do would interrupt it, and his hand closed more tightly on the hilt of his blade as he repeated almost angrily, "Can't you just knock her out?"

"She's fighting me, Felix." Annette answered painfully, and she carefully, tenderly, settled her left hand on top of her right to better focus her magical energies. She could understand Mercedes' unwillingness to let the magic rob her consciousness, especially considering what had just happened, but there was no time for her to be sympathetic. The war for Enbarr was raging, and even their little number in the corner of the city would not stay unmolested forever. Her friend needed to be taken back to the rear lines, off of the battlefield and safely tucked away with the real healers. Staying here put them all at risk. They couldn't fight against a retinue of soldiers freely while she was so badly injured. She leaned down, protectively huddling over her friend's face as she reassured her weakly, "Please, Mercie... Go to sleep. I know it hurts... but you need to heal... There could be permanent damage if you don't let me help you."

"Annette." Dedue's voice was quiet, comforting, but still firm as he knelt down next to her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She looked to the taller man sharply, taking in that strong, unyielding expression that only ever seemed to soften when she, or his liege, were concerned. He squeezed gently, his strong fingers applying only the smallest amount of pressure in a sign of comfort, and she understood at once what he wanted to say, and what he was choosing not to in present company. He nodded to Felix without ever breaking eye-contact, and spoke in that same level-headed tone, "We must continue. His Highness and the Professor need us to push forward."

"Then go. I'll take her to the rear." Felix didn't allow for any further argument, and with cool, calculating hands he swept Mercedes up from the ground and into his arms in a smooth, fluid movement. She groaned softly as he adjusted his hold, bracing her against his chest, and even that small sound was hoarse and croaked. He looked to Annette and Dedue, expression both all at once boiling over and yet frozen in stone, and he spoke roughly and harshly, "Go on and finish what we started. I'll be behind you once I get her somewhere safe. Don't bite off more than you can chew in the meantime. I'm not about to be the one to tell her that you idiots got yourself killed while she was sleeping off her wounds away from the frontlines."

If there were replies to be made, Felix did not have the patience to remain to listen to them. Mercedes' weight in his arms was familiar, but he found no comfort from it as he felt her ragged breathing on his neck. Every inhale seemed to be a struggle for her, and though her body was limp, he could tell she still was refusing with all her will to slip unconscious. Despite that, he was well aware she was not truly lucid. Her hands did not grip at him as he ran through the streets taking long roads back towards the entrance of the city to avoid the ferocious fighting that was filling the capital. The last thing he needed and wanted was to have to put her down again and leave her helpless, and though he was confident in his swordplay, it was something altogether different when he needed to put his blade between another and an enemy, and not just himself.

For once, Felix found himself avoiding every avenue he could think of that would lead him into a fight, and he gritted his teeth tightly as his arms clasped all the more protectively about the precious burden in his arms. She felt so weak, and even more unresponsive to him. Even when he had been forced to take her away from the infirmary after she had fallen asleep from her long hours attending to their unconscious professor, she had felt more alive then than she did now. Even in sleep, she would recognize his warmth and snuggle towards it, murmuring nonsense as she pressed herself happily into his chest. Now, she was simply still, her body only moving with his own every time he took a step, and his teeth gritted down in a furious scowl.

"Why did you do something so stupid...? You knew where he was. You knew we would have helped. Did you think you had to handle it all by yourself just because he was your brother? Did you want his blood to be solely on your hands?" The questions came out in a harsh snarl as he ran for the rear lines, and though he knew he would get no answer, some feral part of him was glad to be putting words to the emotions that had roared up within him when he had realized why Mercedes had slipped away from them. It had been with horror and wrath he had responded with when he had seen the Death Knight, her little half-brother, strangling the life from her, and he knew full well she had to know she was walking to her death by meeting him alone. She was no soldier, even if she was a talented mage. She simply didn't have it in her to just take lives, unless it was in her own defence, or the defence of those she loved.

His molars cracked as he applied more pressure, and his arms tightened even further about his precious burden as he felt her failure to respond. Annette's magic had done its work, putting her to sleep as her own injury and weakness overwhelmed her. It was a small mercy, a bitter mercy, but he was glad for it all the same under his wrath. He glanced down at her for a moment, taking in those ugly, quickly darkening bruises that made for a disgusting necklace about her pale throat, and bile rose in his own as he muttered darkly, "I won't apologize for what I did... but when you wake up, you can be as furious with me as you want... Leave me if you want to, I won't argue. If you find it unforgivable, that's fine. So long as you survive. Do you hear me? Survive. I won't ask for anything else but that from you. Annette and the mongrel can take care of you if you're through with me after all of this. Just wake up again when this is all over, damn you!"

The rear lines were in sight, and Felix easily picked out the sight of Rodrigue astride his stallion, calling out orders to the healers and soldiers that were taking the wounded from the field and giving them protection behind the rearguard. His professor had left strict orders for him and Gilbert, to permit every civilian access to their protection and their skills as the madness of war descended upon their homes. And even from a distance, Felix could see that a good handful of men, women, and children had taken her up on her offer. They were fleeing the violence behind them, desperate to escape the flames that were burning their homes down from the indiscriminate attacks of the Imperial army.

His professor had been right in assuming that the Empire would make their citizens into shields, and unlike the taking of Fhirdiad, the men and women under the yoke of the Emperor had been too struck with fear to rebel. They knew full well that their own army would slaughter them wholesale if they picked up arms against them to join the rebellion, and even if they did not, the dark-robes that were amassed among them certainly would. He had seen the carnage himself already, helpless and unarmed civilians, cut down because they had chosen flight rather than standing as shields for the shadowy monsters the Empire had chosen as their allies. He wasn't entirely sure if he was more disgusted or angry by it, even though he had thought himself well prepared for the battle to come. His professor had warned them this fight would be more than anything they had fought thus far... and she had never been wrong yet.

Felix cruelly shoved away all thoughts as he pushed himself through the guards and towards Rodrigue, and for his credit, the moment his father saw him he checked his steed and leapt off of it in his rush to get to his side. His face was worn, and blood had speckled the front of his cloak and had almost entirely stained his gloves crimson. He was both a knight and a healer, and it was obvious that he was dividing his duties equally between his magic and the fighting. He supposed it was not all that different from the path he had chosen himself, tempering his sword with the lightning magic that he had discovered himself to be so adept with, but he was well aware the arts of healing were far beyond his ken. He had hardened his heart too much for it.

"Where is she wounded? What does she need? Tell me everything."

The terse orders, which would have once made him rankle, were a strange comfort as he picked out the nearest unoccupied space in the impromptu "infirmary", and he set the woman he had been carrying done gently back onto the stone. Healers were rushing to and fro all about them, but Rodrigue called for no one and instead knelt down next to Mercedes himself, his eyes immediately spotting the damage that had been done without needing any guidance. He pulled his gloves from his hands, tossing them idly aside before he settled his hand along the rapidly bruising throat, and his eyes narrowed as he muttered angrily under his breath, "By the flames... What happened to this poor girl? Tell me the dastard responsible for this is already laying cold, or soon will be."

"He's dead, but there's no pleasure to be taken in it. It was her brother who did it. And she'll remember that when she recovers." Felix replied brusquely, watching the surprise pass over his father's face before his expression once again become cold and stern. It was not a secret he shared lightly, as Mercedes had not told many, if even half a dozen people, who the Death Knight truly was. She had been too afraid to reveal the truth, too afraid to admit that she believed she was the cause of his doings, and that fear had turned to guilt, and nearly pushed her right into an early grave. "I'm leaving her here under your protection, old man. I can't stay here. There's still more my blade needs to do out there on the field."

Rodrigue looked up, both surprised, and yet not entirely so as he watched his son push himself slowly, almost tiredly, back to his feet. His eyes were simmering with that familiar rage Rodrigue had grown so used to seeing, but there was something fiercer, something stronger, in the burning. It was not the cold, pragmatic detachment that his son used to keep the cruelty of the world at bay that was driving him now. It was self-loathing and guilt, and the desire to wreak utter havoc in order to find some sort of catharsis for it. It almost startled him, how alike his son looked to the young prince who had pulled himself out of the hells of exile, but he knew he could not truly blame him. The woman laying at his knees was precious to him beyond words, and regardless of the circumstances that had led him to bring her to him... He blamed himself fully for it. "Felix..."

"Don't argue with me. You want to see the Fraldarius line continue, yeah? Watch her. Keep her safe. Make damned sure she survives this, no matter what it costs. If you don't, I'll come back and kill you myself." Felix's response was cold and sharp, hard and damning as he turned his back on his father and gripped down all the more tighter on the hilt of his bloody blade. The battle was calling, the war was still waging, and Annette and Dedue needed him. No matter what he wanted, he had to return to the fray, and he knew his father knew it just as well as he did. The words tasted like acid on his tongue, and a cold stone settled somewhere deep in his gut, but he ignored both things as he began his stride back into the mess. He had no choice but to force compliance... but to leave.

"I will be awaiting your return then, Felix. Stay safe." Rodrigue spoke quietly to his son's retreating back, and he watched him closely as he bolted back through the lines as quickly as he had broken through them. He wasn't sure if he had heard, but he supposed it did not matter as he turned his attention back to the woman at his knees. The bruising about her neck was growing darker by the second, and even as he applied his magic and watched the cool green sparks fizzle into her skin, his chest ached with pain. Once again, standing over the body of a still and injured woman, and watching the face of their loved one contorting with grief and rage, and settling for bloodshed as their only reprieve... He shook his head slowly, and his fingers were gentle as they spread across Mercedes' throat to continue his work, "May you save him from himself, milady Matritz... The Goddess will not have you yet. Not while I still have a breath of life still in me."

It was almost the same as it had been, six long years ago, and Warin was in his element as his lance went to work cutting through the lines of the advancing Imperial soldiers so that his sister's students could crash forward and push their own line farther in. Whatever the enemy had expected of them clearly hadn't been enough, and time and time again their foes would retreat in the face of the rebellion's fury, or be cut down if they didn't have the good sense to flee. There was wild fear in the eyes of the men being thrown towards them, the fear of death and the knowledge there was no escaping it, but it made their movements and attacks clumsy and easy to predict. They were torn between two terrors, that of their enemy's skill and that of their master's whips, and none had the courage to turn tail and leave the fighting entirely behind them to save their own necks.

The noose they had drawn about themselves had grown too tight for such thoughts now, and there was no room in their foes' hearts for mercy. Anyone who hadn't yet escaped now stood between them and the Emperor's castle, and if they would not give way willingly, the rebellion would carve a path through them without hesitation. Raine's orders for mercy had extended only to the smallfolk, as she had known, just as anyone else had, that the fearful and hesitant would have left long before their enemy's army came crashing down upon them.

The only ones who remained were either the loyal or the brainwashed, or those held hostage, and if they raised a weapon, there was no other recourse but to cut them down. Hesitation meant death here, and all had hardened their hearts to their tasks. The Emperor had ordered no quarter to be given to her foes, had showed no care for the civilians in her own city, and time and time again her men had used their own people as shields against the oncoming wave in a desperate attempt to gain ground, or turn the situation to their favour. Houses were burning, bodies were laying in the streets and bleeding out where they had fallen, and not a single soldier clad in either the Emperor's colours, or the dark-robes of Thales and his men, had shown an ounce of care for the mayhem.

Yet, they had not expected that their cruelty had already been accounted for. Behind every advancing arm of the rebellion's troops came garrisons of mages and archers, capable of taking out the hostage-takers without causing injury to those held against their will, and in the chaos the main fighters descended on their foes to give the smallfolk a chance to escape. Time after time the same exact strategy played out on the streets, and time after time they gained more ground and drew ever closer to the castle where the Emperor sat, giving her orders from safety as she shored up her forces for the final battle she knew would come to the very seat of her throne.

The idea made Warin snort with bitter mirth as his lance slammed into the chest of his nearest foe, punching through his thin plate-mail and deep into flesh before protruding from between his shoulders. Warin pulled, and as easily as his lance had entered it exited, twirling with scarlet ribbons as it was directed again and again for the flesh of his next foe. It seemed so ridiculously futile. They were carving up fodder, and nothing more or less. Simple men and women that had been put in front of them to delay them, to inflict whatever small wounds and losses they could, in order to give their commander the tiniest chance of an advantage at the end of it all.

From his position at the fore, Warin could catch a glimpse of the one who had been commanding the defence of the capital, and a grim smile crossed his lips at the sight of him. He had a score to settle with that black-haired sorcerer, and though his sister had cautioned him, she hadn't told him to avoid him, either. The rout of Enbarr was to be complete before anyone even so much as got within throwing distance of the castle walls, and of course several strategies had been implemented in order to see it through.

Gilbert and Rodrigue held the rear lines from where the advance had started, and with Nader and his men guarding them from further reinforcements from the outside, the companies that had dove into the city in earnest had nothing to fear as they pushed forward. They spread out like a fire, reaching into every corner and street, driving their foes into the ground or farther back in fear, and each time they mustered their courage for a counter-strike, they were met with equal ferocity. The beloved magical ballista that had only seen a handful of opening shots before they had been overtaken now worked against their creators, and it had been with grim satisfaction that the mages of the Kingdom and Alliance took the Imperial technology and unleashed it on their foes without mercy.

Three arms had extended into Enbarr, one for the east, west, and centre, and of those three arms had been even more split parties with differing goals and leaders. Raine had wasted nothing, and everyone's potential was being called upon for the maximum effect and power. Squadrons of wyvern and pegasi riders cleared out the skies, and from below their archers covered them from fire that would take them from the air as they met the Empire's aerial forces in earnest. The calvary rode forward to break the defensive lines, followed quickly by the infantry and mages, who either quenched the fires raging before them, or set their foes ablaze instead to give their men a chance to push themselves ever forward.

To the west she had left Dedue in charge and had taken the east for herself and Dimitri, and Warin had been charged with the centre. Each of them had picked out their own men to their fashion and needs, and amongst the leaders they had promised that regardless of who arrived first, their enemy commander was to be dealt with as quickly as possible. All personal grudges had to be put aside, and all of them had scars that Hubert had left them in their harsh clashes over the last year of constant warfare. All of them would relish the chance to see him in battle, but Warin mused that either his fortune was good, or he had driven his men too hard, as he was well aware it was his arm that had moved the fastest towards the castle.

"Move and surround. Tighten the lines, and don't let anyone through." The orders came smooth and swift from his lips, and he was well aware from the stares on his back and the tightening of hands on weapons that there would be no questioning of his command. He had picked his men well, after all. The knights who had grown loyal to him, the men who had once served his father, and the handful of students who, for some reason, trusted him nearly as much as they trusted his sister. He would never understand their faith, but he did not need to. He hefted his lance, fingers experimentally squeezing about the shaft as he continued in that same calm voice, "Shamir, I need you covering me. Find a good nest, and I'll do the rest for you. Everyone else, stay as far out of range as you can manage. The last thing we need is more wounded to send home. Understood?"

"Yessir!"

A part of him felt oddly detached, pulled away as the resounding choruses of affirmation hit his back and his ears, and he pushed himself forward despite the strange twisting feeling deep in his stomach. Those roars had always been for his father's orders. For his sister's. Not for his own. There was no real question that one day, far in the future, perhaps he would be the one inciting such belief and faith, but that was not meant to be now. He was still little more than his father's former lieutenant. He hadn't yet made himself into the mercenary captain he had always hoped to be. Yet, time moved forwards, and cared little for the wants of a solitary man. This was one of the ending chapters of the war... He had come far, even if his feet had yet to move away from the graves of his parents.

Warin turned himself into a battering ram as he raced forward with his men on his heels. They struck the last defensive line with the force of a lightning bolt, scattering men every which way from the sheer speed of their shove through. Warin only spared a moment for his lance to strike down the surrounding soldiers who had not lost their feet before he was continuing forward without regard to the enemies behind him. His goal was still ahead, safely tucked behind rows and rows of enemy soldiers, and he knew the rule of war better than any... He had to only cut the head from the snake to see the body collapse, and with the Emperor still holed up in the castle, Hubert was the head now waiting for the blade.

Black flames met him the moment he stepped past the ring of soldiers that had surrounded their commander, and Warin leapt forward, somersaulting away from the magic that had been sent roaring for his head the instant he came into range. It made him smile grimly, reminding him far too much of how every single battle he had ever had with the sorcerer had begun. Hubert feared a close fight, and the scar on his face was more than good enough reason for him to want to make sure his foe was dead long before he came into striking distance. If he was far and away, Hubert still had an advantage... if he could manage to keep it.

Time and time again those bursts of dark magic tried for him, and time and time again Warin dodged and wove his way about them as he circled in closer. They spluttered on the stone walkways, needing his body for fuel and finding nothing on impact, and Warin had to muse that the vast difference in skill between the mage he had fought in Derdriu and the one he was heading towards now could not be more apparent. Thales had been eager and willing to close in his true form, taking sadistic delight in unleashing his strength even if it meant unmasking himself, even if it meant risking his life to the blades of any tried and true soldier. Hubert was far more conservative, far more wary... and perhaps far more frightened.

"Filthy dog...! Have the sense to lay down and die! Today is not your day!"

The roar as a jet of black flames soared harmlessly by him, a good five feet off, made Warin smirk as he bent down low into a hunter's run to clear the last few feet between the two of them. It was a strange insult, coming from him of all men, but Warin didn't much mind the snarling. It was the way of some fights, to have banter replaced with threats and angry, self-righteous speeches, but Warin had never quite been the type to partake himself. It didn't seem to matter much, when blood flowed much more clearly than words, but he would admit that his interest at the very least was piqued. He swung his lance experimentally, voice calm despite the pounding of his blood in his veins as he questioned, "Dog, is it? Have you gotten our positions mixed up in all of this fighting, perhaps? Lost both your nerves and your tongue, maybe?"

The sharp twang of metal meeting metal punctuated his words, and Warin was not entirely sure if he was more surprised, or amused, to see that Hubert had met him swing for swing. In his hands was a lance of his own, though it was unlike anything Warin had ever laid his eyes on. It was absurdly top heavy for a lance, with its blade starting out as thick as a tree root before circling down into a sharp, jagged tip reminiscent of a drill rather than a weapon. The very metal was crackling, spitting sparks of magical energy, and Warin withdrew automatically with a sharp, wary glance.

"Do you like it...? Technology from our enemies. As great, or even greater than the Relics you and yours cling to for power... Even those without Crests will know might with things like these. This Arrow of Indra will help carve the path we seek." Hubert swung the lance casting an arc of lightning that followed the tip, arcing in a blue flicker as he met Warin's stare with a dismissive, loathing glare of his own. "Cling to the old ways if you will, but it won't serve you, you lowly dog... You''ll fall here, long before you reach the Emperor's throne. I won't permit you to interfere."

"Again, you call me a dog... Do you think my sister my master, because I chose to fight with her? If so, you're severely miscalculated. I have no master. No chain. Never again will anyone give me orders and expect me to blindly obey. Not for blood, or coin." Warin answered him coldly, and he felt his hand clenching tighter about the handle of his lance as he watched Hubert glaring at him as if he was the lowliest scum he could find on the bottom of his boot. It sorely amused him, and made his smile bitter and frozen as he settled his feet and changed his stance to meet the new weapon Hubert had met him with. He had not expected a lance of all things, but he was more than ready to meet him as he challenged him idly, "I won't sell myself so cheaply as you. Family loyalty is what kept you as her shadow, wasn't it? Killing at her whims, sneaking about, fighting her battles for her... If anyone here is a mindless mongrel, it isn't me. It's you, you little brat."

The lance swung, met by Warin's mid-arc, but with the sharp clang of weapon meeting weapon also came a harsh shock. Magical energy surged through the strange weapon Hubert carried, and upon touching Warin's lance it arced gracefully to deliver a powerful shock. Warin withdrew automatically and with a curse, feeling a sharp pain lancing up through his hand and arm as his fingers involuntarily tightened on the grip of his weapon. He shook his arm savagely, teeth grinding as he caught Hubert's arrogant smirk, and the raven-haired man advanced, his lance crackling with electricity as he asked him, "Does the pain clear your head now...? I sorely hope so. I've spent many a long moon devising ways to rid myself of you... At first, I did not understand my lady's wish to see you dead, but understanding means little in the way of duty. Now, however... Now, I understand what it is that makes her hate you so. It was you, after all, that she wished would join her cause... You, better than anyone, who understood what she wished to see done to this world. But you were too different. Too aloof. Too much of a threat."

"Should I be honoured?" The reply came as the same time as his lance, though this time Warin was careful not to allow contact as he swung. Hubert dodged him gamely, attempting to block the blow, but Warin's weapon was an extension of his arm and not a shield, and it took little effort for him to change his trajectory to avoid coming into contact with the electrically charged lance the mage was wielding. Hubert circled him warily, eyes gauging him with that same hawk-like keenness, but Warin showed no weakness or hesitation. He stabbed out again, dodging the returning strike with a jerk of his shoulder and twisting his blade to the side as he did so. The edge of his weapon scored a blow, tearing through the thin black leather the mage wore for armour and opening up a long wound on his forearm.

Hubert staggered back as blood began to flow, but his face registered no pain. Rather, there was a coldly simmering fury in his sharp eyes, and his other hand tightened on the handle of his lance. The magic running throughout the weapon answered his call, the sparks glittering like golden flickers all along the blade and about his hand, and the shadows they cast danced across the sorcerer's face. His jaw was tight as his sleeve quickly became damp, and he forced his other hand onto his lance despite the sharp stab of pain in his torn muscles. "You should be... Already you live in the world she wishes to create for the masses, and yet you do not know it. Alone and aloof, you climbed the stairway of power until none about you could deny you, even though you have no lineage to support it. A ragged mercenary, found wading through the mud of warfare and at the clink of coin, now standing shoulder to shoulder with nobility and commanders of great renown and skill... Yet you see no righteousness in the cause my lady fights for."

"Why should I? I climbed my path without using a mountain of innocent corpses to get me to where I am. The only bodies under me are those who were sent after me, or tried to harm those I love. I've no need for bloody wars or petty politics to rationalize the path I choose to follow." Warin returned sharply, and this time when Hubert swung, he met his challenge head-on. The magic struck him with the power of a hammer on an anvil, feeling as if he had taken a heavy blow to the chest as the tips of their weapons connected, but he did not yield. His hands once again grasped helplessly, tightening on his weapon and making him unable to let go, but he didn't mind. He shoved forward viciously, forcing Hubert to give ground, and he snarled as his brute strength easily overpowered that of the thin man before him, "There's no righteousness in forcing the world to change to suit your view of it... No righteousness in pairing with monsters in order to free the world of their influence. You revealed yourselves too late. Thales won't die by your hand. That right belongs to me. But you... You, I'll take first, because I'm sick of your blathering. Your princess can come after."

"Impertinence!" The current grew stronger in tandem with Hubert's anger, and Warin's teeth ground down audibly as the magic weakened his arms and legs. A harsh numbness was spreading as the electricity crackled over his skin from where their weapons met and struggled against one another's, and this gave Hubert the opening he was sorely seeking. Now he pushed back, gaining the advantage, and his eyes shone with wrath as Warin's knees gave and forced him down, "For all your so-called knowledge, you truly understand nothing. The devilry of those who slither in the dark cannot be undone by the likes of you. Attempt to strike them down, and a horror you cannot even begin to fathom will rise in return. But I will spare you that. This is a mercy. You should be grateful."

"You're... still too slow..."

A sharp whistling punctuated Warin's insult, and Hubert staggered back as the arrow that had been shot from far behind buried itself in his shoulder before he could swing and plunge his lance into the open chest of his foe. In a flash Warin was back on his feet, the grimace of pain he had been wearing wiped away to show a cold mask of fury instead, and as Hubert hit the ground from the force of the sniper's arrow, he understood his error. Again, Warin had proven not to be underestimated, and this time he was not alone to face him as he had been before. The way of victory was closed to him... Permanently, this time.

A harsh kick sent the magical lance from his hand skittering across the ground, but Hubert no longer had the strength to try and tighten his hand and keep his hold. He reached across his chest, fingers twitching as they struggled to grasp the arrow that had pierced deep into his shoulder and then passed on through. It had been accurately shot, fatally so, and he could feel his blood beginning to seep out onto the cold stone below him. Yet there was no fear in him even as Warin knelt down over him, his bladed gauntlet coming to rest on his throat, and Hubert stared back up at the face of his sorely-hated foe with a grim smile curling at his bloody lips. The taste of copper was familiar on his tongue, bringing back bitter memories and even more hated faces, but he felt nothing even as those cold navy eyes stared at him from above. From the moment he had sworn his loyalty... He had been prepared for this fate.

Warin's arm came down in one smooth movement, and the blades he wore sliced through flesh as easily as a hot knife would through warm butter. There was no need, or desire, for last words. That cold, hateful stare said all there needed to be said... and he didn't care for the last gasps of a dying man. He watched passively as the blood ran freely from the cut jugular, staining the front of the twitching sorcerer's robes a brilliant shade of crimson, and slowly, carefully, Warin regained his feet. His eyes didn't leave his enemy's, watching as the light dimmed within them, and only when they fully went out did he dare step back and away from the corpse below him.

Warin shook his arm, scattering droplets of blood across the stone from his weapon, and he glanced up and towards the castle that stood across the bridge. It coldly stared back at him, hiding the puppet and perhaps maybe its master, and his fingers clenched as he fought the urge to continue onwards and inside, all ideas of a respite, or a chance to consolidate his men be damned. The bloodlust was alight in him, demanding sating, and only a harsh and cold pragmatism allowed him to shove it back down. As he was, with the men as his back, he would hardly be capable of breaching the gates. He would need his sister, her students, and the remaining forces of the rebellion to hope to take that damned building and put an end to the fighting, and alone he had no strength to do it.

"Don't ever make me watch that again, even if it was good theatre. That came far too close for my liking."

The curt, clipped scolding came sharply from behind him, as keen as the arrow she had fired when he had dropped to his knees to give her the sight of her target, but Warin felt his lips quirk despite themselves at the sound of her voice. He gave himself a moment to wipe his blades clean before he retracted them back into his gauntlets, and he turned to see Shamir well ahead of the rest of their forces, likely having abandoned her nest almost the moment after she had fired her arrow and come running to meet him. She looked breathless even though her eyes were glinting with ill-humour, and at the sight of him, they narrowed as she muttered under her breath, "Must you always be so reckless?"

"I knew you had my back. You've never failed to have it before." Warin replied easily, but the unamused scowl on her lips proved any type of humour wasn't appreciated. He didn't mind it, and caring about little else even as he heard the sound of footsteps on the stone far away, he reached for her waist and tugged her close to him. He felt her start, obviously confused and alarmed at the action they never permitted in open view, on or off the battlefield, but Warin gave no mind to it. His free hand reached for her chin, angling it upwards before he leaned down and covered her mouth with his own. She froze against him, startled, but he only allowed it to last for a moment before he was sighing against her cheek, "I love you."

"And you're lucky I love you, or else I would never let you get away with a quarter of what you've been up to today..." Shamir muttered sourly, but there was no hiding the smile was that curling the corners of her mouth as she relaxed in Warin's tight hold. His arms were strong and careful as they wrapped snugly about her, and though there was still tension in his every muscle, there was no hint of even a shiver in him. She could feel his relief, palpable and as warm as the campfire they had sat silently beside together only the previous night, and it allowed her to forget herself, too. All the men they had taken with them suspected, and it no longer mattered if they knew. For the moment, it was over... For the moment, they could finally put down their weapons and take a breath. They had made it through, despite all the odds, despite the many who had not, and it wasn't a sin to feel relief, and celebrate that tiny miracle. "Come on... A healer needs to take a look at you, and then we can wait for the others."

"A minute longer." Warin echoed her words in Fhirdiad, and he tightened his hold slightly to keep her snugly trapped against his chest. To his eternal gratitude she didn't fight him, but instead merely stood quiet and willing, leaning into him, and he sighed against her ear again. His eyes glanced over her shoulder, looking to that lance again and wondering at all it meant before he roughly cast it from his mind. He would take time later to asses it, to ruminate on the last lingering threats ahead of him, but for the moment... He wanted to fill his arms, his senses, with her and forget all else as the chaos of battle dulled to an echo, and finally into silence.

For the first time since that early dawn, the streets of Enbarr were finally silent. The clashing of weapons, the screaming of the injured and fallen and fleeing, and the roar of flames had all faded away. The capital had been taken. Warin was unsure of how many lay dead, theirs and their enemies, but he mused that it was still too early to begin to take count. It was only the first step, and only when the head of the Emperor lay cold on the ground would he dare to think that any sort of victory had been achieved in Andrestia. Then there would be Thales to follow, with Rhea after... but Warin shook his head and crossed his wrists behind Shamir's back as he squeezed her closer.

No, it didn't matter. Not yet. She was there with him, and he could feel the peace running warm and calm in his veins. His sister likewise had escaped this hell unscathed, and he didn't need anything else to tell him it was all right for him to breathe. The day wasn't over, not yet, but the moment could last for a little while longer. He was surprised by how much he needed it, how unafraid he was of taking it, but he supposed that was simply the way of it now. More than anything, he wanted to survive this mess, and to see the woman in his arms come out of it safely, too. And it made him ache, deep and sharp and dear in his chest as he muttered again into her ear as he felt her hands gently stroking his back as she returned his embrace, "I love you."

"And I you." Shamir answered quietly, closing her eyes as she pressed herself comfortably against his chest and delivered a calm, reassuring squeeze about him. That feral fear, the concern and wanting and selfishness was something she knew well, and she didn't mind whatsoever in the breaking of their firmly set rules. They were nothing in comparison to the hellscape they had just travelled through, and the awaiting flames that were beckoning threateningly from the castle behind them. But that, too, could wait. Just for the moment. One moment of peace amidst the bloodshed, the corpses and the horror and the resignation of more fighting could be allowed. Her arms tightened and she nestled in closer, sighing in defeat as she felt his strong hands bracing her comfortingly, and she murmured into his shoulder again, "And I you..."

AN:

Fight scenes. Just... so many fight scenes. -face/desk-

I'm lacking in so much energy, but I'm working my way through it, one tiny bit by bit. There's just still so much ahead, even though it doesn't look like it. And as eager as I am to get to it, I gotta do it chronologically, or else little will make sense... but I don't wanna do more fight scenes! I do admit however, I feel I am improving each time I write action, though how much I am improving I can't honestly say. I guess I just can admit that once this is all neatly finished and wrapped in a bow, I'm probably gonna go collapse in a corner and let my muse go on whatever vacation she wants!

Mood: Sleepy.

Listening To: "And We Run" - Within Temptation feat Xzibit

~ Sky