Chapter XIV: Freya

The view provided by the balcony outside milady's quarters at Castle Ferox is stifling. Disorganized clusters of buildings dot every direction, the sight from above somehow even more chaotic than the streets themselves. I tug my collar and pull my suit jacket tighter around myself. The chill doesn't help either. So far, everything about Regna Ferox has been decidedly unpleasant. Beset upon the moment we set foot in their territory, and the situation has only soured since. In no small part due to that fool Michael. My jaw clenches on reflex. What right does he have to be here? What trials has he endured? And yet… without out him milady would no longer be of this world. That fact angers me more than any fault Michael has. I consider myself a rational and pragmatic person, but when presented with the simple knowledge that Michael did twice what I could not, I devolve into a mess of rage.

I comb an aggravated hand through my hair, huffing out my nose. Is there a more frustrating combination than gratitude and loathing to feel towards another? My lips settle into a frown regretfully familiar to my face. Father would curse me if he still lived. I've dishonored his memory and made a mockery of my station. All my life has been devoted to serving the Exalted Family. I know nothing else. If… If I am not fit for this duty, then what am I?

Stinging tears wet the corners of my eyes. Self-pity does not become you, Freya. I wipe the offending droplets away, burying the emotions with a practiced effort. I came to milady's chambers to tidy up, not sulk. Leaving the balcony, I reenter her room, taking in again the mess milady has somehow already managed to create. Her things lie strewn about like an unpacking job gone horribly wrong. Garments of all types litter the floor, casualties of a failed attempt to shove them all into one drawer. At least she did not bring half her wardrobe like Prince Liston. The boy owns more doublets than any man has a right to possess. While milady may lack the grace and delicacy of a typical court lady, no one can accuse her of frivolity.

Gathering up the clothes, I lie them out on the bed, organizing them by color, fabric, and type. The process proves cathartic, and soon thoughts of Michael and my failures fades into an emptiness where only the task at hand exists. Folding clothes is enjoyable to me. I've always found my domestic duties pleasant (despite Marius claiming I am a stewardess). It would be easy for me to leave such chores to the maids and house servants, but this is often the only time I have truly to myself. A retainer lives for her charges. I am no different. Yet, 'tis refreshing to indulge in a moment of peace.

Never a moment too long, however. The sound of the door creaking open startles me from my rhythmic motions. Milady stands in the door frame, arms crossed. Her expression tells me she knows about the incident with Michael. "Milady," I greet, dipping my head. "I've taken this opportunity to straighten up your chambers. 'Twould not do for you live with your belongings scattered around."

Princess Chrom ignores my explanation. "Michael accepted a duel," she says, mostly flat but with a hint of distress.

I blink. Michael's foolishness knows no bounds. 'Tis always him, is it not? A fresh wave of anger sweeps over me. I keep my response cool. "Should I be surprised that an idiot has done something idiotic?"

"He was defending Virginie's honor," milady says, sighing. "Not that it makes it any less stupid."

A small scoff escapes my lips. "I fail to see what honor that flighty tart possesses. If anything, Michael is doubly the fool now."

Her gaze hardens. "You know as well as I do that Virginie's behavior is just an act. This is serious. Michael could die in this duel," she stresses. "He only has a week to prepare."

A week? Michael scarcely outclasses tavern wench in the ways of warfare. Unless his opponent is a one-legged old crone, he stands little chance of victory. "Who does he face?" I ask.

Milady tugs at a lock of blue hair. "Some lout called 'Dergus the Wyvernblooded.' Supposedly, his clan is rather important here in Regna Ferox."

"Well," I begin, my mouth a taut line, "I shall spare a prayer to Naga for his safety." The words are intentionally dismissive; Michael reaps what he sows.

Lady Chrom clinches her fists and strides toward me. "I won't defend Michael's decision, but don't pretend like you don't know what might have put him in a mood to do something like this."

I turn away, tracing the gilded patterns on the walls. "I have do idea what you mean, milady."

She sighs. "Michael told me what happened during your training session." Her voice softens. "Freya, do you truly feel as if you can't protect me? The Freya I know never doubts herself."

I knew I would regret showing my weakness to Michael. Slowly, I meet milady's eyes. "Lady Chrom, I failed to save you twice when you needed help. But Michael was there. What use am I to you if… if someone like him..." I am unable to finish, failing to hide my emotions any longer. How pathetic I must seem.

The princess tilts her head and fixes me with a look I have given her myself many times over the years: one of tender warmth and love. "I'm not a child anymore, Freya. Things are not quite the same as when we ran through the castle halls barefoot and screaming." She chuckles lightly. "And you are only one person. As much as it seems so sometimes, you cannot be everywhere at once. I could not ask for a better retainer. But you must know you are far more to me than that. You are my oldest friend. No one can ever replace you."

I believe I can count the number of times I have wept in my life on both hands, and this marks the second time in a day. However, unlike the first, these tears cannot be merely wiped away. I stand before my princess and master sobbing at the kindest words I have ever heard, words I surely do not deserve. I feel milady's arms wrap around me, and I find my fingers clutching her tunic. We share this embrace for a long while, until my eyes dry and breathing evens. Eventually, I pull back, trying to reclaim some of my dignity.

"Milady," I say hoarsely. "Please promise me that we will never speak of this again."

She smiles. "On one condition." Milady holds up her index finger. "Help Michael survive his duel."

The request is unsurprising. As his instructor, 'tis expected of me. Still, the simple thought of being near him disgusts me. But I cannot refuse. Milady is fond of him. And a small voice deep within reminds me that it is not my nature to let anyone die I can save. "I will show him no mercy with my methods."

"I would not expect you to," Princess Chrom says, her grin falling. "I trust you. I know you don't like him, but he's a Shepherd. Michael is a good man, Freya."

"If only men were measured by virtue of their intentions and not the consequences of their actions, but 'tis not so," I say sullenly. "My opinion of him does not matter, though. I will do my duty."

Lady Chrom nods. "Good." She shifts her weight from side to side. "Freya… You should go talk to him. Clear the air."

I reflexively scowl. "I would rather not," I say. "I doubt he much wants to see me either. I see no reason to for us to interact beyond his lessons."

"Michael doesn't hate you, you know. I wouldn't call you his favorite person… but he doesn't hate you. Besides, allies ought to support each other."

"I fear that if you want Michael and I to bond or something similar, you may be disappointed, milady."

She scratches her cheek. "Just go talk to him. He's upset because of you. Don't make me order you, Freya."

"I..." The protest tapers away as I see milady's pleading expression. "Fine. Where might I find him?" A sudden, perplexing thought enters my mind. "Actually, milady, where were you all that Michael was in such a place to be challenged to a duel?"

"Ah… Well, that's… Do you remember the building we saw on our way here? The one somewhat like a tavern? Raimi called it a vocatum." Milady seems decidedly sheepish.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You mean to tell me all this happened at that barbaric hovel? Need I even ask if drink was involved?"

"Michael may have had one… or five. I did tell him to pace himself!"

"So, if I am understanding this correctly, Michael accepted a duel while under the persuasion of alcohol?"

Lady Chrom manages half a shrug. "Yeah. That's about the gist of it."

"He truly is the most baffling moron I've ever encountered." I feel as if I should be more angry than I am. But 'tis almost better that he did something so foolish while not in a right state of mind.

Milady moves to sit down on the edge of her bed, kicking off her boots. "I think Michael is down in Khan Flavius' training room. I tried to tell him to get some rest, but he wanted to practice. He's stubborn. Like someone else I know."

I raise a brow. "If Michael and myself are stubborn, then you, milady, must be an entirely new definition of the word."

She rolls her eyes, making a shooing motion with her hand. "Just go to him. It will do you both some good."

Suppressing both a grimace and a final rebuttal, I bow and take my leave. I am incredulous that speaking with Michael will help matters, but there is no dissuading Princess Chrom once her mind is set. Still, Michael and I share little in common. I believe milady vastly overestimates our ability to reach an amicable resolution. At best, we can hope for polite niceties. I finger the scar marring my neck. 'Tis not so easy to forget past grievances.

Meandering through the halls of Castle Ferox, I make no haste on my way towards the training room. I haven't the faintest idea what to say to Michael. Subtle speech has never been my strongest asset. I take pride in my blunt style of conversation. Why mince words and dance about like finicky foxes when one can simply say what they mean? Often this means I say nothing at all while in noble company, but I do not afford Michael that respect. So why am I bothering myself with anxious thoughts about this "talk?" I should… I should… what? Apologize? My stomach convulses. Maybe it is best to tell him I will ready him for the duel and ignore the rest? Will he even accept my aid?

Unfortunately, I've run out of time to ponder the conundrum. My feet carry me to the training room before I realize. The man of my ire swings a practice sword in the center of the room, technique poor enough that I wish I could unsee it. He certainly looks like someone who recently accepted a duel while intoxicated. Disheveled brown hair poking out at odd angles, dark circles under his eyes, and a beginning beard that more says "tramp" than "charming rogue." Not that Michael could ever be charming. That generally requires a wit imbeciles lack.

I clear my throat, and Michael whips around. His eyes narrow as he returns to hacking at the wooden dummy before him. "What are you doing here?" he asks. "Come to act like a massive bitch again?"

He does make it so difficult to be civil. "Milady suggested we talk. 'Clear the air' I believe she called it." I admit my attempt at a professional tone is soured by distaste.

"I have nothing to say to you," he grunts through strikes.

An uncomfortable silence lulls between us. I resist the urge to leave him be, determined to at least be able to report to milady that I tried. Settling on a subject I know well, I speak again. "Your form is terrible."

Michael throws the practice blade to the floor, the clattering echoing about the room. "You think I don't know that? You think I'm not trying my hardest to change that? I'm not in the mood, Freya. Fuck off."

"Milady informed me of your impending duel," I say, taking a step forward. "You've put your life at risk doing this."

"And what do you care?" Michael spits. "You'd be happy if I died."

I stare at the sword he dropped. Is that same one he's been whittling? Everyday? I sigh. "I would not."

"What?"

"You must think very little of me if you believe I'd take joy in your death." I know I've been… spiteful to him, but do I truly appear so callous?

He laughs bitterly. "You hate me. Isn't that part of hate? Nothing I do ever pleases you. And I sure as shit know I've fucked up a lot. Today included. But even when I'm giving it my all, you can't see me as anything more than a pathetic waste of space. Whatever. I guess maybe I am. You almost died because of me."

As I listen to him, my chest tightens in a way I don't quite comprehend. Do I hate Michael? Honestly? Milady said he does not hate me. And looking at him now, I do not see hatred. Shame, anger, frustration—but not hate. I cannot pretend I like Michael, far from it, though this "hatred" of mine is a charade. One I perpetuate to protect myself. I am jealous of Michael. Jealous that milady admires him. Jealous of the ease with which he interacts with my comrades. Jealous that he is at least brave enough to be true to himself. And I resent that everyone has forgiven him for what happened to me. Naga above, how petty. I will not change my opinion of him overnight, but Lady Chrom is right: Michael is at heart a decent man.

"I… I do not hate you, Michael." For once, I find it challenging to hold eye contact. "I envy you."

Michael appears dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"

I brace myself for the task of explaining. "From the moment you arrived, you have done nothing but disrupt the order of things I've grown accustomed to. You use crude language, alternate from heroics to harebrained foolery, and earned a position you don't deserve." His expression changes to a mingling of emotions I am unable to decipher. "All within mere weeks. I toiled my entire life to be worthy enough to stand beside the Exalt and her family as a retainer. My house has served the Exalts of Ylisse for generations upon generations. Always the firstborn son. My father had no sons, but I assumed the mantle despite all protests. And you just… just insert yourself into the Shepherds and milady's circle instantly. With nary a skill to your name."

I find my lungs heaving after the dearth of words. Yet again, I exposed my inner feelings to Michael. Will he mock me? Call me prideful or entitled? I should not care, but how can I not when I've told him things no one else knows? Alas, I may be every bit the fool as he.

The man who confounds me like no other ruffles the hair on the back of his head. "I had no idea you felt that way," he says, lowering his hand to wring it within the other. "Well, that's not true. I had an inkling… But you're not wrong, Freya. I haven't earned any of this. I'm trying, though. It's funny. I'm jealous of you, too. You're amazing at everything you do. All the Shepherds respect you. You have all the strength I wish I had."

We feel… the same? A strange sensation sweeps over me, one without a name. Like watching your rippled reflection in a pool slowly calm. 'Tis unnerving, and I push it aside. "I grew strong to protect the Exalted Family. I am not special. I do what is required of me."

Michael clearly wants to say more. His mouth remains closed, however. Probably wise considering his propensity for dullard remarks. Perhaps he has some sense after— "So… Are we best friends now?"

I retract all praise I ever even considered accrediting him. I also laugh. I laugh louder and longer than I have in recent memory. I laugh in only the way an idiot like Michael could make me. He stares, wide-eyed, as my outburst subsides into breathy gasps.

"You laughed," he says blankly. "I didn't think it was possible."

Composing myself and selecting an adequate scowl, I glare at him. "I am but human."

He grins. "I forget sometimes."

Our eyes lock for several seconds. "The answer to your question is no," I say.

"It was rhetorical anyways."

What an insufferable dolt. 'Tis a miracle from Naga herself that this meeting achieved anything at all. But I do feel more at ease. What this milady's plan? I confess I never expected Michael and I to reach a mutual truce. Perhaps the animosity I hold for him will fade with time. Presuming he survives the duel. Which happens to be the most pressing matter at hand. "The night is late," I begin brusquely. "Meet me here at dawn. If you wish to win your duel, that is."

"You're helping me?" Michael asks.

"No student of mine will fall to someone with a title as asinine as 'Dergus the Wyvernblooded.' Even if that student is you."

He nods. "Thank you, Freya."

I turn to exit, casting a glance over my shoulder. "Save your thanks for after Dergus lies defeated." I leave him with those parting words, not taking a second look back. Though the weariness of fatigue from the long journey to Urbos Magni set in a few hours ago, I will not yet allow myself to sleep. There's a ritual of sorts I must perform. I reach my quarters and slip inside, feeling at peace finally being alone. I did not bring much to Regna Ferox aside from some clothes and essentials for battle, all of which I neatly unpacked earlier in the day. Excluding the one possession I keep on my person at all times: my collection of pebbles.

Removing the pouch from my belt, I empty its contents onto the soft linens of the bed. I know owning something like this is silly, childish even, but these stones I've gathered since I was a little girl. Each pebble has a unique story. One is a rock I claimed from the battlefield after my first skirmish. Another from the day I was officially named Royal Retainer. My thumb glides across a smooth gray stone, an onyx swirl down the middle. The one I clutched as I lay bleeding after the wolf attacked me. Finally, I grasp the newest addition, a crimson colored pebble I found this morning. To me, it symbolizes Regna Ferox, a new place and hopefully a new ally.

As is my custom with new pebbles, I set about polishing the surface, removing the imperfections with a rough strip of leather. The process takes time, but I am patient. My thoughts drift naturally to Michael's duel. There is no feasible method to prepare him within a week. Michael stands no chance against a seasoned warrior. Even the greenest knights of Ylisse would make short work of him. Yet, there must be a way to prevail. We will need to study his opponent, learn his style and its weaknesses. What can Michael exploit to gain an advantage? While I abhor a dishonorable strategy, Michael will never win fighting fair.

I look down at the now glossy pebble, wishing I had an answer. 'Twould be a lie if I said I am not apprehensive. There are no guarantees, no infallible way to assure victory. If only Michael was not prone to reckless action, we would not be in this cursed situation. I squeeze the pebble in my palm. Well, what's done is done. Only one path to follow remains.

Wiping my new pebble clean, I place it and the others back in the pouch. I spend a fleeting moment to gaze out the window, seeing Urbos Magni bathed in moonlight. The city at night only feels more constricting.

Michael and I meet each other the next morning in the Khan's training room. He manages to look worse than he did the day before, if possible. I contemplate a lecture on the importance of proper self-care, but conclude this is not the time. Despite appearing as if he ate an entire meal consisting of nothing but Sullivan's infamous duck soup, Michael seems eager to begin the training.

That eagerness falters slightly when I explain we won't be swinging around swords like swashbuckling pirates. A duel is different from combat on the battlefield. 'Tis less chaotic and takes places just as much in the mind as in reality. One does not attempt to cook without a recipe or ingredients—unless that person is Sullivan making duck soup—and similarly one does not attempt a duel without proper planning.

"Today, we will find this Dergus fellow and watch him train," I tell Michael. "You are dueling him, not me. You barely have a foundation for sparring anyways. Your daily lessons will need to be suspended for now to adopt a more focused approach."

Michael frowns. "And do you know where Dergus is? Because I don't."

I shake my head. "No, but I imagine the Khan might. Lady Chrom mentioned Dergus is of a clan well-known in Regna Ferox."

"Yeah, Clan Talgar," Michael supplies. "He ranted on and on about it after I accepted the duel. Apparently, insulting someone's clan is a big deal. So big that you need to have a duel in front of everyone in the clan to defend its name. It's some shit."

"Khan Flavius is discussing the logistics of the tournament with Princess Chrom today. I can ask him about Clan Talgar then."

"So," Michael says, "I'm assuming I won't be allowed in on this discussion. What am I doing during all this?"

I gesture around at the training room. "You have your exercises, do you not? Or do you expect to defeat Dergus with a fearsome display of infantile whining?"

He glares as I stare smugly at him. "How do you know Dergus won't be trying to watch me train? Did you think of that?"

"Because anyone who looks at you can tell you've all the experience of a mewling kitten. Dergus will train normally as all warriors do. You aren't a threat to him. He underestimates you." Arrogance is the downfall of many men. Michael at least has the power of the underdog on his side.

"You're making it awfully hard for me keep a positive outlook," he grumbles. "It's like I'm David and he's Goliath."

Ah, the old legend. It does apply somewhat to Michael's plight. But 'tis only a children's tale. "I am afraid it will take more than a slingshot to topple Dergus."

"Wha..." Michael blanches and stumbles back. I reach out to steady him, bewildered. Did I say something strange? Or is this an aftereffect of a night of drinking? Gods, Michael, pull yourself together.

"If you plan to… release your stomach, please do it elsewhere," I say, pursing my lips.

He recovers a bit, straightening, but breathing unevenly. "N-No… I'm fine," he stutters. "Could you… Could you repeat what you just said?"

"I said if you plan to—"

"No!" he snaps. "Before that!"

Michael is an odd man, but he has never behaved like this. "About David felling Goliath with a slingshot? Michael, what is that matter with you?"

His face contorts into a pallid mask, and he brushes past me. "I… I'm sorry, Freya. I'm not feeling well. Just… Just please come get me after you talk to the Khan." He all but sprints down the hall and out of sight.

My inherent skepticism activates. Obviously, that was a lie. What I do not understand is what caused such a reaction. I retrace the conversation. Nothing I said should have warranted that. Did anxiety regarding the duel overcome him? He was normal before, though. Albeit bedraggled. 'Tis as if… as if he was shocked I knew the legend of David and Goliath. But that is absurd. There cannot be a man or woman in Ylisse who does not know the folktale of David felling the Plegian giant, his stone blessed by Naga. I will confront Michael about this later. And hopefully learn he is not deranged in some way.

The mystifying encounter plagues me throughout Lady Chrom's conference with Khan Flavius. Fortunately, I remember to ask about Clan Talgar, which the Khan graciously explains have a gathering forum not far away. If Dergus is to be found, he shall be there. Though, the question does require informing the Khan of the rather embarrassing affair Michael embroiled himself in. Khan Flavius thinks the whole ordeal immensely amusing and wishes Michael luck. He also provides some valuable information about Feroxi dueling ceremony, enough to stir the wisps of a plan. A plan I am not entirely comfortable with. But sitting here listening to Khan Flavius speak of the brutality in a Feroxi duel, I realize that Michael truly cannot hope to win by abiding the rules. He has many faults, but saving Michael's life comes before preserving his or my honor in this particular case. Though it galls me to cast aside personal morals, 'tis more moral to protect a man from a fate he does not deserve. I promised Lady Chrom I would keep him safe. And Freya, Knight Retainer of Ylisse, does not break her vows no matter what they require.

I quickly excuse myself as soon we've finished. Under normal circumstances, I would consult with milady about the training regime and roster for the tournament. Three weeks is so little time to arrange things before we fight to possibly determine the fate of Ylisse. But the more I dwell upon Michael, the more I need to rid myself of these puzzling questions. Not to detract from the fact we still must locate Dergus as well.

Several minutes pass as I stand before Michael's door, wondering how best to broach the subject of his meltdown. Eventually, I decide to opt for my specialty of directness. Michael opens the door a few moments after I knock, regarding me carefully.

"Did the Khan say anything helpful?" he asks from inside his room.

"Yes, he did," I reply and pause. "But first tell me what happened earlier. You went pale as a wraith for seemingly no reason at all."

He sighs, as if expecting the inquiry. "I'd rather not. Can you let it go?"

Suspicious. But why? "No. I gave your episode some thought. It… does not make sense."

Michael runs a hand through his hair. "It's not what you think," he says.

"I'm not sure what I think. Other than that you might be unhinged. You brought up the legend of David and Goliath first. And then proceeded to lose your mind when I responded with information anyone would know."

"That's… not it. Of course you know the story. We all do." Michael says tentatively. "I had a panic attack."

My brows knit together. "A what?"

"A panic attack," he repeats. "Sometimes… when I feel overwhelmed or… scared, I get like that. A rising feeling of, well, panic. That's why I call it a panic attack. They don't happen often, but I can't control it when they do. You mentioned the slingshot, and I realized what I said and it all came crashing down on me. That I might die." Michael's eyes are vulnerable, cautious.

As far-fetched as it sounds, I confess I have no alternate explanation. "We've been in more perilous situations. Why hasn't this happened before?"

"It has. Just not with anyone else around. Usually at night." He looks at his boots before back up at me. "Freya, this is my personal issue. I don't want anyone else to know."

"What if it endangers another?"

"It won't."

"You said you can't control it."

Michael smacks his arm against the door, and it takes effort for me not to flinch. "Dammit, Freya! Don't you get how ashamed I am of this? As if I'm not weak enough already. Please… just keep my secret."

I'm taken aback by the intensity in his voice. 'Tis true: a… condition like this would cause me shame as well. Yet, he never exhibited any signs until now. Miro might know something more about it. But for lack of evidence to the contrary, I choose to believe him. For now. "Your affliction shall remain between us, then. But should it ever interfere with the well-being of any other, I will not hesitate to act."

Relief washes over his features. "Thank you, Freya. I appreciate this. Really."

I nod slowly, suddenly feeling like I've just played my part in an unknown script, a rehearsed scene of Michael's own design. Not sinister, however. And because of that, I shrug it off. I will keep an eye on him, as I always do. I suspect he has not told me the whole truth, but perhaps the rest he doesn't trust me with. I cannot blame him when I do not trust him myself. At any rate, Michael begins prodding me about what the Khan said, and I reorder myself to the present matter.

Michael's demeanor lightens as we trek across Urbos Magni to spy upon Dergus. His fascination with the city far outstrips my own. Whether it be a banal merchant stall or an inebriated bout of fisticuffs, Michael treats everything as a grand experience. One might think he'd never walked around in a city before. Was Ylisstol not interesting enough? To distract myself from Michael's slack-jawed commentary, I study the mountains and landscape surrounding Urbos Magni. Regna Ferox boasts a tremendous natural beauty. Not on the level of Ylisse but spectacular nonetheless. Snowy peaks and glaciers protect the city from invasion while stunning visually, pragmatic and idyllic. Michael can gape all he wants at grubby shops—I am content with mountain ranges winding like the spine of a regal ice dragon.

Nearly half an hour passes before Michael and I reach Clan Talgar Hall. Calling it a building is not quite correct. Ylisse has no equivalent. The Hall is a pavilion of sorts supported by sturdy vertical logs. Underneath the roof, members of Clan Talgar engage in mock combat or greet one another and share ale. The stench of sweat wafts through the air, and I wrinkle my nose. A steel sign hangs from an awning over what I assume to be the entrance. I cannot read the Feroxi runes given how peculiar they are compared to Ylissean, but somehow I doubt many of these people can either.

"That's him!" Michael exclaims beside me.

I follow his gaze toward a stout man, hair combed back in a greasy mane. He's a good head taller than myself and built not unlike a bear. Under that fat is clearly a layer of corded muscle. Just how much did Michael drink?

"What now?" Michael asks. "Do we tail him? It looks like he's just hanging around. Actually, how do we know he's even going to do something useful to watch?"

"Khan Flavius said all Feroxi clansmen spar daily in their Hall. The older warriors train the younger ones. 'Tis a custom. Everything revolves around battle here."

Michael squints at Dergus. "OK. But is he a younger or older warrior? He's too ugly to tell."

"I..." Dergus is quite unattractive. But he's no older than Michael or myself. "A young one. Keep in mind that in Ferox a young warrior is still a hardened soldier. The dynamic of old and young is more about respecting an elder than prowess."

He hums in acknowledgment. "I suppose we're going to wait until something interesting happens?"

We do not need to wait long. A silver-haired man clasps forearms with Dergus after a few minutes. From our vantage point, 'tis difficult to see both men at once. Luckily, they move into a more open area and square off against one another. The speed of the older man surprises me. He weaves around Dergus nimbly, darting in and out with light blows. Dergus adopts a defensive posture, deflecting strikes with his shield and pivoting to always remain facing his opponent. I peer over at Michael, who to his credit is watching with rapt attention. As I focus again on Dergus, the hefty man parries a weak thrust and bashes the other man with his shield. The force sends the man to ground, and Dergus finishes by placing his blade against his neck before helping him up.

"Shit," Michael says. "Dergus is fucking terrifying."

"Is that all you learned?" I ask, turning towards him.

"Well, I mean," he starts, toying with his beard. "He doesn't move much."

"And why do you think that is?" Remember awareness, Michael. Prove to me you gained something from our sessions.

"Uh… He's fat?"

Such a way with words, Michael. "That's part of it," I say, pointing at the pair gearing up for another round. "Watch again."

The second match ends with a similar result, though the silver-haired man forced Dergus to chase him more. Even from here, I can see Dergus panting.

"He has no stamina," Michael notes, snapping his fingers.

I almost smile. "Exactly. Let us see if their third fight unfolds the same way."

By this point, the older warrior has figured out Dergus. He baits him with feints and taunts, all the while keeping out of range of Dergus' power. When Dergus can only offer a lax resistance, the other man unleashes a barrage of superior swordplay. He disarms Dergus and scores a clean blow to the chest, fatal with a real weapon.

"He doesn't seem that tough now," Michael says, flashing a crooked grin.

"Don't be a fool." I slap the back of his head. "Dergus will annihilate you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he grunts, rubbing his head.

I wear an austere expression. "You have one advantage. One. In every other category, you lose."

"Am I supposed to run around him in circles? What does that accomplish?"

"Did you see what that man did? He made Dergus waste energy. Dergus is powerful but slow and lacking endurance." I squeeze Michael's bicep, which feels firmer than I thought it would be. "Even a weak fighter can save the strength to defeat him when he's tired."

He jerks his arm away. "OK. I get it. I'm no Sullivan. But you're saying all I need to do is wear him down?"

"'Tis not so simple. You lack the skill," I say, my next words already leaving a bad taste. "You're also going to cheat."

His mouth trembles before breaking into a wide smile, the conspiratorial kind Lord Liston often has. "Freya… I believe I've misjudged you."

I've never been devious. At the Ylissean Knight Academy, my peers unanimously voted me prefect. I wore that badge with pride. Some may call me inflexible, but rules and regulations prevent society from disintegrating into madness. I concede that I relish routine and cherish the predictability one grants. And so it deviates from the core of my beliefs to formulate this plan.

I meet Michael's eyes. "According to Khan Flavius, the laws of Feroxi dueling state each party must drink a goblet of ritual ale before the fight."

"So?"

"So… surely it might be unfortunate if Dergus found himself falling asleep during the duel?"

Michael's face tells me 'twould be very unfortunate. Very unfortunate, indeed.

Wow. So, I owe all of you a massive apology for vanishing. Truly, I am sorry. Life kind of caught up and slammed me. I got swept up in volunteer work, and while my health is still improving, mentally I've been fried for a while now. But I'm getting back up to speed. Honestly, though, there isn't an excuse. I know a lot of you love this story and looked forward to new chapters. So let me promise you all right now that this story is very important to me, and I won't be letting it fall by the wayside. So many great fics have been abandoned. This one will not be one of them. I owe it to myself and to all of you to continue writing. Plus, I love doing this. It's fun. More fun than doing just about anything else. I can't say how long it will take to finish this story or how often the updates will be (faster than this I swear), but we will reach the final chapter one day.

So, about this chapter. As you read, it's from Freya's POV. I decided to write it like this because Freya has been a major character for the entire story, and I felt like we deserved a look inside her head. I hope you enjoyed this change of pace. The story will return to Michael's POV next chapter (though you may get a Chrom POV down the road!).

I need to send a special shoutout to ThreeDollarBratwurst, author of Birth and Re-Death, for keeping me engaged and motivating me to keep going (even when they weren't trying to). Helping out with BaRD was often the only thing I was doing on FFN during these past few months. So thank you, friend. You're the best.

And thank all of you as well for continuing to read and support me. I'm not sure I could do it without you all. I couldn't ask for better readers. And on that note, as always, review responses:

Geust- You did set up an account and message me, so yay! Unfortunately, I disappeared. But I'm back now!

Mark the Mark- Thank you for reading! I'm glad you seemed to have found the story amusing. I hope you went on to read the rest!

Yexius- I always appreciated you reviews, and I hope you will be pleased to read another chapter after all this time. Sorry for making you wait.

Caellach Tiger Eye- Ah, you have always been the most thorough reviewer. I can't thank you enough for that. I need to get back to you as well. Hopefully, you enjoy this newest chapter. Look for a message from me soon! I've left you hanging long enough.

ThreeDollarBratwurst- Come on, I already sang your praises. You know you're cool.

Serendipitous- You are perhaps the one reviewer I've worried most about finding this story again. Since you've always reviewed as a guest, I fear that you may miss my updates. Regardless, I will treasure the reviews you gave me. But if you return to read more, I can assure you it will keep you entertained again!

Cyberchao X- You left so many reviews and then I went poof! Well, I've returned! Robin and their gender mysteries will also return.

Scorin- I know you have an account now, so I look forward to seeing you review with that should you still be reading. Your reviews were a boon. Also, yeah, Virginie IS better than Virion. Fact.

Shizu23- Thanks for reviewing again! Warms my heart that you love this story. And now it's back! So, imagining F!Chrom wearing Lucina's outfit is a pretty natural thing to do. I sometimes do, even though Chrom is wearing a specific outfit I described in an early chapter.

Mixed Valence- Getting a review from you was amazing. Not only are you a popular FE fanfiction writer, but it's also great to hear from you after all this time! Seeing you call this the best SI you've ever read meant a ton to me. I can't say that I have the confidence to agree when so many other great ones exist, but it brought a big smile to my face nonetheless. I hope you keep reading this story now that it's back. Thanks so much!

Guest- I'm sorry to hear you aren't fond of this story. I'm also sorry to hear that being the opposite of a Mary Sue is somehow still a Mary Sue.