Birth and Re-Death

by ThreeDollarBratwurst

I swear, every time I turn around, someone else has got a clever idea to get me killed. And it usually works. Death doesn't seem too keen on sticking with me, though, so I guess I can get over it. Self-insert. Playfully testing the limits of what Rated T means. Cover image by Xcell

58. Ch 58: We Get By With a Little Faith

Birth and Re-Death

Chapter 58: We Get By With a Little Faith

She tried not to eavesdrop. Really, she did. But once she understood what was happening, she just couldn't help herself. It's Uncle Randy! Who wouldn't be curious?

Just when she was going to go in and speak with him about a few lingering matters before they depart in the morning, Lucina was surprised by Randall's seeming outburst at her.

"Luci, I'm not in the mood right now," she hears. Despite herself, she shrinks back. Maybe she should have used his door after all. The window entry is probably getting old by now. And she keeps forgetting that it's not actually necessary anymore.

But then the door opens. "Robin," Randall says. "Sorry, I didn't know it was you."

Lucina breathes a sigh of relief. So he wasn't actually talking to her after all. Even as an adult herself, the rare occasion of getting scolded by Uncle Randy still leaves echoes in her mind. He was not often a forceful parent, but that made the occasions where he put his foot down all the more intimidating.

She considers going in to speak with both of them, but stops when she hears Robin speak.

"First, I want to say something. I don't want you to leave." Something in Robin's tone roots her to the spot. This isn't her protesting the logistics of their trip plans. This is personal.

She listens as they talk through their worries together. She remembers well how run-down Randall was when Robin was gone. It seems that went both ways, from what Robin is saying.

Lucina doesn't understand everything they talk about. Something about a hex, and some other term she doesn't recognize—respawn anxiety. She doesn't know what to make of any of it.

Robin goes to get something for Randall… The 'shipping chart'? Why would a shipping manifest be something you would want to give as a parting gift to someone close? Lucina really doesn't understand her parents' generation, it seems.

Randall and Robin are silent for a long moment. What's going on?

Hold on. What's that sound? A sort of… smacking? Sucking? The rustling of fabric.

She can't contain herself. Just a peek.

She has to clap a hand over her mouth not to react verbally. They're… kissing? But since when are they together? Did this just happen right now? Is she witness to the very start of Uncle Randy and Robin's relationship? Gods, how passionately they're holding each other. Her stomach flutters as she sees his arms curl tighter, pulling Robin closer.

What on earth was in that shipping manifest?

Finally, they pull just far enough apart to catch their breath and speak. "I love you," they say together. Lucina's heartstrings stretch to their limits at the sight of how they smile at one another.

It occurs to Lucina that she's absolutely violating the privacy of this moment. She might be elated for them right now, but that doesn't change that she should have left long ago. She wastes no further time climbing down from the third story window, eventually making her way to the ground below.

Only when she's a good distance from the barracks does she allow herself to really react. She can't help but literally hop a little, squealing to herself. Finally, something is going right! And just when she was starting to worry that she was going to have to explain to the twins why they don't get to be born in this timeline.

And that look in his eyes! That smile! When was the last time she remembers him smiling like that? In the future, when they were on the road, he would smile sometimes, but the upturn of his lips would never overtake the tiredness in his eyes. It never felt… whole. But just now, he looked like he had the entire world in his arms. The way she distantly remembers Father always looked at Mother.

But then something else occurs to her.

"Aargh, but we're leaving in the morning!" she exclaims, head in her hands. "Just when they finally get together, they have to immediately say goodbye for months?"

This is a disaster! A relationship that's only one night old is not ready for the strain of months of absence. They need more time for things to settle a little.

…She assumes. She's never actually had any firsthand experience to speak of, but it seems logical in her head.

But what can she do? Uncle Randy has already done everything he can to convince Anna to hold off even this long. Trying to wrest even one more day from her would probably be impossible. Anna doesn't strike Lucina as the type to put even her own romance over money, let alone someone else's.

…Especially since she's a homewrecker, Lucina thinks with gritted teeth.

Whatever it is that gives them more time, it won't come from Anna, or Gregor for that matter. It looks like it's up to her to take matters into her own hands.

She hopes that, given the circumstances, Laurent will understand that they just need a couple more days. The desert probably isn't pleasant, but the possibility that the twins might not be born in this timeline is simply too great a risk.

As she makes her way down to where the caravan wagons sit, loaded up and waiting, she wonders how many of the others have arrived in the past. It's been difficult being apart from them. For years, they were each other's security. At least Lucina has had the comfort of being close to her parents, close to the Shepherds, close to Uncle Randy. But the others have had no one.

She just hopes that wherever—and whenever—they are, they're alright.

She shakes her head to clear her mind. There will be plenty of time to ruminate later. For now, she has work to do.

---

The young man pushes the spectacles back into place on his nose. The blasted desert heat has left him in a nigh-intolerable sweat for what feels like the thousandth time, causing his glasses to constantly slip down his face. His mother's wide-brimmed mage hat has succeeded in keeping the sun off his face for the most part, but it has failed to actually cool him in the least.

He sighs. Not dealing with debilitating sunburns is a merit in its own right, he supposes. Even if it is quite a low bar to clear.

For a moment, he considers taking out his note from Randall once again to check it, but it's pointless. For one thing, the note is so worn by now that the words are barely legible in the first place. And for another, he memorized the contents of the note years ago now. Randall didn't write much for him, so it wasn't difficult to commit it to memory:

Expect to drop in the desert to the far east. There is a staff there, the Goddess Staff, that will no doubt catch your attention when you learn about it. It's said to be housed in a mirage village somewhere in the desert. The mirage village is real, regardless of what you hear from the locals of the past. If you can find the oasis in the desert, head north from the northernmost tree and eventually, I think you should reach the village.

The desert will be dangerous. There will be powerful bandit gangs prowling the sands. DO NOT take any unnecessary risks until the Shepherds find you.

I am reluctant to instruct you to stay there. I want to tell you to just forget the staff and head west to Ylisstol. My only hesitation is that I don't know how dangerous that journey would be. Ultimately, I trust your judgment. The most important thing you can do is STAY SAFE. Everything else comes in a very distant second.

You have a difficult path ahead. Keep the faith. I will be coming for you.

—Randy

Laurent chuckles bitterly. "Just go north from the oasis, you'll find it, he says." He shakes some sand out of his cloak. "He never mentioned how to find the damned oasis in the first place!" The words roll easily out of his mouth, a well-worn vocal rut that he's traveled dozens if not hundreds of times.

The young mage must admit that navigating without a map has never been his strong suit. He is very good at logistics. Lists, tables, inventories, budgets, the computation of numbers, these are his strengths. But an unfortunate side effect of spending so much of one's youth with his face buried in a book is that one often forgets to look around and see the world around him. Randall told him that he gets that from his mother. He was never a leader, not in the sense that Randall and Lucina were. He was happy in his role as a supporter.

Which has made the last three-odd years very difficult for him. To go from following dutifully behind the leaders to being forced to fend for himself in the desert was a radical shift. The only change that was more shocking was when his parents left to fight off the Risen, and all that came back of them was a hat. A hat that was much too big for him when it became his inheritance, and took years to grow into.

Thankfully, even here in the Pyrathi desert, there are plenty of kind, generous people willing to help a teenager, and later a man in his early 20s, in need. He has been careful not to overstay his welcome anywhere. He helps where he can, whether it be helping organize village supplies, developing more efficient farm practices in the limited spaces where desert dwellers can cultivate, or even lending his magical skill in the occasional fight with invading bandits.

With a slight grimace, he remembers the first time he ever killed a person. A living person, not a Risen. Killing Risen is to him a thoughtless process, almost automatic. A nonhuman threat to remove to improve the safety of the group. Like putting down a rabid animal. Killing people, even bandits, proved different. It felt like such a waste. The people that call the desert home are always in hard times; a single disaster is often enough to shake a community down to its foundations. Don't they see that instead of plundering and pillaging from each other for the little they have, if they just banded together they could grow their communities into so much more? Don't they understand that in just a few short years, every human on earth will be forcibly allied against a much greater, apocalyptic threat?

Of course they don't. Randall taught Laurent and the others that the history of humankind is both a history of cooperation and a history of conflict. Without a larger enemy to band against, to show everyone how small the differences between them truly are, humans are ever at risk of conflict between groups.

So many times in the last few years, Laurent has been tempted to tell them. To tell the people he meets about the threat that's coming. That the end of the world will be upon them in just a matter of years. But it would be pointless. He's a drifter. An eccentric mage who at the best of times has difficulty communicating normally with the less educated villagers he meets on a regular basis. If he tried to illustrate for them what's coming, he would be labeled a madman. And really, he couldn't blame them for doing so.

Even so, every time he has been forced to take a life, he can't stop running the numbers. That's one fewer potential fighters to hold the line against the Risen later. It's still the right choice, as a murderous bandit is likely to take even more lives, making the loss of that one life the more sensible choice. But even so, he feels the immeasurable loss. A single human is capable of such phenomenal action if they have the right skills, sufficient will, and are in the right place at the right time.

In the future, fairly often the group would meet a fellow traveler who would help them while they were on the same road. Fighting off Risen, gathering supplies, keeping watch, that sort of thing. More than once, these travelers revealed themselves to be former bandits, men and women who had reformed their ways and now sought to protect their own against the tide of the dead. And of course, even among the Shepherds there were those who had turned from a life of crime. Cynthia's father Gaius and Noire's father Libra come to mind. Even common bandits can achieve much when they turn their lives to a higher purpose. But if they're dead, then a bandit is all they will ever have been in the end.

What a waste.

He exhales sharply. Think about something else.

There's not much to think about that he hasn't already thought about. Wandering the desert for years tends to wear the list of unthought things surprisingly thin. All that's left is going over and over the stuff he's already spent so much time worrying about.

He remembers something Cynthia once told him, years ago.

"Whenever I get scared or sad, I just think about a song I really like! Things don't seem as bad when you're singing a good song!"

Laurent sighs. Such innocent naivety. And yet, he has to admit, there's not much else he can do to pass the time. He was never the type to sing aloud, but he is at least bold enough to hum to himself as he trudges through the sands. All the while, the words pass through his mind.

Well I ain't never been so darn blue.
I ain't never worn holes in my shoes.
I ain't never had nothing to lose,
But I guess that these are just hard times…

It's been so long that he's forgotten most of the words now. But one of the many advantages of humming is that no one will know that you don't know the words. He just lets the tune carry him, step after step, until finally, the hazy outline of a building, and then another, then more enter his sight.

Maybe it was just his mind fooling him, but the journey did seem a little shorter with a musical pep in his step. He chuckles and thinks to himself that Cynthia would approve.

It hasn't been easy, living day by day in these parched sands. But one step at a time, he's making it work. These are just hard times.

---

Yarne is, to put it simply, terrified beyond measure.

"Didn't you hear me, boy?" the knight asks gruffly, his voice muffled by the thick visor over his face. "I asked you a question."

"O-oh, sorry," the poor half-taguel stammers. "I didn't hear you."

"Didn't hear?" The knight looks at his companions. "With those ears, I'd think you could hear a mosquito pissing a mile away."

The half dozen or so knights all erupt into laughter. Yarne shivers, nervously gripping the Beaststone in his pouch. He doesn't want to fight, but there might be no other way out.

"I asked if you were lost, bunny boy," the knight says.

"L-lost? Oh, yes, definitely," Yarne says. "I don't know where I am."

"Real skittish fella, ain'tcha?" the knight remarks. "Like a real bunny."

Yarne's blood runs cold.

The knight lifts his visor. The man is middle-aged, his skin hardened and heavy with wrinkles and cracks. Despite his gruff appearance, his smile appears genuine. "Relax, boy. I ain't gonna hurt you, so long as you're of a peaceful sort. It's just our job to sort things out, keep trouble out of this place. After all, we're the protectors of Law's End. The Stonewall Knights."

The Stonewall Knights? It's just like Uncle Randy's note said! He might be okay after all!

The young half-taguel swallows. "Do… do you think I could join you?" Yarne asks.

"Join us?" The man glances at his armored fellows, and they all chuckle. "Take no offense at this, boy, but you don't look like much. Don't even have proper armor, just that leather jerkin thing. Do you really think you're Stonewall Knight material?"

Yarne takes a deep, slow breath. He stands straight, shoulders back. "I-I am not just a boy. I am a taguel. I may not look like much in this form, but you haven't seen my real strength."

The man leans his head, cracking his neck back and forth. "That so? Never heard of a taguel. What do you got?"

Yarne pulls the Beaststone from the pouch at his waist. "Stand back a bit." The knights oblige, giving him some room. "Alright, here we go!"

The Beaststone glows in his grip. He widens his stance, then slams his hands down onto the ground. The power of the stone draws into the earth, tapping into the natural pulse of the ground deep below. That pulse flows back into his hands and feet, and his heart taps into the ancient flow. The even rhythm of the earth becomes his strength, fueling the transformation into his beast form.

He leaps into the air, and in a flash, his form shifts, and the great rabbit lands with a heavy thud on the ground, kicking up a little cloud of dust. The knights stagger back, a few of them placing their hands nervously on the hilts of their swords. Yarne stands up on his hind legs, towering over the men below.

Their leader steps forward and whistles, impressed. "That's a hell of a talent, boy. Is that rabbit form of yours as strong as it looks?"

In response, Yarne hops over to a nearby tree. He tenses his powerful hind legs, then springs upward, rising a dozen feet or so. While in midair, he turns and flexes his legs again, then kicks at a thick limb of the tree. The limb splinters, nearly breaking off entirely, hanging on by a few sad wooden sinews. He turns once more in the air to land on his feet when he hits the ground again.

The knight leader claps a few times, the metal that shrouds his hands clanking and scraping, as he and his followers approach Yarne again. "Color me impressed, son. With strength like that, you might be just what Law's End needs."

With another flash, Yarne returns to his human form. He rises from his crouched position on the ground. It's only now that he realizes that even in his human form, he stands a couple inches taller than all of the Stonewall Knights. Maybe he's just standing a bit taller now.

The knight leader extends a gauntleted hand. "I am Gyral, the leader of the Stonewall Knights. Who are you?"

Yarne hesitantly shakes Gyral's hand. "I'm Yarne. Yarne Woodhaven."

"Woodhaven, eh? That's an Ylissean name," Gyral says. "You're a long way from home here in Law's End, Yarne Woodhaven."

"I am? Wh-where is this?"

"You're in Plegia, son. Southwest Plegia. About as far from Ylisse as you can get without getting on a boat," Gyral says with a laugh. "You really are lost, aren't you?"

Uncle Randy didn't mention that in his note! He just said if he stuck with the Stonewall Knights, he would be fine until the Shepherds came to get him. He didn't mention the Stonewall Knights are headquartered in the Grimleal home country!

"Ahah, yeah, I guess I am," Yarne laughs nervously. "Been on the road for a while."

"Well, I think your skills might serve the Stonewall Knights well. Got much experience in combat?"

Yarne's eyes become distant for a moment. "Entirely too much, yes."

Ignoring the young man's change in demeanor, Gyral says, "Well that's a relief." He leans in closer and grins, an almost sinister edge to his expression. "What about your experience fighting cavalry?"

---

"Miss Severa? Are you awake?"

Severa groans, turning in her bed. "No, I'm not. Leave me alone," she says, her voice muffled by the pillow her face is currently buried in.

"Oh," the old man says, clearly unsure how to respond. "It's just that the children were asking about you."

The redhead groans again. "What do they want?"

"Well, they were hoping you would join us. It's Camus Day, after all. It's a celebration."

"What the hell is Camus Day?" Severa grumbles. Finally admitting to herself that she's probably not going to be going back to sleep, she drags herself up to a sitting position.

"Ah, of course. I forget you're new to our village. The great Grustian hero of old, Camus the Sable, was born right here, in this village. Every year, we commemorate the day of his birth. It's one of our most important festivals," the elder explains.

Right, Severa thinks with a roll of her eyes, I bet every other village in the region teaches their kids that Camus was born there.

"Didn't Grust collapse as a country like 2000 years ago?" Severa asks.

"W-well, yes," the elder stammers. "But it's still an important part of this land's history. I know that you aren't originally from this village, but it would still mean a lot to us if you would join us in celebrating. You've been doing plenty to help us, so please allow us to express our thanks."

"You could thank me by letting me sleep," Severa grumbles, too quietly for the elder to hear on the other side of the door. She starts to sigh, then stops short when she realizes it's what Cordelia would do. "If you're really that insistent that I join your little party, I suppose I could make an appearance," she says at last.

"That's wonderful!" the elder exclaims. "I'll tell the others you're coming, then."

Only when she's confident the elder has left does Severa allow herself to smile. The kids were asking about her? That's a new one. She always got the impression they were scared of her.

She takes her time getting ready, making sure her hair is neatly pulled into her usual twintails. As she pulls on her boots with a grunt, she looks over in the corner next to her bed. Her sword and pauldron lie on the ground, where she can easily reach them even if she's caught by surprise in her sleep.

Should she take them? It's a festival, after all; would bringing her weapons make everyone anxious when they're supposed to be having fun? Would it help everyone relax, knowing she's ready to respond to any threat? Then again, it would be a drag to have to haul them all over the village. Besides, it's not healthy to be shackled to your weapon all the time. At this rate, she's going to end up like Lucina, even bringing her sword into the bath.

She crosses the room and grabs her sword and pauldron. Damn it. With a huff, she straps her pauldron on, then heads for the door.

The grumpy mercenary was not ready for the blast of midmorning light that assails her eyes when she opens the door. She stops just short of hissing as her eyes are forced to adjust to the sun's wrath.

Severa is not a morning person.

But apparently the rest of the village's residents are. Already she can see the preparations for the holiday are well underway. Various black decorations have been put up, from cloth streamers to banners to tablecloths. Fitting, she supposes, for the man called the Sable.

The name does not sit well with her. It reminds her of the gemstone that was missing in the future. The one thing that stopped Lucina from performing the Awakening and stopping Grima. Even now, it's somewhere out there. Uncle Randy said it's somewhere in Plegia. Not that she can really help with that. She would have to cross the sea to even get to mainland Plegia. She's not even sure if Plegia has a claim on this island.

In any case, Sable is hardly a name she would give to a national hero.

She shakes her head to clear such dreary thoughts. Two more decorations are brought out, and they are clearly the centerpieces of the festival. One is a model of a man astride a horse, presumably stuffed with straw or something. He wears all black, holds a wooden prop that Severa assumes is meant to be the great lance Gradivus, and he has straw hair, 'combed' back. The other is a model of a dragon. The dragon is very front-heavy, with no wings to speak of. It seems clear to her that it's meant to resemble the ruler of the former country of Dolhr, Medeus.

"Aren't they wonderful?" the village elder says behind Severa, startling her.

"Jeez, don't sneak up on me like that," Severa grumbles.

"I'm sorry, I thought you knew I was here," the elder says, failing to hide the amusement in his voice. "In any case, I hope you like the sculptures. My granddaughter was in charge of creating them this year."

The decorations are set on a large table in the center of the town square, the Camus sculpture brandishing Gradivus at the Medeus model.

Severa raises a brow. "Why do you make it look like Camus fought against Medeus? You know the Grustian army worked against the Archanean League, right?"

The elder chuckles. "Well, that may be true. But tradition teaches us that General Camus worked in the shadows to ensure the success of the League in the end. He was forced by his loyalty to Grust to comply with the king's decisions on the surface, but he took steps to ensure that the Hero-King Marth would succeed."

Severa frowns. "Maybe it would have been better if he just didn't work for Medeus at all. There were a bunch of people that weren't afraid to be called a traitor or a coward for choosing the right side. He just let his pride get in the way him doing what he knew was right."

The elder is silent for a few seconds. "I'm sorry you see it that way, Severa. It's true that Camus was a flawed man. But I believe he did everything he could to make up for the wrongs he committed and the evil actions he allowed his country to take part in. I believe he was, in the end, a man redeemed."

Severa internally winces. She can tell she really hurt this old man's feelings. She doesn't think she's wrong, but Uncle Randy would have called that "truth without tact." Sometimes it's not enough to be right.

"Alright, I suppose you have a point," she admits. "It's better to realize you're on the wrong path and turn around than to never try to make things right."

She glances behind her and sees the elder smiling softly. "I appreciate you saying so," he says.

"It's Severa!" someone shouts. Severa looks over and sees a gaggle of around half a dozen kids rushing up the lane toward her and the elder. The little boy who announced Severa's presence leads the pack.

The kids skid to a halt in front of Severa. "Hi Severa," one of the younger girls in the group says timidly. Reminds her a bit of Noire.

"Your elder told me that you kids were pestering him about making sure I come to this festival of yours," Severa says.

The kids shift around, none of them wanting to be the one to admit they're responsible for dragging Severa out of bed. Finally, the first boy, a lad of 12 or 13 named Izak, speaks up. "Yeah. You don't spend a whole bunch of time with the villagers even though you've been helping us for a long time. We just wanted to make sure you didn't miss the biggest celebration of the year."

Severa feels a prideful warmth in her chest. Her hard work is being recognized! It's about time, really.

…

Alright, fine, giving her a small cottage to herself for as long as she stays here was already a pretty good reward. And the payment she's getting from the village for protecting it from the odd bandit or Risen. And the free food she occasionally gets from the families around the village.

…

Okay already! They've been extremely nice so far, she admits it. They've earned an expression of gratitude.

She smiles at the kids. "Well, thank you for making sure I made it."

The youngest of the children, a boy of about 6 named Briar, shuffles around, trying to summon the will to speak up. Finally, he manages to say, "Um, Severa? If it's okay, can we hear you play music later?"

Severa's smile takes a turn for the smug. "I thought I heard someone snooping outside my house the other night. You were listening to me play, weren't you?"

The boy looks down shamefully.

Severa sighs. "I didn't say I was mad, did I?" Briar looks up hopefully. She can't say no to a face like that. "Fine, I'll get out my guitar later on."

The kids all cheer. It becomes immediately clear to Severa that this was the real reason they wanted her to come to the festival. She rolls her eyes, but privately thinks how flattering it is that they'd go to this extent to hear her play more.

"Elder! Elder!" a man shouts, rushing over from the edge of the village. Severa recognizes him as he approaches.

It's Holland. The man that Uncle Randy mentioned specifically in his note. Whenever she's been around him, he reminds her that none of this is permanent. She can't get too comfortable here, no matter how kind the people have been. Change is coming, sooner or later.

"What is it, Holland?" the elder replies.

"There's a group of soldiers approaching! They're coming from the old fort to the north, I think," Holland pants, apparently having rushed straight over from the northern lookout post.

"The mercenary fortress? What do they want?" the elder asks.

Normally the soldiers at the mercenary fortress keep to themselves, except to repel threats in the area. All the surrounding villages pay them, usually in the form of food and clothes and other supplies, and in return they offer protection to the villages from major threats when they show up. Severa wouldn't be caught dead working for them, though. They look like such a rowdy, unorganized bunch. Instead she works directly for this particular village, offering her protection full-time.

Holland takes a couple deep breaths to catch his breath. "There was a new group with them. Guys I've never seen before."

The elder raises an eyebrow. "How many came here?"

"About a dozen, I think."

The old man thinks for a few seconds. "Well, I suppose I'd better go meet with them."

Severa steps beside him. "Then I'm coming too." She has a bad feeling she knows where this is going.

The elder smiles. "I appreciate it, Severa."

Severa looks at the gaggle of kids. "Go find your moms and dads, now. Stay with them until I say it's okay, got it?"

The kids, instinctively understanding the seriousness of the situation, nod and rush off to find their families.

Severa and the elder go out to the edge of town, where sure enough, there's a group of twelve or thirteen men standing in a huddle, most of them wearing armor and sporting weapons. The exception is the man standing at the front of the group. He wears official-looking robes, holding a regal staff. However, despite the opulence of his outfit, Severa would only use one word to describe the man: greasy. His hair, his skin, his expression. Greasy. He makes her want to take a bath just looking at him.

He smiles at her as they approach, sending a disgusted shiver down her spine. He turns his attention back to the elder.

"I take it you run the village?" he asks, his voice as unpleasant as his countenance.

"Well, I hesitate to say that I 'run' it, exactly. But I suppose being the oldest man in the village counts for something," the elder replies with a good-natured chuckle.

The man laughs too, but it's unkind and abrasive, like a blade dragging on rusted metal. "Then you're the man I'm here to see. My name is Nelson, but you may refer to me as General Nelson."

Nelson. Severa shouldn't be surprised, given what Uncle Randy's note said about this man. Instinctively, she clenches her fist, rubbing her mother's ring with her thumb anxiously.

The elder raises his brows, as if impressed. "General, you say? Are you from the Plegian army?"

"Not remotely! I was in the high command of the great Emperor Walhart of the Valmese Empire himself," Nelson replies.

"The Valmese Empire," the elder replies reverently. "My, you've come a long way. What is a member of Emperor Walhart's high command doing all the way across the sea like this?"

Nelson chuckles and takes an ominous step forward. "Just greeting the new neighbors. You see, we've taken up residence in the fortress up the road a ways. The mercenaries residing there have agreed that their interests are better served working for me and my men." A few of the soldiers behind him laugh thuggishly.

"Well, it's kind of you to come out to greet us," the elder says.

Severa can't believe how polite the elder is being to this slimeball. He's just letting Nelson walk all over him! She looks over at the old man, and she notices his hands are shaking at his sides. Her heart aches with pity. It wasn't fair for her to expect an old man to stand up to a group of ruffians like this.

Nelson chuckles again. "I think we understand each other, old man. Can't wait to get better acquainted. You'll be seeing plenty of us from now on," he says.

The elder grunts noncommittally in response. Severa glares at the general, her eyes burning with ire.

Nelson looks at her, then glances at the sword at her waist. "You thinking of drawing on me, girl?"

A few seconds of long, tense silence pass. Only the sound of breeze, the faint noises of the villagers far behind, and the uncomfortable rustling of armor plates fill the air. Severa's fingers linger over the hilt of her sword. She is thinking of drawing on him.

Whatever happens, whatever you see, whatever Nelson or anyone else does, your first priority is KEEPING YOURSELF SAFE. I know it will be hard to resist challenging him. Don't worry; he'll get what's coming to him. But I don't want you taking any unnecessary risks until I come to get you. DO NOT challenge him alone.

The words in Uncle Randy's note surface in her mind. He anticipated this exact scenario, and how she would feel about it. And now she has to trust that he has the situation under control.

She lowers her hand. Nelson scoffs. "You provincials will learn proper manners soon enough." He and his men turn to leave. Severa watches the group strut back up the road, gritting her teeth as they laugh cruelly among themselves.

"Severa. Let's get back to the others and tell them it's alright," the elder says quietly.

Severa stares for a few seconds longer, then grunts concedingly and follows him back toward the village.

Uncle Randy'd better not wait too long to show up. She wants to beat the hell out of that greasy bastard and teach him some proper manners.

---

Noire is not having a good time.

She's been running for hours now. She's exhausted, but every time she pauses even for a couple minutes, she remembers the danger she's in, and it spurs her on to continue.

Ever since she read Uncle Randy's note, she hasn't been able to relax. She understands that he was being helpful, and she's grateful that he's helping her, but it's undeniably stressful to feel like you're constantly being watched.

It's only when the sun is well below the tops of the trees and preparing to slip below the horizon that Noire finally pauses. She knows she can't run nonstop forever, and she's going to need to sleep. Before she gets to work preparing a campsite for the night, she fishes Randall's note out of her bag and reads it over once more.

Dear Noire,

First, deep breaths. I know you're scared. You are going to be okay. It's going to be hard to be dropped by yourself in an unfamiliar time and place. I need you to do your best to stay strong.

I won't lie to you. If you drop where I think you will, you need to be on your guard. You'll be pretty far to the northeast, deep in Feroxi territory. There isn't much of a military presence up there, and that's going to mean bandits. Specifically, there's a group led by a man named Ezra. He and his gang are slavers, capturing innocent people to sell off to others. If they find you, they will try to do this to you as well.

With most of the kids, I'm pretty much telling them to stay put and let me come get them. For the most part, they're going to have relatively safe, stable places to stay, at least for a while. You, on the other hand, are pretty much in danger immediately if you stay put. That means I think you should try to get a move on sooner rather than later.

I'm looking at my map as I write this. I want to tell you to go west and head straight for Ný Von as soon as you can, but that might not be feasible. There's a massive mountain range that cuts your starting location off from the capital, if I'm remembering everything right. I have no idea what threats may or may not exist in the mountains. It's possible they're perfectly safe, but it's equally possible that bandits or dangerous animals make their home there. I wish I could tell you more.

But there's another potential option. If you follow the line of the mountain range, you'll find a town near the southern mountains. This town is called Barston. If the Randall from the past does everything I think he'll do, he and the Shepherds should be familiar with this place. He should have already repelled the Risen presence that threatened the town.

However, there's a chance that I'm wrong, and he won't have been to this place at all. If that's true, it's likely there will still be Risen in the area. I know you know how to fight Risen. Obviously my preference is for you to not have to fight, but it is safer for you to have to face down Risen than human opponents. At least Risen are reasonably predictable. Human opponents are much more dangerous.

Ultimately, I'm leaving a lot of the judgment about the situation to you. You have two possible options. You can head west through the mountains to try and get to Ný Von, which should almost certainly be a safe place to remain once you get there. Or you can avoid the mountains and head to Barston, which is also probably—but not certainly—safe for you. I trust you to make the best decision for yourself.

The most important thing is this: STAY SAFE. If you are ever in a risky situation, do not hesitate to run and hide. But if that no longer becomes an option, be ready to fight back. Your own safety is your top priority until I come get you.

Remember to take time to stop and breathe. You are going to be okay. I am coming for you, wherever you end up.

—Randy

She follows his advice. She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. Just like Father taught her, so long ago. Meditation does not come naturally to Noire, but even just making the attempt usually helps to calm her down. It reminds her of her father. She can't wait to see him again.

Her mother, on the other hand… it's not that she doesn't want to see her. She does. But it's… harder. Father and Uncle Randy did what they could to keep Mother from going too far with her experiments and hexes, but in the end, they could only do so much. Randall had to deal with the loss of Robin and had to become the Shepherds' de facto tactician, to say nothing of his responsibilities toward his own children, which meant his hands were nearly constantly full.

And Father was dead. He was one of the first Shepherds to die after Robin and Chrom were lost. And his death… changed Mother. She grew more fervent every day in her research. In her tests. Experiments. Noire bore much of the brunt of that, despite Randall's efforts to shield her.

At the same time, when Noire wasn't being cursed or hexed with some new affliction or malady, Tharja usually left Noire alone. It was strange. She dreaded much of the time that Mother would spend with her, but as soon as she was left alone, she found herself lonely and wanted to be at her mother's side again. For all her faults, Tharja is a prolific sorcerer. There was so much that Noire could learn from her. She wanted to prove to her mother—and to herself—that she could measure up to that standard.

But she never got the chance. Her mother died defending her from the tide of the dead. And this left Noire more confused than ever. Did Tharja care about her after all? Uncle Randy assured her time and again that despite Tharja's actions, her mother loved her. That Tharja was not a stable person, and she was abysmal at showing affection in positive ways, but she was not malicious.

Noire knows that Randall wanted to help put her mind at ease. But it just made her even more confused. If her mother loved her, why did she ignore her half the time and experiment on her the other half? What explanation could there possibly be for that? But if Tharja hated her, why did she die for her? Her last act in the world was screaming at her daughter to run, to get away, as a horde of undead swarmed her and pulled her apart before Noire's eyes.

That's why she wants to see Tharja. To get answers. To get some sort of closure. Does her mother love her? Hate her? Does she care at all? Noire has to know.

Noire sighs, exhausted. So much for clearing her mind. Might as well finish setting up camp.

In the end, she decided that Barston is the smarter choice. Noire hates Risen. She's terrified of them. But Uncle Randy is right that she at least has experience fighting them. If she runs into human bandits in the mountains, she might not know how to deal with them. On top of that, she doesn't know much about the sort of food one can find in the mountains. In the woods there are usually small game that can be hunted. Thankfully she has some bread to tide her over tonight at least.

After she eats, she puts out the fire that she had started to warm herself. She's no fan of the dark, but there's a certain comfort in the embrace of the forest's deep night shade. She feels well-hidden, and there is no more secure feeling than that, she thinks.

As she curls up in her bedroll, she wonders what her parents will be like. Will Mother be as scary as she was in the future? Will Father be as kind and gentle as she remembers? She runs her fingers idly through her blonde hair. Father's hair. The occasional strands of black hair pepper the blonde, but it can't be denied his golden locks overpowered Mother's dark ones.

It's her first night in the world of the past. She hasn't seen another human being yet. Even so, the world around her feels more alive than the one she left. In the day, despite her panic, part of her was registering all the green that surrounded her. And now, even in the deep of night, a chorus of wildlife rings in the air. This world is still alive.

The thought makes her smile. Her first since she came back to the past.

---

"Come on, you've gotta teach me!"

"I've 'gotta' do no such thing, you brat. Leave me be," the greying warrior growls.

"You killed that bear with nothing but a knife! You must be incredibly strong!" Kjelle goes on, as if she didn't hear his response at all. "I need to be that strong too."

There's no doubt in Kjelle's mind that this must be the man Randall meant. Randall did not have a name or a physical description for the guy, but he said that she would meet a man who inspired her to become his apprentice. At first she was skeptical; why should she need some man she doesn't know to teach her how to fight? She's already been in more fights than probably anybody from this time!

But after seeing how this man stopped a rampaging bear in the middle of the town square with nothing but the kitchen knife with which he was carving his family's dinner, she changed her mind pretty quickly. He had moved like water, dodging claw swipes with incredible ease and disorienting the beast with his superior agility. And the way he effortlessly slipped onto the bear's back and began plunging the knife in, striking at critical point after point with expert precision. She couldn't believe how quickly it was over.

And now, three days later, she can't believe that he still won't take her on as his pupil, damn it.

The man sets down the handles of his cart with an irritated grunt. "It's not a question of strength, girl. It's a question of wits. Reaction. Reading the enemy. Only after you know what the enemy will do is it any good to be strong or swift. A man who can lift a thousand hogs is just as dead as anyone else would be if you plunge a dagger through his eye."

"Then teach me that! Reaction! Reading the enemy! All that stuff!" Kjelle insists. "I need to become the most able warrior in the world if I'm going to avenge my family."

"Avenge your…?" The man pauses, then shakes his head with a frown. "There's no satisfaction to be found at the end of the path of vengeance, girl. If that's all you need to be strong for, then I'll have nothing to do with it."

"That's not the only reason!" the young woman exclaims. "I have to protect the friends and family I have left, too!"

The warrior's eyes narrow. "You should have opened with that. Protecting the weak is a noble cause. Getting revenge is entirely selfish."

Kjelle nods earnestly. "Got it. If I promise to use what you teach me only to protect the innocent, will you teach me?"

One of the warrior's eyelids starts twitching. "You know, you've been following me so persistently, watching me haul this buck back into town, yet you haven't offered to take a turn at the cart once."

Kjelle can't help but feel the heat of shame in her face. "Er… right. Sorry. I can take that, if you wa–"

"I'm not saying I need the help," the man interrupts. "I'm saying you lack tact. You've been pestering me for days, but in all that time, you haven't so much as asked my name. You haven't told me yours."

Kjelle's gaze is drawn toward the dirt between them. She recalls distant memories of being scolded by her mother. It wasn't so far off from this feeling.

"You're right. I apologize. My name is Kjelle. What's yours?" she asks.

The man chuckles through his nose. So the girl can follow instructions after all.

"I am Michael." He says nothing for a moment, pondering his options. "Where are you from, Kjelle?"

She hesitates to answer. "Far from here," she says at last. "Someplace I can never return to."

That certainly raises more questions than answers, but Michael decides it's not his business. Not now, anyway. "What have you been doing for food since you arrived here?"

"I've been making my way," she replies, almost defensive. It's apparent to Michael that she hasn't eaten much lately.

"Well, come with me, then. You'll meet the wife. She'll have dinner nearly ready for us by now, I wouldn't wonder." Michael picks the cart back up and starts walking again.

Kjelle follows at his side. "Does this mean… you'll teach me?" she asks hopefully.

Michael groans. "If I were to agree to something like that, which I will stress that I have not yet, you'll have to earn your keep. It's not an easy life this far up north. Everyone works if they want to survive, even kids like you."

"I'm not a kid," Kjelle responds automatically. Toward the later end of their time on the road, she had come to really hate it when Randall would call the group 'kids.' It didn't seem right, after everything they'd seen and done.

"Yeah? How old are you?" Michael asks with a skeptical chuckle.

Kjelle scowls. "...Fifteen. I'll be sixteen in September."

Michael laughs aloud. "Hate to break it to you, but that's a kid."

"It's nearly an adult," Kjelle grumbles. "And I've been taking care of myself for long enough that I feel like it should count."

"Whatever you say, girl," Michael says. She doesn't like 'girl' much either, but she'll take it over 'kid.'

After a while, they reach Michael's little cottage at the edge of town. A woman—Michael's wife, Kjelle assumes—emerges from the house when she hears them approaching. She's a good deal younger than Michael, perhaps 22 or 23, while he's in his late 30s by Kjelle's estimate.

"Michael, who's this?" the woman asks, smiling but with a touch of concern in her tone. "I wish I'd known we were going to have company this evening. I'd have made more stew."

"Bah, I'm sure you've made us plenty. And besides, we won't be hurting for meat for a while with this new friend of ours I bagged today." Michael jerks his head back at the buck lying in his cart. "Speaking of which, we still need to skin the bastard. Help me get him hung up so we can get to work, girl," he says to Kjelle.

"Uh, right. I…" She's embarrassed to admit this, but better to fess up now than make a mess of things later. "I've never skinned a deer before."

Michael shakes his head sadly. "What are they even teaching the youth down south these days? Well, you're going to learn. Like I said before, you're going to be pulling your weight."

"You said I'd be pulling my weight if you agreed to teach me. Does that mean you will?" Kjelle asks with a confident smirk. Even Uncle Randy would be proud of a turnabout like that.

Michael grunts noncommittally in response. Kjelle accepts that as a victory.

Michael's wife chuckles. "I suppose I should introduce myself before the two of you get elbow-deep in deer entrails. I'm Nadya."

"The elbow-deep in entrails part already happened, hon. This is just the skinning," Michael says, starting to pull the cart out behind the house. "I've got a gambrel out back, Kjelle. That's where we'll be doing the skinning."

"Nice to meet you," Kjelle says, awkwardly torn between following her gruff new mentor and being polite to his wife. "I'm Kjelle." She settles for an awkward, quick handshake with Nadya before hustling to catch up with Michael.

As they reach a wooden structure that Kjelle supposes must be a 'gambrel,' Michael says, "You'll want to lose that armor, girl. It'll just get in the way."

"No," Kjelle says without a second's hesitation. "I'm fine."

Michael raises a brow. "We're safe here, girl. You don't need it."

"I know. I'm keeping it on," she says firmly.

The warrior shrugs, deciding the issue isn't worth pursuing. "Long as you keep up and don't get in the way."

"Right. Just tell me what to do." Her expression is hard-set.

"Okay. Then help me get the beast hung up so we can begin," Michael says.

One quite gruesome tutorial in the art of rending the flesh of a deer from its body later, the mentor and student have gleaned a satisfying amount of skin for tanning. Kjelle learned quickly, but maneuvering around her massive armor shell proved challenging for both her and Michael. He considered saying something many times, but something about the forcefulness of her refusal to take her armor off made him hesitate. In the end, she was good enough.

"Are we going to butcher the meat now?" Kjelle asks, a little apprehensively. She's surprised herself with her moderate squeamishness about all this. She's killed dozens, probably hundreds of Risen over the years, so violence is no stranger to her. Although, she reflects, Risen do have the rather convenient property of dissolving completely when killed. There's never any butchery or disposing of bodies to do. They're just gone. Having to pull a beast apart piece by piece is new for her. Lucina, Owain, and Noire usually went on hunting outings. Kjelle's massive armor would have made for poor hunting.

"No. It will be cool tonight. We will allow the meat to age for the night. Most hunters do not know this, but it makes the meat much tenderer," Michael explains as he cleans his knives in a bucket of water. He finishes the cleaning, then holds one of the knives out at Kjelle. "Now that I've told you this secret, I expect you to keep it. My quarry is always in high demand, and that's because I sell better meat than anyone else. And part of that is because I know to age the meat."

"Got it," Kjelle replies.

"Good. Now, we eat. The stew should be ready," he says, rising from his squatting position next to the bucket. As the pair walk toward the house, he goes on, "It took some doing, but you learned quickly. Tomorrow, we will see if your combat prowess will improve as the same rate."

"So… you'll teach me?" the young knight asks.

Michael smiles slightly. "You just spent the better part of your evening helping me skin a massive buck. At least for today, you've earned your keep."

Kjelle beams proudly. "I'll measure up to your expectations, sir."

He chuckles. "Can't remember the last time I was called 'sir' by anyone."

The pair enter the house. Nadya turns from her stew pot when she hears them come in. "I was starting to wonder if the pair of you would ever come in. Finished with the deer?" she asks.

"For now. Tomorrow is butchering. After this one's first lesson, that is," Michael says, planting a massive hand on top of Kjelle's head. Makes her feel short.

"Lesson?" Nadya asks.

"She's got it in her head that I can teach her how to be a fighter. She saw me put down that bear in town the other day."

Nadya's smile flickers. "I see. Well, as long as you're both careful. I don't want to find out you're cutting each other to ribbons."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll be careful," Michael says with a dismissive wave. "We good on dinner?"

Nadya chuckles. "I was starting to worry it would get cold. It's been ready for a while." She starts ladling the stew into wooden bowls and handing them to Michael to place at the table. It's a small table, with two chairs and a little stool as a third seat, clearly repurposed from somewhere else. It's apparent that this couple usually eats alone.

"Alright, with the deer it's one thing, but we've got a little table here. The armor's gotta come off. You're not gonna get attacked here," Michael says.

A chill runs up Kjelle's spine. She does not like taking off her armor. "Do I have to?" she asks reluctantly.

"Yes. No heavy knight armor at the dinner table," he replies.

Kjelle fidgets uncomfortably for a moment. "I'll… take off the shell. But the rest stays."

Michael huffs. "Have it your way."

Kjelle slowly unclasps the buckles holding her shell in place, removing the weighty steel mantle from her shoulders. She sets it down in the corner, still in her line of sight while sitting on the stool. She feels the couple's eyes on her as she walks back to the table.

"Alright," Michael says brightly. "We've worked hard today, and gods know there's no better spice for your meal than hunger. Let's tuck in."

It's only when she sits down in front of her bowl that Kjelle realizes just how starving she really is. And Michael is no liar; with how hungry she is, this stew is finer than anything she can remember eating in a long while.

---

The young man is struck by the beauty of the woman across the way. Not that it's the first time he's seen her; he noticed her the day he arrived here, a few months ago. He's just struck by her beauty again. It's sort of a regular thing for him.

The woman named Cardina is inspecting the flower stand before her, carefully choosing which ones she wants to buy. Inigo swallows the persistent bundle of nerves in his throat before approaching.

"I think those hibiscus blossoms would look lovely on you," Inigo says as he approaches.

Cardina is startled for a brief moment, but—unseen by Inigo behind her—her expression deadens when she realizes who's talking. She forces something approaching a smile before turning to face him. "I'm surprised you know anything about flowers. I thought you mercenary types were always too busy trampling them when your cutting each other to pieces on the battlefield," she says, not doing a great job of hiding her impatience.

Inigo chuckles. "For the average axeslinger, you would no doubt be right. But don't lump me in with those common brutes. I may fight like a beast, but I court like a gentleman."

Cardina rolls her eyes. "A very persistent gentleman."

Ignoring her jab, Inigo steps a little to the side and takes one of the hibiscus blossoms, admiring it in his hand. "You know, hibiscus flowers are said to represent delicate beauty. That's why I think they are the perfect fit for you."

The young woman snorts. "Delicate beauty, huh? Is that how I strike you? Just exactly what part of me seems delicate to you?"

The flower merchant watching this exchange elects to just stand and observe. He suspects this will be a sight.

"Well…" Inigo is a bit stumped. Don't girls like being called beautiful? "Not to say that you're delicate, as in fragile, per se. More like…"

Cardina leans in expectantly. "Uh-huh?"

"Like a flower! They are beautiful, yes, but… ephemeral."

"Meaning..?"

"Well, they say true beauty is in the eye of the beholder, yes? Even though the flower may fade, its beauty lingers in the mind afterward!"

Cardina's eyes narrow. "Are you suggesting my beauty is fading?"

What is even happening here? "No! I mean that, in you, I see the same beauty that I see in the hibiscus. Even when the blossoms wilt, I will ever cherish the precious flower that–"

"So I'm wilting now?" Cardina asks incredulously. "I'm sooo sorry that a woman in her mid-twenties is a bit on the ancient side for you, twerp."

"That's not what I'm saying at all!" Inigo cries, his eyes searching around for some hope of escape. All he gets is the flower merchant behind her smirking at him. "I was just trying to pay you a compliment!"

"Well, sorry if I'm the first to clue you in, but women generally don't like being told they're wilting," Cardina says crossly.

Inigo sighs. "Look, can I start over?"

The irritated woman closes her eyes for a long moment. "I don't know why I'm bothering. But yes."

Come on Inigo, get it together. You're the son of the Duke of Roseanne, for the gods' sake. He takes a deep breath. "Alright. All that I wanted to say was that these flowers are beautiful, and so are you. I'd like to buy you some, if you'd let me."

In that moment, Cardina is forced to reflect on her sanity. She must surely be losing it.

Because that just made her blush a bit.

Cardina allows the slightest of smiles to creep across her face. "You may, Inigo."

"Thank you, Cardina." Inigo sets about picking out his favorite dozen of the flowers in the baskets on the stand. He catches the merchant's eye for a brief moment, and receives an approving nod.

When he's gathered up his selections, Inigo goes on, "And for what it's worth, I've never minded that you're older than me. Frankly, a woman that's a little more mature is exactly the sort of thing I…" He senses a chill in the air.

He glances over his shoulder, then immediately wishes he had not. Eyes full of righteous fury bore holes in his head.

"Jerk!" Cardina whips her leg back and swings it forward, striking Inigo squarely in the shin. Her beauty might be delicate, but those boots are not.

Inigo flings the flowers into the air as he instantly grasps his leg in agony, his bruised shin sending ripping impulses of pain directly to his brain. He sucks in air through gritted teeth as he watches Cardina storm off down the road.

After taking a long few seconds to let the worst of the seething pain subside, Inigo lowers his leg and turns back to face the merchant, unable to look him in the eye.

"Son, anyone ever tell you to quit while you're ahead?" the merchant asks, chuckling.

Inigo says nothing. What's there to say?

The merchant holds out a hand expectantly. "Three gold pieces."

"For what?" Inigo asks irritably.

"For the flowers you just tossed into the mud," the merchant replies, nodding at the scattered, sad hibiscus blossoms on the ground. A few of them draw extra pity, trampled and brown after Cardina stamped them out as she left.

With a sigh, Inigo forces a smile onto his face. "Well, she's a tough one. But that's not the end of that story," he says, fishing a few small coins out of the pouch at his waist.

"At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised to find the end of that story sees you facedown in a ditch outside of town," the merchant replies.

"Nonsense. The story between Inigo and any fair maiden always ends with her smiling," Inigo says. He drops the coins into the merchant's waiting hand.

"You facedown in a ditch and Cardina smiling are not outcomes that can't exist together, you know," the merchant says.

"Hah-hah," Inigo says dismissively. He glances at the setting sun in the west. "Alright, I'll see you around."

As Inigo starts to walk away, the merchant calls after him, "Maybe jewelry would get the job done better. Don't have to worry about all that 'wilting' misunderstanding."

"I'll let you know if fancy jewelry is in my budget any time soon," Inigo calls back with a chuckle.

Only when he's a good distance away from the merchant and the market does Inigo allow himself to frown. His shin hurts, but more than that, his pride is wounded. It's not the first time she's turned him down, but it was the first time she actually seemed angry about it. Normally she just brushes him off. He's no fan of that either, but he's used to it.

He's still sulking about it when he has his dinner by his lonesome at the nearby tavern. He hates dining alone. It's been one of the hardest things about living in the past. He's been in this area for months, but he's had a hard time actually making any friends. It's no surprise that there aren't any women wanting to keep him company, fair enough, but even local men often regard him standoffishly. He's never really figured out what's up with that.

In any case, he finishes eating and heads back to the room he's been renting at the nearby inn. It's a far cry from the accommodations he can distantly recall from his early days growing up on the House Virion estate, but it's leagues better than anything he and his friends had in recent years. Even just a decently warm, waterproof room with a sleepable bed is more than they would have dared hope for near the end of things. He digs around under his bed until he finds what he's looking for: an envelope containing a note from Randall. His realest connection to the world of the future.

He doesn't look at most of the note. Just the last few paragraphs.

And I know you won't really listen, but try to keep the philandering to a minimum, huh? Girls will like you more if you just be yourself, I promise. You don't have to put on a show to impress anyone. You're impressive all on your own. Someday, the right girl is going to notice that. But that can only happen if you don't piss off the wrong lady and get yourself throttled.

One more thing. It's not as important to your survival, but it's still vital: keep dancing. Even if you do it at night, off in secret. Even if you don't think you're any good. First off, yes you are. But more importantly, even if you weren't, I know that it makes you feel better. It reminds you of your parents. Of happier times. I don't want you to lose that. So keep dancing.

Just keep safe and stay out of trouble. I'll be coming to get you soon enough.

—Randy

He sighs, folding the note back up. Of course Randall is right. He went back to his would-be-smooth-talking ways, and the universe struck a blow to his pride in retribution. It stings, but if he's honest with himself, he had it coming.

As for the other advice in the note, Inigo has taken it to heart. He waits in his room a while, inspecting his sword for damages or imperfections. But after the moon rises high in the sky, when Inigo is sure most of the village will have gone to bed, he sneaks off.

In the pale moonlight, Inigo has no trouble making his way out to the small, secluded clearing he's come to love so much. On clear nights like this, the moon lights up the clearing like a spotlight. Inigo can imagine a crowd watching, waiting for the show to begin.

In reality, a crowd like that would terrify Inigo. But the audience of his imagination doesn't frighten him for some reason. Maybe it's because they all look so supportive. His friends smiling encouragingly. His father looking on approvingly, pleased at his son's accomplishments. And his mother, unable to help herself but dance in time a little in her seat as she watches, tears of joy in her eyes. For an audience like that, Inigo would dance in a heartbeat.

As he raises a hand in front of him, feeling the pull of the muscles, the line of motion passing through his arm, he feels the next movement, as if it has decided itself what it will be. Each step, each turn, each gesture, flowing from him as if not by his will, but by some unseen muse, puppeting her marionette with expert precision.

He hears the strings of Brady's violin, the aching pull of long, tender notes in the air. He hears Randall's voice, singing quiet words that, though Inigo had never heard them before, seemed so familiar. As if they had always been a part of him. He thinks he may never forget them.

You are the ocean's grey waves, destined to seek
Life beyond the shore just out of reach
Yet the waters ever change, flowing like time
The path is yours to climb

What Inigo does not know is that he really does have an audience. An audience of one.

As Cardina watches the young mercenary dance, she doesn't dare make a sound. Somehow, she's positive that if she makes herself known, he'll stop. Or at the very least, he won't be able to dance like this anymore.

She's captivated. In her 27 years on earth, she has never seen such a soulful performance. She tries not to blink, lest she miss even a moment.

As the man dances in the moonlight, Cardina could swear she sees faint glimmers of light. With every move of his arm or leg, she watches little flecks of blue leap from his body. Like sparks dancing away from a burning log, or little drops of water flinging from a shaken leaf after a storm.

The boy is infuriating. He's an unrelenting flirt, and not even a skilled one at that. She thought him incapable of taking anything seriously.

But here, now, she sees something else. The soul of an artist, in a state of pure creation. It's a beautiful sight. One she will never forget.

---

Gerome,

I know that you have doubts about whether all this, coming to the past and trying to change the future, will really have any effect. Believe me when I tell you, when I contemplate the magnitude of our loss, and how hard I and everyone I love tried to prevent it, it sometimes seems like we were fated to fail. Even so, if you have ever trusted in anything I have said to you, believe this: we can change things. It may not seem like it now, but someday you will be able to look your supposed fate in the face and give it the world's most joyous middle finger. Because we choose whether to accept the lot we are given. And we can choose to make it better. That's what this is all about.

On a more practical note, I am actually not 100 percent sure where you're going to end up. I'm expecting to find you at Wyvern Valley, but that's because I'm pretty sure you'll end up there regardless of where you start out. I won't bother telling you not to go there if you don't initially land there. At least if you end up there I'll know where to look. But I will ask three things of you.

First, when you do get to the valley, please stay there until I come find you. I'm going to have enough things on my plate, so I'd really rather not have to play continent-wide hide and seek with any of you kids.

Second, I ask that you hang onto Minerva. Yeah, you ain't slick, I know what you would go to the valley to do. Minerva wouldn't let it happen anyway, she loves you and Cherche too much to let her boy wander a strange land alone. But just keep her by your side. Trust me, if we don't take care of the threat of the Grimleal, there will be no safe place to release Minerva to anyway.

And finally, and most importantly, STAY SAFE. Don't take any unnecessary risks. We can beat this, but only if we stay alive to do it.

We're going to be okay. Just keep the faith.

—Randy

Gerome scoffs as he finishes reading. It shouldn't surprise him that the old man would anticipate what he was planning. That was the only reason he went along with any of this traveling to the past nonsense in the first place. Allowing Minerva to live out the last of her days with her own kind is the only good that can come of this. The little piece of destiny that he can actually change.

All the rest is set in stone. A dozen idiot teenagers coming back to the past is not going to change the overwhelming tide of fate. The Grimleal's machinations go back generations, probably since the time of the First Exalt. To think that anything Lucina or anyone else could do would stand a chance of uprooting a tree so deeply planted is folly.

To hell with Randall's letter. Gerome came to the past to do one thing. And Randall's obnoxious optimism won't change that.

Minerva gives a whiny snort next to him. He reaches up and strokes her snout gently.

"I know it's strange to be back in the past. You must want to be back in Valm, don't you?" he asks. The aging wyvern snorts softly and shivers her wings. "Believe me, I'm well aware. Plegia has a long history of abusing your kind. Being anywhere on this continent must be stressful for you."

Gerome lowers his hand, and Minerva stands and stretches her wings out. He can tell she's getting restless.

"We'll leave for the valley in the morning, Minervykins. Don't worry. I just want to make sure you get a good night's rest before we try flying. We don't know how traveling to the past like this might have affected you," he says.

The wyvern slumps, obedient but disappointed.

Gerome frowns. He hates to see his precious companion so down. "Say, as long as we're by ourselves… perhaps I could try singing that song Mother used to sing? You liked it when she sang, didn't you?"

Minerva perks up again, letting out an enthused little growl. It's been a long, long time since she's heard Cherche sing. The kindness of Gerome's offer is not lost on her.

Gerome chuckles. "You spoiled girl. Alright. But I won't have you laughing at me if I'm not as good as her. I think I still remember it all." He clears his throat and sings.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
The magic spell you cast,
This is "La vie en rose."
When you kiss me, heaven sighs,
And though I close my eyes,
I see "La vie en rose."

His tune is far from expert, and he breathes at awkward times. In fact, he's not much of a singer at all. But the old wyvern listens intently anyway. Her breathing slows and relaxes as memories of a more peaceful, joyful time return to her.

When you press me to your heart,
I'm in a world apart,
A world where roses bloom.
And when you speak, angels sing from above.
Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.
Give your heart and soul to me,
And life will always be
"La vie en rose."

By the time he finishes the song, Minerva has nearly fallen asleep, curled on the grassy hilltop. Gerome smiles, a rare sight if anyone were to actually witness it. He scoots over and leans on the wyvern, her scales smooth and cool.

He looks out to the southeast. There, just a couple miles away, he can see the great wall that surrounds the city of Ylisstol. Randall is probably there, as well as Chrom and the other Shepherds, and perhaps even Father. Mother is most likely still in Roseanne right now. All of them, whether they know it or not, are walking down a path that will lead inevitably to their destruction. And eventually, inevitably, so is he. But at least he can ensure that Minerva need not suffer the end of the world in solitude. She was taken away from her family so long ago now. She was denied her childhood every bit as much as Gerome himself was.

It's one good thing he can do in this doomed world. And regardless of Randall's naive insistence, that's all he can hope for.

Tomorrow they will begin their journey west. But for now, just for one night, they will sleep under the Ylissean stars.

---

…His name is Ruger, and regardless of how he might disguise himself, he is not Chrom. If someone approaches you and tells you he is Chrom, as a matter of course you should not believe him. If he can't show you 1) his Brand (which you've seen in Lucina's eye a million times) on his upper right arm and 2) his Falchion (which you have also seen a million times), he's not Chrom. If he doesn't have any of the other Shepherds with him, he's not Chrom. If he

The note stops mid-sentence, then picks up again on another line.

You know what? I'm gonna leave all that in this note, because it might still be helpful, but I just came up with a better instruction. Don't believe anyone who says they're Chrom until I come get you and tell you who's Chrom. I'm coming to get you. Just stay on the island, and more importantly, STAY SAFE until I come find you. As long as you don't get wrapped up in Ruger's scheming, you should probably be fairly safe, but don't take my word for it. Always be vigilant.

I don't know how long you'll be there before I come get you. Be prepared to stay for a while. Crossing the ocean takes time. You're smart and resourceful; you'll know what to do.

Be strong. Be brave. I know you can do it.

—Randy

Cynthia blushes furiously at that last line. She can hear his voice so clearly in her head, giving her those last words of encouragement.

She hugs the note to her chest, squealing. "Ohh, Uncle Randy," she says, then immediately catches herself. She looks around, her messy twintails flipping about her head. She then realizes that there's no way anyone could have heard that. She's by herself in a field. Well, except for Kestrel, but he's heard it all a thousand times by now. He just snorts once.

It's been about an hour or so since she and her trusty steed arrived in the past, and already she misses everyone so much. She can't remember a time she felt quite so… alone. For her whole life until now, she's always had someone. Mom and Dad, the other kids, Uncle Randy, there was always someone to walk alongside her. But according to Uncle Randy's note, now she's on an island in the middle of the ocean. And Naga's magic was said to be capable of spreading her friends across both space and time. Not only might they be somewhere else, but they might not even be there yet! Compared to her, they might be still in the… magic portal thingy.

But hold on. That's confusing. She only felt like she was in the portal for a minute or so. And yet there's a chance that some of her friends arrived before she did. Unless she really is arriving first? How would she even know? She doesn't even know when she is! Uncle Randy's note said where she would end up, but not when she would get there.

A terrifying thought strikes her. What if she ended up way off, and she's been sent hundreds of years to the past? That's not an impossibility, right?

What would she even do if that happened? Maybe if Naga still exists in this time, she would help? Or wait… does she need the Fire Emblem for that? That doesn't sound right… or does it? Was it the Falchion that she needed to send everyone to the past? Were the time travel and the Awakening totally separate things or were they connected? That doesn't sound right either. Naga did a lot of things, it's hard to keep track of what things she needed to do what things. It's making Cynthia's head hurt.

That's it. She has to find out what year it is. She needs to meet another person.

"C'mon Kestrel, let's find out where a town is," Cynthia says, mounting her flying steed with practiced ease. He snorts in approval. "Let's go!" the rider shouts, spurring Kestrel into the air.

The pair ascend quickly, the late afternoon air crisp and cool as it whips past them. Already Cynthia is starting to calm down. Everything is easier up in the sky. Everything makes sense here.

When she's high enough, Cynthia pulls Kestrel's reins to prompt him to hover in position while she looks around. Some miles off toward the setting sun—that'd be west, she remembers with pride—there's a small village. Perfect. Someone there can help her get her bearings.

They touch down soon after. Kestrel wasn't the pride of the Ylissean Pegasus Knight Corps for nothing; Cynthia has never seen his equal when it comes to top airspeed. His handling, on the other hand, is… well, you can't be the best at everything. And she supposes he's a little older now than he was in Mother's heyday.

Cynthia dismounts when she lands. Already a few curious villagers are giving her some looks. She guesses pegasi are not a common sight in this town.

A man with two small children at his side approaches Cynthia as she feeds Kestrel an apple out of her saddlebag. "Hello there. What brings you to our village?" he asks, polite but with an underlying air of apprehension.

"I'm, uhh…" Cynthia never did come up with a cover story. "I'm lost. Can you tell me where I am?"

The father narrows his eyes slightly. "It's rare that someone gets lost and finds their way here. Did you come here with one of the mercenary companies?"

"Mercenary companies?" Cynthia asks. "I'm not a mercenary."

"Then I have to ask, what's your business here? Lately all we get are mercenary companies coming through, offering their 'protection' from each other. Just stirring up trouble, really. And we don't want any here," the father replies.

"Please, sir, I'm like… really lost. I don't work for anyone, I just… I need to get my bearings a little bit. I promise that's all." Cynthia tries to give her most supplicating smile.

One of the children, a little girl of no more than five or six, speaks up suddenly. "Can I pet your horse?" Her father shoots her a scolding look.

Cynthia giggles. "Of course you can. Right, Kestrel?" she asks expectantly over her shoulder. Kestrel snorts, clearly not impressed that he's having to play along with this. But he understands at least well enough to know his role in this little interaction. He lowers his head and shakes his wings a little, fluffing out his feathers.

"Can I, Daddy?" the girl asks her father, already demonstrating skilled command of puppy-dog eyes for her age.

The cautious father sighs. "And you're sure it's safe? He won't, I don't know, bite?"

"No, he doesn't bite anything but food," Cynthia says with a smile.

The girl takes that as her cue to approach. Her tiny hand reaches up and tentatively strokes Kestrel's snout. After a second or two, he exhales sharply, making the girl giggle with exhilaration.

The second child, a boy of about four, follows his sister and tries to reach up to pat one of Kestrel's wings. However, the boy is just too short, so he grasps only at air. He groans from the effort of stretching up to reach the soft-looking feathers, but his efforts bear no fruit.

Noticing this, Cynthia crouches down. "Want up to pet his wings?"

The boy nods. "Uh-huh!"

"Alright, but you have to be reeeal gentle, okay? If you grab at his feathers, it'll hurt him."

"Okay!" the boy says with a smile.

Cynthia picks the boy up, an easy feat for a child his size. True to his word, he's careful and gentle with Kestrel's wing as he strokes the long feathers.

As for the pegasus himself, he's too prideful to admit it, but he's starting to enjoy the attention from the young ones. He breathes slowly and deeply, clearly relaxed.

The father steps closer as well. "You asked where you are before. This is the town of Gronn. I don't suppose that's anywhere near where you intended to end up?"

"Well… It's a little complicated. There's someone coming to find me. At least I think there is. Oh, that reminds me! I have to ask another question." She shifts around a bit. He's going to think she's crazy for asking this. "What year is it?"

Sure enough, the father raises a brow. "You don't know what year it is?"

Cynthia has nothing to say in reply. She can't really explain this. She just gives him a helpless look and hopes he'll shrug it off.

"It's 314 PPT," the man says.

Instantly, Cynthia panics internally. 314? That's like, almost seven hundred years too early! She was right to be afraid!

But wait.

"PPT?" Cynthia asks. "What does PPT mean?"

"Post Pirate Throne, I think it was. It's a marker of how long it's been since the last of the pirate lords were driven from this island. It's how we measure time here. How long we've enjoyed peace in this place. Well, relatively speaking, anyway," the man explains.

"Oh." She calms down a little, but she's not totally assured yet. "I don't suppose you know what year it is, YE?"

"I have never heard of YE," he replies.

"Year of the Exalt. It's how we measure time back home in Ylisse," Cynthia replies.

"You're from Ylisse? Isn't that all the way across the sea?" the father asks, taken aback.

"Whoooa!" the daughter interjects. "You're from across the sea?"

"Er, yes," Cynthia says hesitantly.

The father eyes Cynthia with suspicion. "So you came all the way from across the sea, but didn't know where you are, and don't know what year it is? That's a strange story, girl."

"I know it sounds crazy, really I do," Cynthia replies hastily. "I wish I had a good explanation that wouldn't make me sound even crazier. But I don't." She puts the boy down.

The four of them are quiet for a moment. Cynthia doesn't know what else she can say without getting into the whole 'I'm from the future' thing, but no one else is saying anything.

"Were you attacked by bandits or something?" the father asks at last. "Got hit in the head?"

Cynthia feels a wave of relief wash over her. "Yes, I think that must be it. Why else would I not know why I'm here?"

"That also explains why you seem short on supplies. You must have been robbed," he goes on.

The pegasus knight can't really lie to save her life, but if someone else is going to fabricate a backstory on her behalf, she's not about to pass it up. She looks back at Kestrel, as if realizing that there's only a single saddlebag left. "You're right! I don't have any of my stuff!"

Kestrel gives Cynthia a look that tells her plainly, this is not the most highly he's ever thought of his master.

"Can we help her, Daddy?" the little daughter asks sweetly.

The father sighs, defeated. "Alright, sweetheart. But I don't want you playing with the pegasus unless…" He looks at Cynthia. "I'm sorry, I never did get your name."

"It's Cynthia."

The father smiles. "Nice to officially meet, Cynthia. I am Parish, and these are my kids, Bethany and Lars." He turns back to Bethany. "Anyway, I don't want you playing with the pegasus unless Cynthia is with you the whole time."

Cynthia returns Parish's smile gratefully. "Oh, and my pegasus is named Kestrel," she tells the kids.

"Now that we've all been introduced officially, why don't you come with us? We were going to get some food from the market. We'll get you some supplies as well," Parish says.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," Cynthia replies. "I don't have any money. I don't mind working for what I get, though."

Parish waves off her offer. "Nonsense. You've had a long, difficult journey. You just need some help reorienting yourself. Besides, you were kind enough to let my children play with Kestrel, after all."

Cynthia follows the trio into the village. As they get closer to the market, Cynthia asks, "Is your wife at home waiting for the stuff from the market? I don't mind waiting to get anything for me if it's going to hold you up."

She's surprised when Parish's kind smile falters. "Ah, no, no need to worry about that. There's no one waiting for us," he says.

"Ah." Cynthia decides it's not her business to ask. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"Nonsense. You couldn't know. Besides, we still live well. The village has always been kind to us, and whenever we've had trouble getting by, my older brother has come through for us as well."

"Oh, you have a brother? I always wanted a sibling," Cynthia says, glad for the change in subject. "What's he like?"

Parish considers for a moment. "He's a fairly private person. He doesn't live here. He actually lives farther north on the island. I worry about him out there, really. That's where a lot more trouble has been brewing recently. But he seems to do well enough for himself. Always has a bit of gold to share with the family when he visits."

"Well that's good then! What's his name?" Cynthia asks.

"His name is Ruger." Parish continues talking, but Cynthia stops processing whatever he's saying after that.

Uncle Randy was right. Ruger does exist. And she's just made friends with the raider's brother.

Well, at least she can say she's dropped in more or less the right time.

---

The torn and burned flesh of the man's leg stitches itself shut slowly and methodically. The injured blacksmith sucks in air between his teeth, groaning as his young doctor carefully mends the wound with golden bands of healing magic. When the skin is sealed completely, and the medic is satisfied that the damage beneath is healed as well, he cuts off the flow of magic from his staff.

The healer steps back, and the blacksmith sits up to examine his newly mended calf. He grins through his thick, wiry beard. "You really saved my hide, Brady. I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," Brady replies gruffly. "Just mind yourself when hammering metal. Don't lose your grip on it. Or if you do, get outta the way next time."

The smith chuckles as he turns and rises from the temple's healing table. "Don't look at me. It's the new assistant of mine. Got scared of the sparks when the hammer came down and let his grip slip."

"New assistant, huh? Oh yeah, isn't that kid Harold working for ya?" Brady asks.

"That's the one. Timid little brat. Might have potential, but if he drops another hot blade on me I might not be the only one you need to patch up," the smith says as he begins to head for the door.

"That'd better be a joke, Hal," Brady calls after him.

"Yeah, yeah. Pleasure doing business," Hal replies with a wave as he leaves the temple and leaves Brady alone once more.

Brady scoffs as Hal leaves. If it were someone else, he might've been concerned about a comment like that, but he knows Hal. He's massive, deep-voiced, hairy, and otherwise intimidating as hell, but he'd never lay a hand on anyone, even if his shrimp of an assistant did drop another red-hot blade on his leg. The worst Hal would ever do to anyone is give them the mother of all tongue-lashings. And really, after a wound like that, Brady would say little Harold has it coming.

Brady sits down on one of the pews in the temple. He spends a fair amount of his time like this: waiting for someone to get hurt so he can help, but generally passing the hours in solitude. When he first arrived in the town of Mila, this bothered him. After spending so long with Luce and the others, the idea of being on his own terrified him. He's gotten stronger, sure, but compared to his big sister and most of the others, he's no frontline fighter. Hell, that's still true.

But now it doesn't bother him so much. True, Walhart's forces occasionally poke around or collect some taxes, and there's an occasional bandit raid or, more recently, visit from a pack of Risen. But the town's residents have proven impressively resilient. This is especially true since he arrived. As the resident full-time healer, he likes to think he's become a vital member of the community.

Hard to believe that it's been over a year and a half since he arrived.

In that time, Brady feels he has really come into his own. He's definitely a better healer. In the future, he was always able to rely on Uncle Randy to take care of the really big injuries. It was only when wounds weren't at a life or death or permanent incapacitation level that Brady would take over most of the time. Here, though, there hasn't been a safety net beneath him. Whatever injuries come to him, if he can't help them, there's no one else. At first it was terrifying, of course, but the pressure of those early dire moments hardened him into a healer with a rock-solid will. He likes to think Uncle Randy would be proud.

He's also succeeded in starting the barest hint of a beard. About six months after Brady arrived in Mila, he noticed that he was actually starting to sprout some scattered hairs on his chin. What had followed was a long, awkward journey toward the rest of his lower face getting on board, with many periods of patchiness and unevenness along the way. But in the end, he has managed to sustain a modest beard. He might not be fully sold on Randall's propensity for long hair, but facial hair was another matter. It certainly makes him look older, in any case, which he rather enjoys.

Brady rises from the pew and stretches. Might as well get some practice in. He goes into the small backroom behind the temple altar and retrieves his violin from a chest in the corner.

"What'll it be today…?" Brady ponders as he tunes up the strings. When he's finished, he takes the violin out into the transept and raises the violin under his chin.

He decides to warm up with one of the first songs Uncle Randy ever taught him. The slow, regal tones of the Temple of Time ring out, bouncing pleasantly off the high walls of the temple and swirling around in the space around him. Gives Brady good practice with holding out longer, more sustained tones. It was an easy enough song to learn, but that was when Brady learned one of the most important things about music: sometimes a simple, straightforward melody, when played with passion, can have more impact than an entire orchestra.

He plays four of five turns of the melody, then finally lowers his bow. The memories the song carried with it were starting to make him misty-eyed. Memories of when everyone was too tired to talk or sing or do much of anything. There were days like that, particularly hard days, when Uncle Randy would be so worn out that he was barely responsive at the end of the day. The stress of having to constantly get everyone out of trouble must have weighed on him heavily. Camp would be quiet, safe but anxious.

On nights like that, when exhausted silence would blanket the camp, sometimes Brady would get out his violin. He wouldn't have the energy for some of the more intense or complex pieces he was learning, but after some days, anything would do. The Temple of Time was a mainstay of those nights. No one would really say anything, but they didn't have to. Brady knew he was helping. Randall would breathe a little easier as he dozed off on one of his kids' shoulders. Luce would actually take her hand off Falchion's hilt for a while. Severa wouldn't frown so intently. Little things, but they added up. And on nights like that, it was enough.

Alright, it's time to play something else. Something that won't get him so worked up. He's about five notes into Opposing Bloodlines when he hears the door to the temple open.

He stops playing and lowers his violin, just in case he needs to be ready to grab his staff quickly and heal someone. But when he sees who it is, he relaxes.

"Hey Claire," Brady says, starting to set his violin down on the nearest pew.

The girl hastily raises her hands to stop him. "Oh no, don't let me keep you from playing! I came because I heard you. I was hoping you wouldn't mind if I listened."

Claire is a girl of sixteen, slight and short, with legs so thin Brady is scared they'll snap like twigs whenever she so much as stumbles. Her hair is long, thick, and curly, and it often gets in her face when she looks down, which she does often when speaking. Once, Brady had the guilty thought that with her thin frame and curly head of hair, she reminds him of a mop.

Despite that, she's proven endearing. Unfailingly kind, and generous to a fault. It was her that first invited Brady to join her family for dinner the first night that he came to the past. He had dropped right in front of their door, right into a mud puddle on a rainy evening. Claire and her family hadn't minded another joining them. After all, their oldest son had left months prior to join Walhart's army, so they had the space.

Until the back room of the temple had been refitted on the town elder's orders to serve as his home here, Brady had stayed with Claire's family. They were the prime example of the instant kindness of Mila's townsfolk toward strangers. In truth, it almost worried Brady how little scrutiny had been applied before they took him in as one of their own. A town this welcoming and accommodating is really asking for trouble if it isn't careful.

But then he saw how they responded as one to threats. The whole town moving as one to repel bandits or Risen. Everyone chipping in to make sure that every family was meeting Walhart's tax demands. It was such a strange change of pace for the young healer. Outside of his own group, he'd never seen a community so devoted to each of its members. And they did it without a second thought, every time.

In almost no time at all, he had fallen for the town of Mila. And when they saw the healing arts he could perform for its people, Mila had fallen for him too.

And it had started with this mop-headed girl welcoming in a muddied, terrified man on her family's doorstep. Giving him refuge from the nightmare his life had been for so long.

"Still in there?" Claire asks with a smirk. "Earth to Brady. You alright?" She has picked up a fair amount of slang from Brady in the time they've known each other. 'Earth to insert name' is a favorite of hers.

"Nah, don't worry about it," Brady says. "I was just thinking about… stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" Claire stiffens. "Unless you don't want to talk about it, that is," she adds, a hint of caution behind her tone.

"Really, it's nothing," Brady assures her. "I was just thinking about how nice it's been living here. You and the other townsfolk were so kind to me right away. Didn't even know me. I coulda been anyone."

Claire smiles. It's one of the most striking things about being in the past: just how often people smile. "When I opened the door and saw you for the first time, all I needed was one look in your eyes. I could tell you were a good person."

Brady chuckles. "Some talent. Ya sure I didn't just look pitiful? Lyin' there, half-starved, covered in crap, clingin' onto my staff like my life depended on it."

"It wasn't crap, Brady. It was just mud," she replies with a disapproving pout. "And no, I didn't just want to help because you were pitiful. You were scared and exhausted, yes, but in that situation, someone else might have been tempted to steal or kidnap or something to get what they need. I could tell right away that you wouldn't do something like that. That's what I meant."

"So I looked harmless enough, is that it?" Brady retorts with a smirk.

Claire groans. "You know that's not what I meant, either!"

The young healer laughs good-naturedly. "You're too easy, Claire, y'know that?"

The pout returns. "Meanie. But no, I didn't think you were harmless. I just knew you wouldn't hurt me or anyone else, even though you probably could. You're a gentle person, but I know you're really strong."

"Well now I know you're yankin' my chain," Brady says. "When've you ever seen me swingin' a sword to defend the town?"

"That's not the role we needed you for. We needed a healer. And I've never met anyone who can do it better than you. And you know that it takes strength to do that job. Don't even try to deny it," Claire says, planting her hands defiantly on her hips.

"Alright, fine, I admit it. I'm the best, the town would be lost without me, I'm a credit to clerics the world over." Brady smiles at his friend. "Happy?"

She returns the smile with satisfaction. "Very. It's not a good habit to talk down about yourself all the time."

"Says the girl who'll apologize to the sun for the clouds in the sky," Brady retorts.

Claire sighs. "Yeah, that's fair."

The girl is just like that. Kind and personable to a fault, but very quick to apologize or self-deprecate. But as soon as anyone she cares about starts to do the same, she stubbornly talks the other person up. Do as I say, not as I do, personified.

Brady's used to it by now. This dynamic has developed steadily over many months spent together. Mutual self-deprecation, talking each other up, teasing one another. It's been a great comfort for Brady. It feels familiar, in a way. He thinks Claire would fit in well with the others, whenever they can all come back together.

The young man goes back to playing. He feels Claire's eyes on him as he plays, watching every stroke of the bow, every movement of his fingers. It doesn't bother him, exactly, but it does make him more conscious of his playing. He sympathizes with Inigo in that way; it's much easier to be free with your art when no one is watching. Still, he can tell she's enjoying herself. Every once in a while, he glances down at her sitting in the nearest pew. Her eyes glisten with emotion watching him play.

Truth be told, his playing is making him emotional too. This always happens if he gets too into it. He lowers his bow with a sniffle.

"That was really beautiful, Brady," Claire says. "Thanks for letting me listen."

"Oh, uh, any time," Brady says a little sheepishly. He would never admit this to the guys, but he loves that word. Beautiful. There weren't all that many chances to use it in the future. Not as many as there should have been. That it would be used to describe his music… He shakes his head a bit. Don't get so worked up, dumbass.

He notices the sunlight starting to wane outside the windows. "Should we get ready for chowtime?" Brady asks. Claire's family insists that Brady come by for dinner at least once a week, even after he moved into the temple. Claire's parents say he reminds them of their older son.

As he starts putting his violin away, Claire clears her throat. "Actually, while I've got you here… I wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah? What's up?" Brady replies, closing the case around his prized instrument.

The curly-haired girl takes a quick deep breath in and out. "Okay. I've been thinking about it for a while, and… look, I think you're great. Like, really great. You're smart, and kind, and even funny when you want to be. You, um, don't look too bad, either." Her determination to maintain eye contact crumbles, and she casts her eyes down to the violin case in his hand instead.

Hold on. Brady's mind plays catch-up for a moment. Is she doing… what it seems like she's doing? His body locks up, rooting him to the spot.

Claire goes on. "And look, I know you plan to leave here someday. Your friends are going to need you when they come to get you and all. I know that this, what we have here in Mila, isn't what the rest of your life looks like. But that's all the more reason I need to say something now." She musters the courage to look back at his face. "I like you. In that way, I mean."

She stops talking.

Wait, what? Why did she stop talking? That means he has to say something now! What the hell is he supposed to do now? His thoughts are a mess.

Brady opens his mouth. Come on, say something! Anything!

"Uh… nice," he says.

Well not that, obviously!

Claire blinks once, then startles Brady when she busts out laughing. After a few seconds, she recovers enough to say, "Oh man, I definitely just put you on the spot out of nowhere. Barely any warning at all. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Brady says automatically. "I just… um…"

Claire's smile erodes slightly. "What are you thinking?" she asks.

"Well…" Finally, a thought takes shape in his head that he can put into words. "Are you saying you want to come with me when I leave this place? I ain't even told you where I'm goin'."

She shrugs. "I figured I would find out when I got there. I know I said I've been thinking about this a while, but if I'm honest with myself, there's so much I don't know. All I know is I've never felt about anyone how I feel about you."

That smile. The way she stands with her shoulders back, determined to be confident and bold even as she's laying her feelings out and risking them getting dashed. Why does she have to be so cool?

Because, in the end, Brady knows what has to happen now.

"I mean, coming with my friends and me when I leave is another discussion, but…" Now it's Brady who can't meet Claire's eye.

She sighs. "It's not going to happen, is it?"

Brady can tell she's hiding the hurt behind that artifice of casualness. "I can't give you what you want, no."

Claire chuckles once, humorlessly. "I figured. The way you talk about that girl. She's got you good already, doesn't she?"

A shock of guilt runs up Brady's spine. "Was it that obvious?"

"Painfully."

"Ah. Right."

It's true, of course. He talks about his friends all the time, but none more often than her. Of all the people Brady misses in this place, she and Lucina far and away top the list.

Claire sighs, clearly disappointed but determined not to take it out on Brady. "Well, that's what I expected. I just wouldn't ever have forgiven myself if I didn't try, you know?"

"I get it." Brady feels a little trapped. He wants to comfort his friend, but he's the one causing the disappointment in the first place.

She puts on a brave smile. "Look, don't feel bad, okay? It's just how it is. I'll be fine. Let's not make it weird."

"If you say so," he replies, a bit hesitantly. The last thing he wants to do is make her feel like he's punishing her now.

Claire nods down at the violin case still in Brady's hand. "Go ahead and put that away, then come with me. It'll be dinner soon."

"Yeah, okay." Brady takes the violin back to his room. While he's there, alone for a moment, he interlocks his fingers behind his head and takes a couple long, slow breaths.

He feels terrible. She was smiling, sure, but he's known Claire long enough to know when her feelings are hurt. He's never broken anyone's heart before. He feels like shit. He knows Claire doesn't want him to feel bad, but the fact that she's being so sweet about all of it almost makes it worse than if she'd been pissed.

He realizes that's a selfish desire, in a way. To want the other person to handle it worse so you don't feel like the bad guy.

But there really isn't a bad guy here. He can't control how he feels, or doesn't feel. All he can do is just keep being a friend and hope that's enough.

He leaves his room and finds Claire still waiting in the transept. Before she notices him, Brady sees the deep frown on her face. She's not crying, but it looks like she's trying not to. It makes him want to cry too. Damn, why does he always have to be such a wuss?

As soon as she sees him, she stubbornly pulls a smile out of thin air. "You ready? I'm starving," she says.

Brady nods. "Yeah. Let's go."

He decides to be more like Claire. He closes his eyes tightly for a moment, willing the urge to cry away. If she can toughen up and take her rejection in stride like that, then he can man up and quit being so self-pitying about it. If she needs him to be a friend to her, then he can do that. And if she decides she wants him to buzz off for a while, he can do that too.

If he can survive the end of the world, he can endure the pain of having to turn down a date.

---

"Come on, play one for us!"

"Yeah, it's a great night for it! Bust out the guitar!"

"Yeah!"

I sigh, but I can't hide the smile growing on my face. "You all aren't gonna let up until I do, huh?"

"You've got that right!" A few of the men laugh.

I groan as I get up from my trusty stump by the fire. "Alright, just gimme a second. What do you guys wanna hear?"

"Mr. Blue Sky!" "Build That Wall!" "The Man! The Man!" "Whiskey in the Jar!" Suggestions overlap and blend, difficult to make out what's even being said, let alone who's saying it.

One voice cuts over the clamor. "Kansas City," Priam says, his deep voice stifling all others around the fire. Of course, that could also just be because he's Priam. "You haven't played that one in a while. And I know playing it makes you happy."

He's right, of course. I do love that song. It's been my favorite ever since I was a little girl. To hear Dad sing about his now-mythical hometown, to see the light in his eyes. Even after we lost Mom, and even after he stopped smiling, he'd still talk about his home so lovingly. Honestly, I don't even know if the place is real. No one, not in all the time I've been in the Garden, has heard of it. We get people from all over the world here. Chon'sin, Roseanne, Valm's heartland, even Ylisse, Ferox, and Plegia. No one has ever heard the name before. But in a way, that makes it all the more precious. Like a memory I get to share with Dad and the others alone.

And now I can share it with my new friends. Well, maybe new isn't the right word after how long I've been here. But we've had some new arrivals from across the sea recently, and they haven't heard it yet.

"Alright Priam, you win. Kansas City it is." I leave the fire and jog over to the barracks to get Dad's guitar out of my room. I've taken damn good care of this thing over the years, if I do say so myself. Gotten pretty good at making replacement strings, too. I hope Severa's been doing the same. Well, assuming she's even landed yet. I shrug off the thought like always and grab my rockstar jacket. That's what Dad always called his leather jacket before he gave it to me. I pull on the jacket before I head back to the fire.

The guys cheer as I return, holding Dad's guitar aloft over my head. "The people demand a performance!" I shout over their whooping.

"She's serious! She's got the rockstar jacket on!" one of our longtime companions, Jean, exclaims. The jacket has developed a bit of a reputation in its own right at this point.

"Alright, pipe down, everyone," I say as I get back to my stump by the fire. Everyone falls silent. Only the sound of the crackling fire and distant wildlife now.

I take a second to savor it. The relative silence. I'm about to cut through it with this instrument, and with my voice. I give the silence its due respect before I kill it with a strum of my thumb down the strings. The soft chords dance over the fire and spread around us. Even after all this time, a single butterfly flaps its wings in my stomach as I get ready to sing.

"I listen to you time and time again
While you tell me just what's right.
And you tell me a thousand things a day,
Then sleep somewhere's else in the night.
I'm going back to Kansas City.

And I love you dear, but just how long
Can I keep singing the same old song?
And I love you dear, but just how long
Can I keep singing the same old song?
I'm going back to Kansas City."

As I finish the first refrain, a few of the guys cheer, their fists raised. The butterfly dances and twirls happily at the sight. I launch into the second verse. Some of the guys who have been here for a while join in.

"And you called me to come, then I do.
Then you say you've made some mistake.
You invite me into your house,
Then you say gotta to pay for what you break.
Going back to Kansas City."

By now about half a dozen folks around the fire are beating their stools, their thighs, whatever will make a nice, percussive whap in time with the guitar. Or, you know, mostly in time, anyway. Then a few more join in for another refrain.

"And I love you dear, but just how long
Can I keep singing the same old song?
And I love you dear, but just how long
Can I keep singing the same old song?
I'm going back to Kansas City."

I've never been as good at improvising a guitar solo as Dad or Severa, but I can manage. It's good enough for these louts, anyway, if their expressions are anything to go by. After a bit of indulging myself, I settle back in for a third verse. The guys let me sing this one alone. They know it's my favorite verse. I slow up my strumming, to just one chord per measure.

"Gypsy woman, you know every place I go,
Even a thousand miles away from home.
And you don't care if I'm asleep or I'm awake,
This fickle heart just turned to stone.
Going back to Kansas City."

I stop playing for a second to let our voices carry the refrain alone.

"And I love you dear, but just how long
Can I keep singing the same old song?
And I love you dear, but just how long
Can I keep singing the same old song?
I'm going back to Kansas City."

But for the last repeat of the refrain, I play hard, and by now even the new faces around the fire have learned the words.

"And I love you dear, but just how long
Can I keep singing the same old song?
And I love you dear, but just how long
Can I keep singing the same old song?
I'm going back to Kansas City."

The last couple chords hang in the night air. I meet Priam's eye across the fire. He's not the type to smile widely, but sometimes you can catch him with the corners of his mouth subtly upturned. This is one of those times. I brush my long white bangs out of my face.

I give everyone a second to settle down again, then take up the guitar again. "Alrighty guys, what's ne–"

"Priam! We got a couple newcomers!" one of our lookouts shouts, his silhouette barely visible against the night sky behind him as he rushes toward the fire.

"This late at night, huh? Either exceedingly daring or exceedingly desperate. Send them over," Priam commands. He rises from his squat, snapping Ragnell out of its sheath on his back and hefting it over his shoulder. The blade reflects amber in the firelight. Usually just holding the blade like that is enough to signal any newcomers not to try anything funny. Though anyone who tried something like that when they're this outnumbered, and at night in unfamiliar turf, would be a special kind of stupid anyway.

The newcomers are brought into the circle. They sit by the fire and immediately start warming their hands with its heat, their expressions tired and grateful. One of them is young, no more than 20, his chin scruff uneven and patchy. The other is older, maybe in his mid-30s, with short grey hair that's already starting to fade on top. Both of them wear tattered dark clothes over their armor plates. Former soldiers, then, or perhaps bandits who relieved some soldiers of their gear. I'd call it even odds.

"Thank you," the older man says, his voice raspy with fatigue and thirst. Someone hands them each a canteen, and the men each take several long gulps before he goes on. "We'd heard this was a place of refuge for warriors looking to get away from the outside world."

Priam raises a brow. "Is that the reputation we're developing out there? I envisioned this place as a warrior's paradise. Most who come here seek to challenge me. In any case, we wouldn't turn away a man seeking refuge, but it can depend on what exactly you're looking for refuge from. If you're about to bring a hostile army onto our turf, you'd better be prepared to make it worth our while."

"Well, sir," the younger man speaks up, "I wouldn't say we're here to challenge you. But we are prepared to prove our worth with our swords if we must. We… well, we've rather lost our way. I'm not sure where to begin."

"Why don't you start with your names?" I ask.

"I'm Vidar, and my companion is Benjamin," the younger man named Vidar says. "We come from far to the east, across the sea. From Plegia."

That catches my attention. News from Archanea, any news, would be welcome. We haven't had anyone from that far east in ages.

"Oh hey, I'm from Plegia!" a man named Martin pipes up. He's the most recent arrival from the continent. "How are things back home?"

"They've gone to hell, is how they are," Benjamin replies, frustration etched on his brow and evident in his tone. "King Gangrel has gone mad. He's even turned on his own soldiers, going so far as to order the arrest of our commanding general, Mustafa Issachar. He also ordered that all officers serving under General Mustafa were to be arrested. Only a few of us managed to escape. And even then, most of us were captured as we fled across the desert. By the time we reached the western port, Vidar and I were the only ones left. We stowed on a merchant's ship and made our way across the sea.

"But when we arrived, we found ourselves mired in a new conflict. Some group calling themselves the 'resistance' immediately tried to recruit us to fight against the Valmese army. When we refused, they ran us out of town, so we kept going west. Not too long after that, we met some folks from the Valmese army, and they tried to arrest us on suspicion of being resistance spies. Even after we lost them, we've still been dealing with everything from bandits to wild animals on the way here. It's been a long, exhausting journey to get here."

Priam laughs, a booming laugh that vibrates the air around him. "That's a Valmese welcome if I've ever heard one. And you were hoping that the Garden of Giants would be a more gentle place?"

"We're used to the warrior's lifestyle. General Mustafa trained us well. We just don't want to die for refusing to take sides in a war we didn't even know was happening," Benjamin replies irritably.

"You speak wisely. A warrior's wisdom is not only knowing how to fight, but when to fight, and when to stay his blade." Priam nods approvingly. "If your story about your journey here is true, you have proven your worth by surviving your many hardships on the way."

"Does that mean we can stay?" Vidar asks.

"However!" Priam goes on. "In the morning, you will still demonstrate what skills this General Mustafa was able to pass onto you. Each of you will battle me, one on one. We will see if the men of the east are still producing warriors worthy of the swords they wield. Agreed?"

The newcomers nod, each of them trying and failing not to glance at the giant hunk of golden metal resting on Priam's shoulder.

I'm not through with these guys yet. Priam just wants to fight them, but I need more. "Before we let you rest for the night, I want you to tell me something. What led Gangrel to turn on his own general like that? Why were you on the run in the first place?"

"It all fell apart after the battle at Golgotha. King Gangrel was going to have the Ylissean Exalt executed, but the Ylisseans managed to retrieve the Exalt and were smuggling her out of the country. On their way north, they ran into us at a place called the Midmire. Our armies fought briefly, but General Mustafa challenged the Ylissean prince to a duel. Before the duel could finish, though, one of the Ylissean healers told the prince that he had managed to revive the Exalt. That took all the bloodlust out of the prince, and with that, the general agreed to call off the battle altogether and let the Ylisseans pass through. When the king learned what Mustafa had done, he ordered that everyone who had been stationed at the Midmire under Mustafa's command was to be arrested. That was why we had to run."

I feel my chest tightening. Some details are really different from Dad's journal, but this is really reminiscent of the battle he said would happen near the end of the war if everything went as planned.

"This prince. You're referring to Prince Chrom, right? And the Shepherds were the ones who came through the Midmire?" I ask, unable to keep the urgent shakiness out of my voice.

"That's right. Are you alright?" Vidar asks.

"Did either of you see the healer that said he had healed the Exalt?" I ask, ignoring the question.

The men glance at each other. "I guess? Wasn't really an imposing guy. Just a man in a black set of robes. I think he had long hair. A beard, too," Benjamin says. "We never got a name."

"That's Dad," I whisper. "He's here." I can't keep sitting. I get up and walk away from the fire. I've been mentally preparing for this day for so long, but now that it's here, my mind won't stop running in a hundred directions at once. I can't dwell on any one thought before a new one barges to the front. I take a few deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

I jump a bit when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's just Priam. "That was the sign you were looking for, wasn't it? Your father."

I nod, then realize it might be too dark for him to see that. "Yeah. That was it."

"Then… I guess this will be it for a while, won't it?" he asks, letting go of my shoulder.

"Priam… I have to go. You know how grateful I am for everything, but now that I've confirmed my dad has arrived and the Plegian War is not only underway but maybe even finished by now… There's so much I have to do. My friends from the future have either already dropped by now or are going to soon. I need to make sure they're safe."

Priam is silent for a long moment. "I don't know how we'll manage without you. Nights by the fire will be a lot less entertaining, that's for sure."

"You'll manage just fine, Priam. You were doing great before I dropped out of the sky and nearly flattened you," I reply.

He takes a deep, slow breath. "I'm going to miss you, Faith."

He's too proud to do it, but I'm not. I throw my arms around his chest. After a second's hesitation, he returns the gesture, one arm around my back, the other hand resting on the back of my head. It'd be a lot cozier if he wasn't wearing all this armor, but I'll take it. "I'll miss you too, Priam. Take care of the Garden for me."

"You know I will. And tell your old man he owes me a duel when you meet him."

I roll my eyes. "We'll see."

I head straight back to the barracks to start packing. I want to get moving as soon as I can. Tomorrow, if possible.

I'm coming, Dad. But there's something I have to do first.

---

A/N: Hoo boy, it's been a minute. My life has been... well, busy would be an understatement. I finished my last year of law school and officially became a JD, so that's nice. Since then, I've been doing little else except preparing for the bar exam. Which is next week. That'll be a thrill. But in the four and a half months since the last update, I've managed to wrangle moments here and there to write something when the motivation is up. And the result is this! The longest single chapter yet, if you don't count the multi-parters. And a far cry from my usual. Lots of voices to juggle. It was a fun challenge, so hopefully you all like the result.

We also have the long-awaited introduction by name of Randall's daughter! Folks on the Discord have been privy to her name for a while, but she's never appeared in context until now. Hopefully she made a good first impression.

There were a few songs featured in the chapter, so I'll name them here for thoroughness. In order:
I Ain't Never by Jacob DelaRosa
Lost In Thoughts All Alone from the Fire Emblem Fates OST
La Vie en Rose as performed by Louis Armstrong
Theme of the Temple of Time from the Zelda Ocarina of Time OST
Opposing Bloodlines from the Castlevania 64 OST
Kansas City by The New Basement Tapes

The next time you get an update from me, it will be after the bar. Here's hoping I'll be coming back with good news! For now, I want to thank Mixed Valence as always, as well as Guo from the Discord server, for their help with feedback on the chapter. I definitely asked a lot of them examining this behemoth of a chapter. And here is your Mixed Valence out-of-context quote of the week: "It's March 800th, 2020."

Review responses:

jordanlink7856: You're telling me! I'd been wanting to write that for ages! Glad you liked it!

NinjaGogeta: Yeah I definitely brought more of Robin's pining to the surface. Robin in love was just too much fun to write. I've got plans for Validar, worry not. As to your point about Awakening and fanfiction, I agree completely. Awakening has this fascinating habit of hinting at more lore or backstory without actually giving it to us. There are so many nooks and crannies where writers can feel free to expand or explain. It's like the game almost begs for it. I think it's the most "writable" game. Thanks for reading and faving!

cordo12: My sentiments exactly as I was writing it lol

Styles - Extreme: Yeah, I actually missed the five year anniversary of the story in the interim. I'd wanted to do something special but bar prep naturally comes first. As for Randall not thinking all that much about our Earth, tbh that's largely a convenience thing. That's well-trodden ground in self-insert fiction, and I have nothing meaningful to add to that conversation. I figured readers would rather I just get the ball rolling haha. I know that was what I wanted to do when I started, anyway.

Grammy-saltiest-birdlover: Good to hear from you! And yeah, I was definitely considering doing the entire Child Collection Arc before getting them together... and then I changed my mind. I like to think mostly everyone would say that was a good call. Glad you liked it!

Call Brig On Over: Thank you for saying so! I definitely put people through the long way there, so I'm glad it paid off.

EmptySpot: Thank you for being such a longtime reader! That's super flattering for me! And I'm also pleased you liked this turn of events haha

TheSagMaster: You flatterer, you~ Seriously, thank you for the kind words. I was planning out the shipping chart gag years ago, so it was super cathartic to finally get to pay it out. And I'm elated that it's been received well! God bless you too, friend 3

Morrowing: That's super reassuring to hear! Pacing has always been a perennial concern of mine, so hearing that I'm getting it right is encouraging as hell.

Izunama: Hoo, that's weird. Five years, over 600,000 words. This has been such a ride, and I'm thankful for everyone who's still with me on it!

Warlord of Chaos: I love hearing from longtime readers. You've gotten to see in real time as I have developed as a writer (hopefully for the better!). Getting to give Randall some relief at last from the mental hell he's been slogging through was definitely a relief for me as a writer as well. As you've no doubt seen by now, we got a bit of a headstart on the whole future children thing. Hopefully it was worth the wait!

RedNephilim: You're right on it! This was sort of the general check-in chapter leading into just that.

maridus: That's super nice of you! If I'm honest, I'd tend to agree that it was my favorite yet. It was at least the most satisfying for me to write, I would say. Thanks for reading!

Steelrain66: Happy to see some praise for certified wingman Gaius! And I'm hoping that I can write the future kids in a way that's satisfying for everyone. If I'm honest, some of them are not my favorite characters either, but I hope I can change even my own mind about them.

Caellach Tiger Eye: I'm glad you enjoyed it! And I'm really pleased to hear that the pacing worked for you. It's always been one of the most consistent challenges for me. That last scene was such a joy to write, so I'm happy that it's mostly been received well. As far as characterizing the avatar, there's really no avoiding it if you want them to be engaging as a character. At least Robin and Corrin really have some established character of their own, but especially for characters like Byleth, they really rely on a decisive hand behind the pen to give them some life. Otherwise the silent protagonist is fighting an uphill battle without gameplay to prop them up.
On the subject of shipping, I believe that a passionate writer could probably convince me of nearly anything, at least within their own work. If someone really wants me to buy VaikexTharja, I'm sure there's a way to sell it. As long as it's approached earnestly and with skill, I'm down to give anything a try.
If I'm honest, the gameplay has never been what's drawn me to FE. Strategy games are pretty much neutral to me. It's the character, setting, scenario, and story that keep me coming back. And, yes, seeing "number go up" does please the primal part of my brain that likes seeing thing get big. But I'd have to work a bit at learning to really love it.
Hopefully this chapter was a nice wind-up to the next big swing of the story! It's going to be a challenge, but I like to hope I am equal to the task. Thanks as always for reading and for your insights!

TheGiantRock: Gotta say, I didn't think this was what I was going to get a review about. Basically a throwaway line. But I did learn something, so that's good!

Remvis: I'm glad that you enjoyed! And I always love seeing appreciation for buddy Gaius. He's definitely a favorite to write. And there will be plenty more down the line!

jaclea: I wonder what you made of the little Fates cameo in this chapter. I think my plan is to generally keep its involvement at about that level in the story. Trying to meaningfully tie in Fates sounds like courting disaster lol

DestructionDragon360: But I like to think he rallied and came through in the next chapters! Hopefully you'd agree.

DudeAwesome: Sorry to have kept you waiting! But I'm glad you enjoyed. As for whether our Earth will be a setting in the story ever... I dunno. I don't have plans for it, but who knows what future me will decide!

G119: Don't worry, we'll get there. We've got plenty of time to jump the shark and descend into utter smut. Thank you for reading!

Cavik: I'm sorry you didn't find the chapters enjoyable. Though I will say you did at least get what I was hoping to convey regarding Randall, Robin, and Cordelia after the wedding. None of them were at their best, and they weren't supposed to be. All three of them still have a lot of growing to do. As for whether you do or don't find romantic payoff to be worth the trouble, that's something I can't help either way; it's entirely a matter of taste. Hopefully you at least enjoyed this one! Thanks for the feedback!

flameemperorastaroth: You and Lucina had the same thought! Thankfully she decided to act on it. And worry not, I have too many plans for schmultzy romantic stuff down the line to keep them apart for toooo long.

Guest: I have no idea if you'll ever see this, 600,000 words later. But in case you do, thanks for at least giving the first chapter a go!

Viviene01: Your reviews when you're shotgunning a bunch of chapters at once are always fun to get because they sort of read like a live commentary as you go. I'm glad you seem to be enjoying so far! As for whether or when the Sheps will learn about Robin and Randall's power... you'll see. Stay tuned~

Join the Discord: discord. gg/ 3mdunvc

As always, comments and critiques are welcome. See you next time!