Chapter XI: Crystal Unclear
When Chrom said I'd be in capable hands with Freya, I think she may have meant "sadistic hands." Training is brutal, a ceaseless pattern of exercise and rigorous discipline. Any mistake earns me a swift and merciless punishment. Her expression remains stoic as she doles out more laps around the camp, more pushups, more squats. When I falter, she barks scathing reminders about my well-below adequate performance. There are apparently chamber maids with greater prowess. If I complain, even just an off-hand remark, Freya denies me water. At the end of a session, long after the sun sets, I receive a grade. So far, it's been "fifty" each day. In the Ylissean education system—according to Miro (I explained my ignorance as due to being a country bumkin)—pupils accumulate points for erroneous acts within a given time period. Under five is considered exemplary, twenty-five the cutoff for average, and forty very poor. Fifty marks the end of the scale, when a student must undergo evaluation to determine whether they're to be expelled or not.
Unfortunately for me, it simply means I am a pathetic excuse for a Shepherd and must suffer accordingly until otherwise.
Today's the fourth day of training, and my body throbs in dull agony. Last night, Freya forced me to wear her armor (a snug fit given our similar heights) while I sprinted repeatedly from one end of camp to the other. No light jogging allowed. Afterwards, I polished each piece until she decided the gleam was acceptable. The Devil himself only knows what torture she's prepared this evening.
As the other Shepherds finish erecting tents and settle down to rest after the day's march, Freya approaches me. I suppress the gnawing apprehension bubbling inside. She's shed her armor, instead wearing only the formal suit underneath. The snappy attire compliments her austere demeanor—black jacket with blue rimmed lapels, white shirt and a navy ribbon tied into an elegant bow around her collar, and dark pants completing the ensemble. I silently pray she won't make me do armor-clad runs again.
"Michael," she says in a clipped tone.
I return the strained greeting. "Freya."
She clears her throat. "Today, we shall focus upon the fundamental rules of combat."
A glimmering spark of hope rises in my chest. No running? No bodybuilding? "You mean I won't be doing exercise until I collapse?" I ask.
Freya frowns as if I've just said something profoundly stupid. "Those are basic strength and stamina drills. Obviously, you must do them daily. Your first three days have merely been an introduction to the routine."
Oh, you've got to be kidding me. "Let me get this straight," I start, leaning in slightly. "You're telling me all that nightmarish shit has just been fucking practice? A warmup?"
"Correct," she says bluntly. "Though, I would not have described it with such… vulgarity."
"What the fuuuuuck," I whine.
She scowls. "Do you expect to obtain the endurance, agility, and power of a warrior overnight?" Freya snaps. "Your body is your most crucial weapon. We must train your physique as well as martial skills."
I know she's right, but I feel like arguing anyways. "Well, that shit takes hours. How are we supposed to have time for the 'fundamental rules of combat?'"
"Perhaps if you were not so slow and so weak and protest so much, time would not be a point of concern." The knight looks smug.
Damn. It's harsh to hear it laid out so plainly. The truth hurts, man. "Whatever," I sigh. "Let's just do the exercises."
Freya marshals me through her gauntlet of doom, pushing harder than the previous days. Because of the backtalk, no doubt. I remind myself never to question Freya's wisdom again—the consequences are too horrifying. When she wanders off for a moment and returns with her armor, I want to lie back and accept the sweet embrace of death. I swear the ghost of a smile plays on her lips as she watches me do jumping jacks in heavy plate. Yeah, one-hundred percent a sadist. Not that I don't deserve it.
During a pass of the camp, I trip, the weight of Freya's greaves taking a toll. She's by my side in an instant, blaring in my ear to keep moving. I grit my teeth, mustering some deep reservoir of energy to continue. Like I'd give her the satisfaction of conceding. Besides, I have no choice. Too much is at stake, and I can't afford to be slacking. Whenever the urge to rest rears it's ugly head, I picture Chrom or Sumner or any one of the Shepherds bleeding out because of my failings. Come on, Mike. Don't stop. Fight.
When Freya finally calls an end to the workout, I fall onto my hands and knees, upheaving the contents of my stomach. I retch for a while, hacking up phlegm once nothing else is left. Freya stands above donning an imperious expression. She waits patiently as I recover, gradually easing myself into a sitting position. Wiping the sweat streaking down my face, I look up to see her extending a waterskin towards me. I guzzle greedily. It might as well be nectar from the gods.
"I hope you have not forgotten the lesson is not yet over," Freya says.
Right. There's more. Yay. "Give… me… a sec," I puff, trying to regain use of my currently jellified legs. Shakily, I stand.
"Turn around," she orders, though she's spinning me herself before I can. Freya fiddles with the clasps of the armor, undoing them with a practiced hand. Taking armor like hers off (and putting it on) is a two-person job. I'm not sure who helps Freya when she wears it. Chrom maybe? No, she'd never ask her liege to do something like that. Stana? Knitting my brows, I realize I don't see Freya interact with many people other than her charges. Well, outside professional duties, I suppose. Chrom's deputy is one serious lady.
Freya dismantles the last of the armor, setting it aside in an organized pile. I note the flecks of dirt and grime staining the metallic surfaces. More polishing for me. I curse myself for letting it get like that.
"What do you believe is the most important element in combat?" Freya asks, circling around to face me.
Shit, I don't know. Being awesome? "Aren't there a lot of things—"
I blink and recoil as Freya's open palm connects with my cheek. "Awareness," she says flatly.
"Hey! Don't—" Another slap. I rub my cheek and glare at Freya.
"The battlefield is always chaos. If you are not aware, then you are dead. You must be ever vigilant. You must expect the unexpected. A single lapse may cost you your life." She gives me a stony stare. "Or another's."
A couple slaps hardly matter when it's put into perspective so clearly. "So, how do I become more aware?"
Freya lifts her hand. I flinch. She brings the hand back to her side. "As I just demonstrated, you are already more aware than before," she explains. "However, you need to learn to study your surroundings to anticipate what may happen."
"Guess you just slap me a bunch of times until I can predict the future then."
My attempt at comic relief goes unappreciated. "This is no laughing matter." Freya sighs sharply. "Close your eyes."
"What?" I prefer to see the slap coming, thank you.
"Just do as I say."
"OK, OK…" I close my eyes, tensing up.
I hear Freya shift her feet. "Tell me what you sense. What you feel."
What am I, a Jedi? "I have no clue. I feel like an idiot," I say, trying not to crack open an eye.
"Michael, pay attention!" she hisses. "Listen. Describe what you hear."
I bite back a retort and instead attempt to "pay attention." What do I hear? The crackling of the campfire. An owl hooting in the distance. Wind stirring up leaves. I relay the information to Freya.
"What else?" she presses.
Crickets chirping, looking for mates. Water lapping against stones in a nearby stream or creek. The whinnies of the horses and pegasus. Freya's calm breathing only a few feet away…
I open my eyes. "Well, there's a lot of stuff going on. Some crickets are doing their thing. I think there's maybe some running water around here? And then there's the horses… You know, just stuff. Nighttime sounds."
"I didn't tell you to stop." Freya frowns in disapproval. "But yes. Those are the main things. When you allow your senses to expand, naturally you gain greater awareness."
"I never knew you were so Zen," I say, smirking a little.
"Zen?" the knight asks, as if testing the word.
I wave a hand. "Don't worry about it." Earth terms. Whoops. "Anyways, this is cool and all, but I can't exactly close my eyes in the middle of a battle."
She scoffs. "Daft, as usual. A soldier must have complete control of the senses. You only noticed these sounds when you could no longer rely upon sight. Your awareness is incomplete."
The crickets chirp as if she's told a horrible joke. Except I'm the joke. Ha. Ha.
Point taken. "Alright. What's the plan?"
"Awareness can be trained at all times. Therefore, you will be training at all times. I will make sure of it." Well, that's ominous. "Our evening lessons will apply the concept to combat."
Nervousness creeps through me, a prickling unease. "You mean sparring?"
Freya shakes her head. "You aren't ready for that. Mastering the basics comes first."
I nod, feeling a smidge relieved. As much as I want to become a qualified Shepherd, my own limitations bother me. It's undoubtedly best to take baby steps. Freya goes on about the training regimen, outlining specifics. None of it seems pleasant. Especially looking forward to the bit involving shifting from different battle stances while Freya pelts me with rocks. Nothing says "character building" like an old-fashioned stoning. Jokes aside, I understand the reasoning. Concentration is just another part of awareness. There are worse things than rocks coming at you in a fight.
The session concludes with a thorough cleaning of Freya's armor. Moonlight reflects off the smooth curves, reminding me just how long we've been out here. The only Shepherd awake is Virginie, who keeps vigil at the edge of camp with her trusty bow. Guard duty. I stifle a yawn and look back to Freya. Does this woman even need sleep?
After inspecting my work, Freya wraps the armor into a bundle of cloth. The way she gently binds it together resembles affection. Must be plenty of nostalgia attached to those hunks of steel. She pats the bundle as if commending it for a job well done.
"So," I venture. "What's my score, boss?"
She hums lightly. "Forty-nine." Freya pauses. "And a half."
I've never been so happy to be half a point away from failing in my life. It's an abysmal score, almost as bad as it gets. But it's not fifty. "For real?" I ask, incredulity tempering my elation.
"Indeed. You weren't a complete waste of space tonight." Savage. "But only just." Even more savage.
I can't help it—I smile. Who knows when my score will improve next? I'd do a jig if my limbs didn't feel like putty. Freya catches on to my giddiness quickly and responds with an irritated sigh. My smile sags. I summon the courage to ask a question that's been irking me since we started training.
"Why are you doing this?" I meet her eyes. "Training me."
Freya barely takes a second. "Because you are not worth milady's time," she says, folding her arms. "I would rather shoulder the burden myself than see her expend the effort."
What kind of answer did you think she'd give, Mike? Oh, I just believe in you so much! Yeah, right. She hates my guts. If I was in her shoes, I'd hate me too.
A wave of fatigue swamps me. This conversation probably won't end well anyhow. "Thanks," I say dryly. "Well, if we're done here, I'm headed to bed." I brush past her. Freya doesn't reply, but I feel her eyes follow me all the way to my tent.
Inside, enveloped within a cocoon of darkness, I sink into my bedroll. Exhaustion claims me almost instantly, and I enter a deep and dreamless slumber.
Awareness training turns out to consist of Freya scaring the ever-loving shit out of me whenever she pleases. Walking peacefully while lost in thought? Bam, Freya. Talking to someone? Bam, Freya. Working on my wooden sword? Bam, Freya. Taking a piss? Bam, Freya. Doesn't matter what I'm doing, for the last two days she's found a way to sneak up and—
"Michael."
"HOLY FUCK BALLS!" I leap into the air at the sound of Freya's voice right behind my ear.
"Your lack of composure is as disappointing as always." She makes a tsk.
Letting her move to my side, I see her horse a few yards back, Sullivan holding the reins. He snickers at my misfortune as he rides in tandem with Freya's mount. Her surprise attacks are quickly becoming one of the most entertaining features of the march. Much to my chagrin.
"How do you keep getting me like this?" I leer at her, pouting slightly.
"The better question is how you keep failing to notice me." Her gaze is entirely serious.
I shrug. "I dunno. I'm on edge all day thanks to you, but you still manage to catch me off-guard." I point a finger at her. "You know, it's a little unfair, though. Can you tell me where Kelda is right now?"
Freya grimaces. "Kelda is… an exception. Her ability is uncanny."
We both subtly search for the hulking knight. Nada. Eerie.
"At any rate," Freya continues, "I suggest you try harder. Tis unacceptable to be so defenseless."
I grumble an agreement while Freya returns to Sullivan and her horse. She shouldn't be able to surprise me so easily, not when I'm so anxious it. Maybe that's the problem? I'm too wound-up. Freya's in my head. She has the psychological advantage. Rather than actually observing my environment, I'm just worrying about her making me look silly again. I suppose if I start spending my waking moments tracking her then she'll never catch me! Ha! Now, I'll need to always keep her in front of me, make sure I know where she is at mealtimes, and I guess bathroom breaks are going to be limited as well….
Wait. What am I doing? Am I turning into Michael the Wary? God, Freya, what have you done to me?
As I grapple with the painful reality that my sanity might be compromised, Chrom holds up a fist at the front of the group, signaling us to stop. I squint at the distant shape ahead. Thrashing about on a hill is a lone pegasus, the glossy white of its mane and feathers dazzling even from here. The creature beats its wings rapidly but goes nowhere. An injury of some kind must be grounding it.
Is this the wounded pegasus from the game? I smack a palm against my forehead. How did I forget? And why didn't I pick up on the fact Sumner shouldn't have a pegasus already? Why does he have a pegasus? I mean, the game didn't directly say Sumia didn't have one. She learned to fly somehow, right? But it was pretty damn clear that the pegasus she patches up is the one she saves Chrom with. I look over at Sumner, who hovers low in the center of our convoy. What's going to happen? He can't exactly ride two of them at once.
This must be just another variation to the game's events. But… that doesn't explain why I missed something so obvious. I've played Awakening hundreds of hours. I know parts of the game's script line for line. I think back to when I met Sumner, how I felt jealous imagining him saving Chrom. It's not like I forgot the scene entirely. Yet, I didn't bat an eye when he zoomed around in the sky when we left. No… He's definitely not supposed to have a pegasus yet. He fought in the battle along the Northroad too. And Kelda! She was there! That's not in the game!
Why am I missing… missing…
Searing pain splits across my head, temple to temple. I gasp, clutching my skull in both hands. The more I try to think about the game's plot, the more it hurts. I begin to realize minor details are hazy or gone altogether. What's the name of the boss at the Longfort? Blonde… big armor… Ra…. I can't. The intensity of the pain doubles. The information is there, but it's like something's blocking me from accessing it. I push, squeezing my memory for details. How… how many chapters are in the game?
Who… who do we recruit next? L… Lo… Lon'qu! His name's Lon'qu! After the arena match. My favorite sulky myrmidon.
No! There's a paralogue first… right? He's an amazing unit. Starts weak but grows strong. Has a pot on his head. Daniel? No…
Donnel!
Ah, fuck… It hurts… so bad. The pain is almost unbearable now. I remember personalities and traits and critical plot points, but names are foggy. Faces too sometimes. Why is this happening? Christ, my head…
"Michael?" Someone's beside me. "Michael!"
A numbing sensation overtakes the pain. Am I being healed? I lift my head to see Liston and his staff, the orb on top glowing. His eyes are wide with concern. Slowly, I return to normal, all traces of the sudden migraine fading away. Blank spaces in my memory of the game remain, however. Things I know but can't recall. Worse, as Sumner and Kelda prove, I seem to have started accepting things that never happened in the game at all. When I first got here, I know this wasn't an issue. So, why now? What the fuck is happening?
"Hey," Liston says gently. "Talk to me, Mike. You went all wibbly wobbly there." He lowers his staff cautiously.
No way I can tell Liston about this. "I… I just had a weird headache. Must be from training with Freya. I'm not sleeping much." Technically true. Sort of.
He seems to buy it. "She really knows how to work a guy to the bone, huh?" Liston frowns. "Just try to take care of yourself, too, yeah?"
I give Liston a thumbs up. "Roger, doc." Part of me hates lying, but it can't be helped. Eager to change the topic, I gesture towards Chrom and Sumner, who've gone ahead of the group to deal with the pegasus. Freya and Robin approach the beast as well. "What's up with the pegasus?"
Liston places his hand above his eyes like a visor. "Looks kinda hurt maybe. Wild pegasi are pretty rare, though. I wonder what it's doing out here…" He turns back to me. "I was gonna check it out with Chrom, but I saw you before I got the chance."
I make a shooing motion. "Well, don't let me stop you now," I say. Truth be told, I'm barely keeping myself under wraps. Panic threatens to run rampant. Of all the fucked up shit that's gone down so far, this is the most disconcerting. I can't explain it. My foreknowledge admittedly hasn't been very helpful, but it's the only thing I took to this world with me. If I can't trust my own memories… what do I have left? How do I tell what's correct and what's incorrect, what's canon and what's not? I feel faint.
It must show on my face, because Liston scrutinizes me closely. "Are you sure you're OK, Mike?" he asks, readying his staff again.
"I'm fine!" I say crossly. Liston shrinks at my tone. Crap. "I'm sorry… I'm just feeling a bit off today. I didn't mean to snap."
The healer places a placating hand on my shoulder. "It's alright. Freya's training courses can make anyone go a little bonkers."
I manage a forced laugh. "I suppose so. But really, Liston, I'm good. Don't worry about me."
After a couple more assurances, I succeed in ushering Liston away, and he scampers off to investigate the pegasus. As he leaves, I spot Miro studying me, the unmistakable glint of keen curiosity in his eyes. I duck his gaze—Miro is the last person I want investigating my headache. Then again, who better to deduce what the hell's scrambling my brain than Miro? No, it's too risky. I'm not clever enough to hide my origin from him. Not when he'd be digging so deeply into the problem. I'm alone with this development.
The Shepherds engage in idle chitchat while Sumner calms the pegasus. It's a welcome respite for them, considering how unforgiving the terrain is becoming. Northern Ylisse is a rugged landscape filled with steep inclines and narrow passes. In some areas, the road fractures, leading to brief treks across unstable ground. It's incredible I'm still functioning at all after the nightly lessons. The temperature also leaves much to be desired. Increased altitude thins the air and creates frigid winds that sap precious warmth. Snow blankets large swathes of earth, steadily converting more and more of the countryside to white rather than green. The only comfort through the miserable conditions is that Regna Ferox is very near.
I'm so lost in distracting myself from the predicament of my memory, that I almost don't hear Chrom telling us to move out. Sumner stays behind to nurse the wounded pegasus, promising to remain safe and catch up as soon as possible. I hope dealing with two pegasi doesn't slow him down.
We march on, our pace quickening as the sense our destination lies only a few miles away spreads through the Shepherds. Finally, the Longfort appears.
A giant wall stretches as far as the eye can see in either direction, a looming marvel of human innovation. A few Shepherds (myself included) gape at its sheer size. If this world has "Seven Wonders," this is surely one of them. Directly along the road is a massive gatehouse, its ancient stones weathered by years of bitter winters. Feroxi soldiers dot the battlements. Archers leer from above while armored knights pace to and fro. Our approach draws their attention, and one of the bowmen turns and shouts something to an unseen person before vanishing.
He returns with a brawny woman sporting short blonde hair.
Raimi!
Seeing her jolts my memory, and I'm able to conjure up the name.
This is of course followed immediately by distaste for said person. Raimi. Awakening's resident moron who mistakes Chrom for a bandit. Who starts a completely unnecessary battle. Who…
Who…
Who… She does something else, right? Later in the game?
I can't remember.
But I don't get time to dwell on it.
Raimi's yelling down at Chrom. The archers notch their arrows. Soldiers lift their javelins.
"Please, good lady! If you'd just listen—" Chrom cries.
"I've heard quite enough! Attack!"
I scan the sky for Sumner.
He's not there.
Author's Note: The plot thickens! Mike's having a wee bit of trouble right now. His crystal clear memory isn't exactly holding up. When will the world stop throwing curveballs at poor Mike? For those of you itching for more battle, the next chapter may scratch that itch (also expect some quality Vaiva and Virginie). Hopefully, this chapter got you guys thinking! I'd love to hear about your speculations in a review or PM! Don't be shy!
After some consideration, I believe it may be time for me to acquire a beta reader. I could use an extra pair of eyes to catch mistakes. I do a pretty good job of proofreading, but it never hurts to be even more precise. If you're interested, please let me know!
As always, thank you all for your incredible support. I love writing for you readers. Your follows, favs, and reviews spur me ever onward! Naga bless you!
Geust- Huh. I suppose you're right, historically speaking. Even the famous Roman gladius was not the legionnaire's main weapon, and the auxiliary carried spears as well. But for the sake of entertainment and Fire Emblem, I think we can all agree that swords are pretty cool.
Yexius- I'm happy to hear you like Mike (heh). It warms my heart. As for the ships, for now all I will say is that I'll definitely be feeding you shippers throughout the story.
mattalatorre- They do have a fascinating relationship, don't they?
Shippersaurus- I'm sensing people like Chrom and Mike. :) And yeah, as you saw in this chapter, Freya is no joke!
Caellach Tiger Eye- I sent you a PM about a few things, since responding here would have been extremely long (I just got your response as well! My own is in the works!) But as always, your support and high quality reviews are a massive boost to my morale. I hope this chapter proved to be another engaging addition to the story!
Scorin a Guest- Hey, I'm not gonna complain about two reviews! But thank you so much for your kind words. I'm especially glad that you think my writing is realistic!
Serendipitous- Ha! Your review made me laugh. Freya's Fanatical Fitness Hour indeed! I do hope it did not disappoint. Oddly enough, while writing the scenes with Sullivan and Sumner, supports never crossed my mind. Those technically were kinda support conversations. Good to see they worked out, though! Also, fun fact: I've been doing research for this fic about various medieval thingies and learned that smoothness was mostly obtained with a hand planer, but finishing touches were done by scraping the wood with the skin of the dogfish or by rubbing with an herb called "shave-grass." Weird, huh? It's extremely flattering that my fic is helping you get through finals! Good luck on those, by the way!
RequiemAnon- Happy to hear you liked the chapter! I tried hard to make the scenes with Sullivan and Sumner believable.