Chapter XV: Time to D-D-D-Duel!

Two questions have haunted me for the past three days. One, how in the nine levels hell are we going to manage to spike Dergus' ale, and two, why the fucking fuck does Freya know about David and Goliath? Number one, I can deal with the uncertainty there. Sure, failing will probably result in my painful and torturous death, but that's just an occupational hazard at this point, right? The second question, though? That's another matter. No one in this world should be familiar with Earth stories, let alone of a biblical nature. I've reached no logical conclusion regarding it so far. Unless some ancient Hebrews fell into Archanea randomly and spread some Old Testament love, Freya casually understanding my offhand remark makes no sense. At least Freya seems to have bought my "panic attack" excuse for now. I regret flipping my shit, but that kind of news just doesn't compute.

To compound the issue, my memory loss is only getting worse. Elibe, Magvel, etc, are still fine, but my recollection of Awakening's events and other games taking place on this planet keeps evaporating. I'm beginning to fear that some day I'll wake up and no longer even remember this is supposed to be just a video game. If that day comes, I'm not sure if my brain can handle the stress. I do my best to shelve the subject, tuck in away in shadowy recesses of my consciousness, though the gnawing dread won't allow it. And neither will the crippling migraines that happen every time I'm on the verge of regaining crucial information.

I pause my work on the new wooden sword I've begun. I can't focus like this. Foreign constellations twinkle outside my room's window. I should be sleeping anyways, not wasting energy whittling and worrying under dim candlelight. Freya undoubtedly has more soul crushing training planned tomorrow. Thankfully, we finished our third and final day of Dergus Spying today, so the real work starts soon. She intimated plainly enough that even with Dergus drugged, he would still last a while before the sedative kicked in. During that waiting period, I will need to rely on skill to survive. Something of which Freya also clarified I have precious little. As if I didn't already know.

Exhaling roughly, I stand, brushing wood shavings off my trousers. A good night's rest isn't happening at this point. Time for a walk. The dark halls of Castle Ferox absorb sound, dulling my footsteps to manufacture an insulating silence. I know there are guards patrolling somewhere, but the corridors feel as if all else is frozen in the stillness of the night. It's not an eerie sensation, however. After all, this isn't the haunted depths of Castlevania. Dracula never seemed to care much about inviting décor as he did screwing with the Belmonts. Khan Flavius prefers layering everything with a dusting of gold thick enough to make Anna blush. Regna Ferox embraces the idea of "if you've got it, flaunt it."

I enter an expansive chamber, towering windows at the far end overlooking the courtyard. Like many room in this castle, I wonder what its purpose is. Given the wide surface area and marble floor, a ballroom would be my best guess. Or, considering Feroxi inclinations, maybe another place to beat each other senseless. I'm more interested in the figure standing in front of the windows anyways.

Even in the poor lighting, I recognize their coat. "Robin," I say, walking towards their position. "Can't sleep either?"

Robin shifts around sharply, their silhouette haloed by the moonlight. "You startled me, Michael. Forgive me, I was lost in thought."

"That's what tacticians do, right?" I say, shrugging. "Any reason you're out here, though?"

"You said it yourself: can't sleep. My room was getting a bit stifling."

The Shepherds' resident amnesiac holds the distinction of being both incredibly easy and incredibly difficult to talk to. Robin cares about everyone, but they also have a tendency to hit hard when it comes to personal matters. And at the moment, I'm fishing for what to say.

"Regna Ferox sure is something." I settle for banal and innocuous.

Robin nods thoughtfully. "For an entire nation to determine their ruler based on a tournament fought by outsiders certainly surprises me."

I didn't expect a genuine, thorough answer. However, this is Robin. "Good for us. Winning the tournament means an alliance."

"If we win."

"With you at the helm, I doubt we won't."

A strained expression passes across Robin's face. "Nothing is ever assured. So many things could go wrong, and it's my job to make sure they don't. Everything hinges on this tournament," Robin says, seeming to sink into their coat. "But let's put that aside. What about you? Your duel is coming up."

Of course Robin will steer the conversation in that direction. "What's there to say? My prospects aren't great, even with Freya's plan."

"The two of you haven't been around the castle much. What exactly is your strategy?" Robin asks. Freya determined that the fewer people we involve, the better. Ylisse can't afford to lose aid from Regna Ferox. The rest of the Shepherds need to concentrate on the tournament. My duel can't jeopardize that. Still, it doesn't hurt to pick Robin's brain.

"Hopefully, we're going to drug Dergus before the duel. Tamper with the ceremonial ale. We haven't come up with a solid way to do that, though," I say, leaving an intonation on the last few words.

Robin frowns and peers down at the courtyard. "This was Freya's idea? Unorthodox, considering the source."

"Trust me, I know. I can feel her skin crawl every time it's mentioned."

"She must be committed," Robin says with a small smile. "But if you're hoping to lace the ale yourselves, I don't believe you'll succeed."

I hold out my arms limply. "Enlighten me, oh wise one. Seriously, I've got nothing."

Producing their notebook, Robin flips through the pages until reaching their destination. "After that night at the vocatum, I did some research on Feroxi dueling," they admit, glancing up at me. "I wrote down whatever I thought might be worth knowing. Both duelists drink at the same time. The goblets are filled from the same pitcher. All this is overseen by the duel official. So your chances of pulling anything are slim to none."

While I'm both caught off-guard and pleased that Robin went through the trouble, their words aren't very encouraging. "Then… I'm screwed?"

They shake their head, tapping their journal. "Not necessarily. The official is required to wear a ritual mask. If said official was to be replaced with a friend, then..."

"They could slip the potion into Dergus' cup," I finish, suddenly beaming.

Robin stows their book back inside their coat. "And I will be that friend."

My grin falters. "You don't have to do that. You've done more than enough. Besides, prepping for tournament is more important than my duel. The Shepherds need you."

"This isn't up for debate," Robin says firmly. "I'm doing it. Sorry, but I want you to live, Michael."

"But why you? The tournament—"

"You still don't get it, do you, Michael?" Robin cuts me off, pushing a finger into my chest. "You're my friend. All of you are. This is what friends do. I refuse to accept losing anyone. If we don't return to Ylisse with every single one of us intact, I will have failed."

I chew my tongue for a moment, digesting Robin's declaration. Why do I constantly feel like everyone is accommodating for me? Since Freya's injury in the battle with the Risen, I've invested all my energy into changing, growing strong so that I'm not dragging everyone around me down. What do I do instead? Drunkenly decide to fight someone way out of my league. It's pathetic. I hate being weak.

"This is my own fault anyways, Robin," I say, hanging my head. "I'm just a bunch of big talk. I'm pretty much a waste of everyone's time."

Robin places their hands on my shoulders. "Michael, do me a favor and shut up," they snap. "This self-deprecation ends now. Who do think you are, Michael? Do you think hating yourself justifies anything? No one wants you to leave. No one thinks you're worthless. You've made some mistakes, hurt us, but why do think you're still here? Because you proved to all of us that you want to give your best. At the Longfort, we saw who you really are. The only one who doesn't is you, Michael. I'm not going to stand and listen to you degrade yourself. Grow up and accept that you can't hide behind being powerless anymore. Because it's not about that. It never was. You're a Shepherd. And there's no going back."

The speech ruins me. Robin, you really know how to fuck a guy up. When one of us falls, we all fall. Stana, too. God, I'm such an idiot. I asked for this. Isn't it rule number one not to ask for something you can't handle? Joining the Shepherds isn't just being a soldier. It's being a friend, and letting others be friends to you as well. I know that. But I'm still wrapped up in myself, making everything about me. I'm a burden. I'm weak. I'm not good enough. I do need to improve. That's a fact. Yet, the Shepherds are more than just me. When one of us falls, we all fall. Berating myself doesn't help anyone. Like Robin said, being powerless isn't the problem. Not relying on the power of my friends to help me is. Support and be supported.

"I'm sorry, Robin. You're right," I say. "I understand that I'm not alone."

The tactician smiles, releasing my shoulders. "You better. We all struggle. No one is perfect. Some are more powerful than others. But it's one's heart that matters."

"Well, being handy with a sword is useful, too," I add wryly.

"Good thing you're learning," they chime. "My point is that you can be a Shepherd without much skill, but you can't if you don't have heart. I haven't been around any longer than you, Michael. You've seen the same things I have. We fight, yes. We must. Even so, we all contribute. You included."

"I don't think Dergus cares much about my heart. Other than ripping it out." I give a grim chuckle. "I get it, though, Robin. Thanks. You're a lot smarter than me."

Robin snorts. "Just keep learning and training. Hard work and effort always pay well." They point a thumb at themselves. "And leave impersonating the match official to me. I'll have Miro whip up a sleeping draught. Don't worry. Plans are my specialty."

I trust Robin. We share a look and lapse into silent contentment. Eventually, Robin yawns and tells me they're heading back to try and get at least a few hours of sleep. I'm not sure how long I stare out the window after they leave, but the pink light of dawn dyes the sky when I finally move. A sleepless night. Freya won't be pleased. Fatigue frays my brain, my muscles, reminders of insomnia's price. Hopefully, I'll make it through Fanatical Fitness Hour without collapsing. Might be doable if it was actually just an hour. But Freya Time is not of this world.

Begrudgingly, I drag myself to the training room, morning sunlight gradually wiping away the vestiges of night along the way. I arrive to Freya already waiting there. She's traded her formal suit for a tan leather jerkin over a white shirt and black pants. The outfit alone means today will indeed be different. I'd say Freya straightens upon seeing me, but her posture's so perfect I can't really tell.

We exchange curt greetings before launching into a now familiar exercise routine. Freya watches impassively as I attempt to persevere through her regimen, the effects of sleep-deprivation reaching a climax by the armor-clad running. Around the twelfth lap, I'm barely staying upright. It's amazing I made it this far, honestly. My legs might as well be sacks filled with cement and Jell-O. A spell of dizziness spins me in circles, and I land in a tangled, perspiring heap on the floor. Unlike our last session, when Freya went Full Metal Jacket on my ass, she merely stands above me with a disappointed scowl.

"Care to elaborate on why your performance is so uninspiring?" she asks. "You seem to have regressed into the Michael of two weeks ago."

"I didn't sleep last night," I confess, rolling over to lie spread eagle.

She closes her eyes and sighs in what I am beginning to believe is a trademark reaction reserved solely for myself. "Dergus will kill you if you don't rest properly. How do you intend to fight if you pass out from poor self-care?

I snuggle against the floor. "Well, I'm banking on Dergus doing the passing out, actually. Do you think we should bring a blanket? You know, in case he gets cold?"

"Hilarious," Freya deadpans. "We still have no method of administering the drug."

"About that." I sit up, propping on my elbows. "Robin offered to handle it. They did some reading on dueling here, and it looks like the solution is to swap places with the duel official."

Freya crosses her arms. "I do not trust Robin. They've shown no devious behavior as of yet, however, they can easily sabotage our efforts."

"You saying you trust Robin less than me?" I roll my eyes. "Half of us would be dead by now if not for Robin."

"Possibly an elaborate ruse. Robin is capable. You, on the other hand, are almost wholly incompetent." The ghost of a smirk teases her lips.

Rising from the floor on shaky legs, I pull a mock affronted face. "What, and you're not going to consider that I could be faking it too? Face it, Freya, you just have a hard-on for Robin."

A rosy tinge colors her cheeks, a very alien expression. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"You have it out for Robin. They've done nothing but good things. Relax. Besides, we need their help." It's my turn to smirk. "Or are you confused about what a 'hard-on' is? Well, you see, when a guy—"

"I do not require an explanation, thank you very much!" Freya objects, a little too loud. Coughing slightly, she continues. "My station dictates I must be vigilant with all potential threats to the Exalted Family and the Shepherds. I am simply concerned with the many mysteries surrounding Robin. You are correct, though; we can benefit from Robin's assistance."

I offer a cheeky smile. "So, we agree?"

"'Tis perhaps our best option, regrettably." She smooths her jerkin. "Enough of this. There are four days remaining until the duel, and you'll not defeat Dergus if we chatter aimlessly." Freya turns around, walking towards a weapon rack. Deliberating momentarily, she selects a lance and sword, followed by a pair of shields. Facing me once more, Freya slides the shield along the floor and tosses the lance to me. I fumble with the shaft, trying to gain a firm grip, but it falls. The resulting clatter echoes as a deriding tune to my lackluster hand-eye-coordination. I hastily pick up the spear while Freya plucks a speck of lint from her pants.

"I would have caught it if I'd been ready," I say, grasping the shield as well.

"Of course," Freya drawls. "A soldier must always be ready, Michael."

I study the lance so I don't have to look at her smug face. Obviously, the first thing I notice is that this is a real weapon. That revelation is followed by indignation that Freya threw a metal death pole at me. "This lance isn't wooden. What if you'd impaled me?"

Freya inclines her head at the spear. "Look at the tip. The blade is dulled." She lifts her sword. "So is this. You must acclimate yourself to the weight of real arms."

That makes sense. Training with wooden practice weapons is good for form and technique, but Dergus and I won't be swinging tree branches at each other. "Why a lance, then?"

"As you know from observing Dergus, he wields a sword. You are complete novice and need every advantage. A lance boasts greater range and suits our tactic of maintaining distance." She twirls her sword and balances it atop her shield. "I shall imitate Dergus' style. Now come. Show me what you can do."

"Er… Just like that? No basics? No fundamentals?" Freya never even let me hold a sword in our previous lessons. Then again, I wasn't accepting duels from angry thugs either.

"You are practicing how to counter Dergus specifically. We have no time for anything else." She bends her knees and angles her body. "Attack me!"

Well, here goes. I brace the spear between my arm and torso as I approach, keeping my shield level with Freya's. Each step forward makes my stomach churn and quake. I have no idea what I'm doing. My best sources of inspiration are the battles I've seen here and the no doubt woefully inaccurate historical and fantasy films I've watched. Is there a reason no one cool in The Lord of Rings uses a lance? Freya's gaze follows my every movement, unblinking. Her stance leaves no openings I can see. The shield doesn't protect her legs though. Choosing her right knee, I close the gap enough to thrust. What happens next is so fast my eyes barely keep up. Freya pivots on her back leg, sidestepping and flicking the shaft of my spear up with her sword. With the hand still holding her shield, she grabs the lance and pulls me toward her. Next thing I know, her blade is against my throat.

"Dead," she says, releasing me. "Do you know why?"

"I'm gonna assume there's more than one reason," I say dryly.

Freya slaps the flat of her sword against my thigh. "One, balance." She whacks my hand. "Two, grip." A light tap on the head. "Three, awareness."

I massage my knuckles. "You didn't exactly give me any pointers."

"Failure is part of gaining experience. Now you know not to strike where I'm baiting you."

Suppressing a fair amount of grumbling, I listen as Freya explains how I went for the one spot she wanted me to. And how my eyes betrayed my intentions. And how I hold the spear too close to the base. And how my feet aren't far enough apart. And how I hesitate too much. And how I'm not paying attention. Basically, I'm green unit tier fodder.

So, we train. I "die" repeatedly. Freya disarms, trips, punches, and kicks me—all calculating maneuvers to attain swift victory. Her impregnable defense blocks every blow, in turn leading to my invariable demise. When I finally catch her sword on my shield, she sweeps my legs and ends it right there. The humiliation snowballs until she manages to steal my lance and finish me with it. Freya shows no mercy.

Exhausted and frustrated, I resort to desperate measures. Rearing back, I hurl the spear at Freya. Her eyes widen as she deflects the projectile with her shield before advancing on me. I panic, realizing I have only my shield. Backpedaling, I rapidly find myself running out of space until I'm pressed against the wall, Freya calmly drawing nearer. Her first slash rattles my shield arm when I intercept it. I lose my grip on the second, shield rolling away. She doesn't need to tell me I'm dead.

"Never let go of your weapon," Freya orders. "There is no surer way to find an early grave."

Groaning, I shoulder past her. "I can't even touch you."

She hovers behind me. "You aren't thinking. You don't force me to change my strategy."

"Yeah, well, maybe if you were a better teacher, I wouldn't have this problem." I want to shove the words back into my mouth right after saying them. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean that."

Freya silently collects my lance and shield and stows them on the weapon rack. "We're finished for today. We shall start fresh tomorrow." She keeps her back to me.

"Wait. We don't have to stop. I said I'm sorry. I'm just tired." Freya doesn't react. "You aren't a bad teacher."

Her glare could freeze lava. "If you think that offended me, I believe you underestimate my self-esteem," she says. "We're breaking because you've reached your limit today. Rest and reflect on what you have learned."

If the aching desire to melt into my bed is any indication, Freya's right. Physically and mentally, there's nothing left in the tank. "Freya, I really am grateful for all this." I waver, evaluating whether to say more. "I'm just afraid."

I can't read her face. "I know. Go, Michael."

With a nod, I turn to exit but glance at Freya from the doorway. "What's my score?"

Freya seems preoccupied with the cuff of her sleeve. "There is no score. One. Fifty. It matters little. Do not trouble yourself. Defeating Dergus is your goal."

We part on those words. Something about her demeanor bothers me. I know full-well that I sucked mega balls during sparring, but Freya wasn't acting natural. Did I hurt her feelings after all? Is she worried? Maybe I should go back? But she probably wants to be left alone. Goddammit, Mike.

Fuck it, I'm heading back.

I drag my weary body to the training room, hoping I'm not too late. Freya sits on the floor, a variety of pebbles arranged in front of her. She looks up sharply at my arrival, scooping the stones into a velvet bag. An awkward sensation of intrusion creeps over me.

"Oh… Um… If I'm interrupting something… You know, I'm just gonna go," I say, feeling foolish. This is clearly private.

"Wait," I hear Freya call as I'm halfway gone.

Sheepishly, I reenter the room. Freya's clutching the pouch tightly at her side. "I will only say this once, so please listen carefully. And then leave," she says, a foreign tremor in her voice. "You are… the most irritating man I've ever known. No one has ever vexed me as you do. I cannot decide if you're brave or a coward, selfish or caring, a moron or just rash. Milady and milord value your company. The others accept your faults and see your merits. I am not the type of person who forms bonds easily. I have so many conflicting opinions. Why do you make everything so difficult?" The sound of the pebbles crunching together punctuates the question. "Michael, I made a vow to guide you safely through this. But if you die before I can learn the sort of man you truly are, I will never forgive you."

It's a good thing Freya told me to leave before she'd said this. Because I have no response. Freya and I have always been on rocky terms at best. Be it by miscommunication or sheer stupidity on my part, she's the one Shepherd I could not find common ground with. Until the past two days, this is. Strictly speaking, she combines most of my least favorite personality traits—overbearing, prudish, sarcastic and demeaning, aloof, the entire gamut of unpleasant. She's also loyal, selfless, dedicated, fair, and intelligent. So, maybe I don't know what to think of her either. Friendship is unlikely to ever be in the cards for us, but respect, that I can imagine.

We stare at each other for several long seconds. True to her wish, I leave afterwards. I return to my quarters, too sore and drained to do anything but flop onto the bed. As my mind floats within that murky realm of not-quite-conscious, I feel the flare of determination. Screw Dergus. Freya, I will live, and I will give you every reason to be proud.

In the following days leading up to the duel, I train with a renewed vigor. It takes Freya more time and effort to beat me each day. I try to play it smart, feinting and weaving, stalling as long as possible since I can't best her in a straight fight. The two of us hone my style, the result a jabbing hit and run that's effectively annoying. The idea is to get Dergus moving so he abandons his turtle tactics. He should still be figuring out how to deal with me when the drugs kick in. Once that happens, I just need to exploit an opening and KO him. No lethal force. Not that I want to kill him anyways. The thought alone sends my stomach into a queasy fit.

Last night, the final night before the duel, I nicked Freya on the hip. To be fair, doing so cost me the fight, and I only succeeded because she stumbled over a loose bootstrap. Still, she praised me for acting on the opportunity. So, am I ready for Dergus? Hell no. But Dergus doesn't know that. He's also less skilled than Freya. And probably susceptible to trash-talk as well. Though I'm not convinced pissing him off is in my best interest.

At least the plan is fully verified. Yesterday, Robin dropped by to let me know everything was in order. Waiting outside the Urbos Magni Dueling Grounds, though, I'm a bundle of fireworks, nerves jittering. The gear I'm equipped with only marginally offsets my trepidation. It's the same kit Chrom and I selected before we left for Regna Ferox. Except I have a helmet and breastplate now too, courtesy Khan Flavius' surplus. And then there's the lance. A real one. Deadly and about as tall as I am. My fingernails dig into the wooden shaft.

The appointed time draws nearer and nearer. Dergus appears to be going for fashionably late. Neither he or his entourage are here. Not he'd need to bring anyone along. Feroxi duels have no seconds. Or healers on standby. Though, you are entitled to be armed at all times, however you might manage it. Aside from that, though, your only aid is morale from friends. Which I cannot deny I have. Every Shepherd came to cheer me on. As Vaiva put it, "Ya ain't duelin' without Teach in your corner." Well, I lied. One Shepherd is missing. And it's not Kelda.

"She'll be here," Chrom says beside me. "Freya wouldn't miss this."

I respond with an absent nod. Maybe she doesn't want to see Dergus flay me. I don't blame her.

Virginie saunters between Chrom and I, tossing her hair. She's wearing an uncharacteristically hideous sweater, one with some kind of grotesque blob in the center. "Fret not, dearest Michael! Your cause is righteous, your noble spirit stalwart. To think a gallant man takes up arms to defend my maiden virtues… Oh, my heartbeat quickens so." She points at her sweater. "I commissioned this in your honor. See? Does it not gleam with your handsome visage?"

Not matter how hard I squint or tilt my head, that abomination still looks like a Ditto fucking a jellyfish. "That is supposed to be me?"

She flutters her lashes and produces a piece of parchment bearing the same monstrosity. "Of course! I designed it myself!"

A firm hand clasps my shoulder. Sullivan leans over me to look at Virginie's sweater, guffawing as he does. "She really captured you there. That jawline is just so… realistic," he says through snickers.

Virginie rolls up the parchment and purses her lips. "Good Sullivan, do I sense a jest?" She traipses around me to press herself into him. "Or, dare I say, perhaps you covet the attention for yourself?"

The knight balks, wriggling away. "In your dreams, Ruffles. Get a grip."

"Ah, but I do dream of it. Often. Very often." She traces her finger in an idle loop on his chest. Sullivan retreats, reddening, as Virginie laughs in dainty breaths.

The amusing spectacle creates a welcome distraction from the darker thoughts whirling within my mind. If the atmosphere was somber, I'd feel more like I'm attending my own funeral rather than a duel. Have faith, Mike. They seem to. I catch Chrom eyeing me and force a smile. I'm about to put on some false bravado when Dergus and company stroll into view.

He's sporting practically an entire battalion in tow. Seems like most of Clan Talgar will be in attendance to watch Dergus fight. The man himself is decked out in a fur cape and ebony armor that simulates abdominal muscles. Warpaint covers his face, navy blue and maroon in diagonal splashes. He and his party stop a few yards across from us. Dergus bangs his fist on his shield, a deep thrum soon joined by his compatriots. The sound radiates as they pound, getting more frenzied until finally ceasing in deafening silence.

If it's supposed to be intimidating, it is.

Dergus stalks toward me, sneering. "Yous made a mistake, boy. Ain't no bitch whore worth dyin' fer. Shame. Yer head'll look good on me mantle, though."

Virginie bristles as Chrom bars her with an arm. Dergus grins, cocking his head. "Yous best control yer womenfolk. Bitches never know their place 'less ya whip 'em good. Or bend 'em over a table." He licks his lips and winks at Chrom. "That one there'd look real nice squirmin' under me."

My fist connects with his jaw before I register the action. Dergus staggers backwards holding his chin, eyes bulging. "Ya little fuckin' piece'a shit!" He draws his sword. His clansmen copy him while the Shepherds unsheathe their weapons as well. For a moment, it appears like I've instigated a full-on battle. Thankfully, a familiar voice booms over the turmoil.

"Enough!" Robin shouts, coming out of the Dueling Grounds dressed in a scarlet robe. A horned mask obscures their features, carvings of wolves, bears, and lions adorning its surface. "You stand on hallowed earth! The only blood shed today shall be in single combat."

That's some Oscar worthy shit there, Robin. The intervention has the desired effect; both sides warily lower their weapons. Dergus stares at me with undisguised malice. Why did I punch him? Who am I, Charles Bronson? You know, because I must have a… Death Wish.

This is not the time for jokes, Mike. This is when you piss yourself.

I try to control my emotions as we enter the Dueling Grounds. Tensions remain high, a thin veneer of civility blanketing the enmity. Robin guides us to the pit of packed dirt that must be the where the duel takes place. It's a circular area partitioned by a low stone wall from benches meant for bystanders. I haven't been inside the Arena Ferox, but this possibly an ultra-lite version. Robin instructs everyone excluding Dergus and myself to enter the stands, then walks toward an aperture in the wall hosting a large gourd-like vase and two goblets. Robin surreptitiously sends me a thumbs-up as they pour the ale. I glimpse a vial poke out their sleeve while they fill Dergus' cup.

Robin turns around holding both chalices. Meanwhile, Dergus has done nothing but glare at me the whole time, fists clenching and unclenching. "Hurry up!" he growls. "Start the duel!"

"Both participants must first drink the ceremonial ale," Robin says evenly, extending the goblets to us both. Dergus flails his arm, knocking the cup from Robin's hand, golden liquid seeping into the soil.

"Fuck that!" he roars, taking a fistful of Robin's collar. "Start. The. Duel."

I swallow. Oh, crap. This is bad. This is really bad. We never counted on Dergus being totally batshit. Or me decking him in the face, but that point's moot. Robin looks from the fallen goblet to me. We both know that was the only dose.

Dergus shakes Robin, who pries his hand from their robe. "You cannot ignore the law," Robin reasons. "The rules must be observed."

It's no use. Dergus already destroyed the plan. I'm petrified. Fear courses through my veins, the icy river of inevitable doom. Dergus will kill me. Robin can't change that. But I can at least die with some dignity. "No, he's right. Begin the duel. Let us fight," I say, unable to suppress the tremor in my voice. Thanks, Robin. You did what you could.

Even beneath the mask, I can see Robin's conflicting thoughts, that spinning cog attempting to salvage the situation. I don't want to die. I really don't. However, if this world taught me anything, it's that I have to take responsibility for my decisions. No one can live your life for you. It's been real, Fire Emblem. It's been real.

Robin slowly nods, their shoulders slumped. I'm sorry. I know you wanted to protect everyone. The tactician raises their arms. "Begin," they say softly and withdrawal.

Dergus doesn't waste a moment. He shows no signs of the defensive, counter-attacking style Freya and I witnessed at Talgar Hall. Maybe in his rage he just wants to murder me as quickly as he can. In terms of raw strength, I'm a child compared to Dergus. His sword crashes down in a looping arc, and I buckle under the impact on my shield. He bypassed my lance before I could even take a stance. At this distance, my range advantage means squat. If I'm going to last more than a few seconds, I need to put space between us. As he sets up another strike, I reel, hopping to the side and sticking out my spear to safeguard my retreat. Dergus slashes air, and with a blossom of hope, I note he's slower than Freya.

"Michael!" Speak of the devil. Over Dergus' shoulder I see her beside Chrom in the stands, that velvet pouch from earlier in the week against her chest. "Remember what I said!"

Right. I don't have Freya's permission to die. I also don't have to time to think about how glad I am to see her. Or where the hell she was. Dergus glances at her and looks back to me. "That yer woman? Quite a looker. Yous won't mind if I take 'er after yer dead, will ya?"

"She's not. But she wouldn't want some disgusting pig like you," I say, gripping my lance tighter.

He chuckles. It sounds like a seal choking. "Ain't never met no woman who could resist ole Dergus."

I scowl, lip curling. "Freya would kill you before you got close enough for her to smell your shitty breath."

Dergus brandishes his sword. "I don't like yer attitude, whelp. And I'm done with talkin'." He lunges, but I jab with the lance, halting his advance. Freya's training mostly consisted of offensive moves meant to spur Dergus into expending energy. Technically, having him attack me is what I want, since it lowers his stamina. But I can only stave him off for so long without a proper defense. He'll bust through my amateurish opposition before tiring. What can I do?

The Feroxi warrior paces just beyond my spear tip. If offensive is all I know, then that's my best option. My only shot is to fight on my terms. I thrust at Dergus' head, keeping the form Freya taught me. He parries the lance, blinking in confusion. Redirecting my weapon towards his legs, I elicit another parry. He slaps away a couple more strikes before relying on his shield. It's working. Dergus is switching to defense.

I decide to press. No sleeping drug will save me. I have to try and do what that older man did against Dergus. Aggravate him and manipulate the flow of combat. Prancing in orbit around Dergus, I dart in and out, drawing a few wild blows. Steadily, he retaliates with less and less precision. Am I winning? Unreal. Eager to land a damaging blow, I aim a vicious stab into his abdomen.

Dergus smiles.

My error is catastrophic. Dergus shifts and pins my lance under his arm, bringing his shield down on the shaft and jarring it from my hands. Winning one moment, disarmed the next. No, I wasn't winning. I see that now. Dergus was biding his time, letting me get overconfident. This is his bread and butter. That's how Dergus operates. You think you're fighting well, and then you discover aren't. Deception and misdirection. Everything I wanted to avoid.

Dergus slides his sword into its scabbard and twists the lance around to point at me. "Ain't it a bitch when ya lose yer weapon? Yous was kinda a pain in the ass with this here spear. It's only fittin' I kill ya with it."

Dread fills me as the bitter taste of watery bile floods my mouth. I think back to the bandits in Southtown, when the mage split my stomach open. Will it hurt like that? Will it feel cold and empty? I'm not ready.

His grin stretches as he leisurely jaunts toward me. I step back, making myself small behind my shield, clinging to these final seconds of life. "Here!" Something hits the ground behind me. I risk a glance to investigate. A sword. And Freya near the stone wall, eyes like saucers. Scrambling, I grab the sword. Dergus snarls, marching forward.

"Michael! Balance! Grip! Awareness!"

I know what she means. Steeling what resolve I have left, I prepare to attempt the impossible. I angle my body, lift my shield, and push out my knee.

Dergus takes the bait.

The lance hurtles for my kneecap, and I swivel. The end of my sword grazes the lance shaft enough to flip the pole up. Not being as deft as Freya, I drop my shield to catch the shaft.

And then I pull with every fiber of my being.

Dergus sails into me, his pupils dilating as my blade burrows to the hilt in his chest. A reticent stillness descends upon the Dueling Grounds. My fingers loosen on the sword's leather grip, and Dergus crumples. He heaves a ragged, strangled breath, then goes still. Glassy eyes stare into an abyss no one else can see.

"The… The duel is over!" Robin declares in a tone forcibly neutral. "Michael of Ylisse claims victory!"

A lone man, wrinkled with age, comes forward from Dergus' clan, others rising behind him. He holds his sword aloft, skyward. His fellows follow suit in wave-like glittering of iron. "Valor unto you. The field of battle speaks no falsehoods. Go in peace, for you walk now with honor." Almost as one body, Clan Talgar sweeps across the Dueling Grounds, collecting Dergus' body, removing the sword from his breast, and departing in silence.

I wobble slightly before vomiting. Soon after, someone tackles me, arms enveloping my waist.

"You did it!" Liston cries, his blond head rubbing against my face. "Holy Naga's pantaloons, you did it, Mike!"

The initial nausea fades as the Shepherds swarm me. Stana squeezes my hand while Sullivan fluffs my hair. Vaiva heartily claps my back, and Virginie kisses my cheek—much to my fiery embarrassment. Kelda materializes to crush all of us against her armor. Miro nods from a distance with what might be a smile. Sumner stands close by, cheering, the throng of people preventing him for doing anything more.

After a solid five minutes of somewhat painful congratulations, I break free. Robin and Chrom take the chance to greet me.

"I'm sorry, Michael," Robin says, their mask discarded. "I should have had another plan. I—"

"Stop. It doesn't matter. I'm thankful regardless. You had no idea Dergus would do that. I blame myself for punching him," I say, shaking their hand. "Robin, you did everything right."

The tactician returns the handshake, letting relief overtake their guilt. "Thank the gods you made it."

Chrom places a hand on my upper arm. "Michael… I can't tell you how happy I am. That move at the end… Where did you learn something like that? I thought… I thought for sure I had lost you." She puts her head on my chest for a brief moment. "You ever put me through that again and I'll kill you myself."

I feel a prickle of heat along my spine. "No more duels for me," I say, agreeing. Never again. "Thank Freya for everything. Without her, I'd be dead."

The princess leans back, eyes flitting to the side. "Thank her yourself," she whispers, gesturing to Freya hanging back near the wall. "I told you she'd come."

I dip my head to Chrom and Robin. Freya, I owe you my life. Twice. We lock eyes as I beeline for her. Throwing caution to the wind, I embrace Freya, not caring that she might slap or kick or judo flip me. She stiffens at my touch, but I feel her relax after a few moments. One of her hands lightly grasps my gambeson.

"Thank you, Freya," I say tenderly, my face in her hair. "I remembered."

"You did," she mumbles. "Now get off me."

I let her go. She refuses to meet my eyes. "I know we have our issues, but I hope I can change your opinion of me," I say.

"It's… possible," she admits after a long pause.

I'm not sure I've ever smiled so hard in my life.

Author's Note: I'm glad to be back with a timely update. First, quick announcement: please vote in the poll on my profile! "Who is best gurl?" will be followed by "Who is best boi?" I will do my best to try and get some art commissioned of the winners!

This was the longest chapter yet, and hopefully it did not disappoint. Michael is growing on all fronts. While he still acts immature or brash sometimes, he's beginning to truly consider who he is and needs to be. And with this comes development in his and Freya's complicated relationship. I suppose you could call this the end of Michael's first arc and the beginning of his second. He still has a steep climb to the summit. Michael has also now killed another human being. Don't expect him to brush that off. His odd awakening is finally getting real.

As a memo for the future, my goal regarding updates is to try and consistently post each Wednesday. I fully admit upfront that it's likely I'll fail, but I will endeavor to put out chapters at an acceptable rate.

In other news, I have created a subreddit for Fire Emblem fanfiction. This community lacks a real forum to discuss fanfiction. FFN has a couple, but they're mostly inactive. I know from you all and the overall popularity of the fandom that there are tons of people who might be interested in having a place for us to get together. So please come and check it out! It's literally just me right now. I'm lonely, folks. Since FFN hates links, head over to reddit and put this in the search bar:

r/FireEmblemFanfiction

Please use the new reddit design when you go there, as the sub looks terrible on old reddit.

As always, a big thank you to ThreeDollarBratwurst for looking over the chapter. Stay golden!

Review responses!

Guest- Yep. It does indeed live. I really do feel bad about leaving you hanging.

RequiemAnon- I'm glad to see you review again! I appreciated your consistent feedback a lot. From now on I'll try to make sure you won't need to wait so long for chapters.

Achiever- I'm happy you liked the change in POV. I agree it's not a good idea to do it too frequently, but mixing it up occasionally does help it stay fresh. We'll be sticking to Mike's POV for a while now.

Geust- Freya is one of my personal favorite characters, and I enjoy giving her time in the spotlight.

ImReallyShort- It's awesome that you like my story so much! I'm always flattered by everyone's praise. And I suppose there's no harm in dropping this info: it's not just the Shepherds who are genderbent. Michael is too! My name is actually Michelle (my dad's name is Michael, though). So there it is! You now know my dark secret.

Serendipitous- And I wouldn't want to be rid of you! It's highly amusing to me that I managed to update right after you started school again. Though I won't complain about my story being good stress relief (even if this chapter was somewhat tense). If you appreciated the interactions between Freya and Michael last chapter, then this must have been a treat! They're so awkward. Fun fact, back in the early days of Earthborne, I used to help Mixed Valence a bit with the story. My input was pretty minor, but he and I do know each other in that context. As a note, I think the Tellius fic you're referring to might be Spellbinding Radiance? If you're looking for another good SI, I recommend Cycle by RoseWarden. It's my favorite, though it is extremely long.