Chapter XVII: Blade of the North
Watching sports, there's a certain passive helplessness one experiences, and somehow screaming at the TV screen or the field mitigates the feelings. It doesn't change things, but what else can be done? Any gang of drunk fat guys at a Buffalo Wild Wings will whoop and holler as if their fervor makes the players more likely to win. But when the score is tight, when their team can tie or take the lead or clench the victory, no one speaks. No one breathes. No one dares to do anything other than fix their eyes on the action, waiting for that one single moment of jubilant release—or crushing defeat.
The tournament suspends me in the time just before that moment. I'm frozen. I look on with twisted dread permeating my every thought. Auditory cocktails of cheering and booing and raucous bleating buzz all around, but I only stare. It's a white-knuckled terror, the kind in movies, and the kind when you can do nothing as your friends risk their lives.
Below my position on the balcony, Chrom and the rest of the Shepherds battle the West Khan's champions. Robin appears to have adopted a tactic of firing thunder magic from behind the line while Freya and Chrom protect the flanks with Vaiva and Sullivan holding the middle. It requires Freya to fight two opponents at once, but she handles it well. Mounts are not allowed in the tournament, and even still Freya's lance-work keeps them at bay. I've seen her fight before, but somehow after all our training sessions, I forgot what she's like on a real battlefield. The deft movements, the precise and shrewd strikes, the assuredness of a seasoned knight—all this comes together to form Freya's distinct style, an intelligent and controlling martial art that sings as much as it dominates.
Sullivan and Vaiva complement each other between Chrom and Freya. Axe and lance work in tandem to frustrate the enemy. Where one lacks, the other compensates. They're matched up against a swordsman and a woman not unlike Vaiva herself wielding a two-handed battleaxe. The woman attempts to chop Sullivan's lance shaft in half, but Vaiva blocks the blows, freeing the crimson cavalier to protect Vaiva from retaliation by the sword-and-buckler man. A stalemate of sorts ensues, neither pair gaining an advantage. At this rate, it's a war of attrition.
However, most eyes in the Arena Ferox hungrily follow the almost isolated and otherworldly duel involving Chrom and Khan Basilia's deadliest representative. The quicksand-sinking, eerie disquiet I felt when I first saw her does not fade the longer her exchange with Chrom lasts. They trade blow for blow, parry for parry, slice for slice. The Chinese-looking (Japanese? Korean? She seems a portmanteau of each) woman responds in equal measure to whatever Chrom dishes out, leaving the princess reeling for options. Robin hurls magic over the shoulders of our fighters, bolts zinging towards all the competitors in an intricate pattern. Some strike the dark-haired myrmidon but have little to no effect. In fact, none of Robin's attacks do significant damage. An otherwise sound strategy rendered nearly moot by frankly absurd magical resilience.
Khan Flavius notices the problem as well, slamming a fist into the arm of his throne. "Dammit, Basilia! What the hell did you do? Our magic is useless out there!"
The West Khan settles into her throne, lazily flashing a smug grin. "Oh ho, got your knickers in a twist, Flavius? By my big brown arse you can bet I came prepared." She reaches within the layers of her furs, retrieving a blue vial, branches of brass crawling up its sides. "You know what this beauty is?"
"That's..." Khan Flavius grimaces, his jaw visibly tightening.
Basilia chortles, like an unfunny comedian who can't stop laughing at their own jokes. "So, you recognize it, eh?" she taunts, waggling the container. "Dew from the leaves of the Mila Tree. Cost me a fortune. But I'd say it's worth it. Little sparky down there can't do jack. Had all my fighters take some."
Bolting upright, Khan Flavius tromps over to his counterpart until their faces are nearly touching. "How did you know I had a mage this tournament? You'll do anything to win, won't you, Basilia?"
"Please, spare me the sanctimonious bullshit, Flavius. We both know you'd do the same. The Khanate is on the line. My spies made sure I was ready." She stares unflinchingly back, cocky smirk still in place.
Raimi, who I only just saw was present (she's ditched the tank armor for an off-white tunic and pants), walks behind her liege. "My Khan, perhaps it is best to let bygones be bygones. Our side is more skilled even despite this… trickery."
Khan Flavius sends a last scathing look towards Basilia before returning to his throne. Raimi says we're the better team, but the battle below swings back and forth in a dead heat, and that does nothing to assuage my engulfing consternation. During the Khans' altercation, Robin abandoned magical attacks and joined Freya. The melee is more even now, but Robin's forte clearly leans more toward spellcraft than bladework. Their slashes and thrusts miss, more of a distraction than a genuine threat. Robin seems to understand their shortcomings, though. The tactician sheds their bulky coat, improving their mobility in just the beige tunic underneath.
A gasp courses around the arena, cheers from Basilia's section trailing soon after. My heart hammers, the furious tide of blood thumping in my ears. The saliva in my mouth evaporates. I swallow, the dryness dragging along my esophagus. Vaiva lies on the ground, a gash on her stomach pumping red ichor. The swordsman Sullivan had been keeping in check stands over her, blade slick with blood. A pair of designated tournament healers haul her body away from the fray. They're out of sight in moments. Sullivan contends with both the battleaxe woman and the man who wounded Vaiva, enraged and flailing his lance recklessly.
"Gods…" I hear Stana murmur beside me. "Let her be alright… Sullivan, don't lose focus."
I turn to her, the olive-haired knight's placid and lackadaisical expression is nowhere to be found. "That was a lot of blood," I say, feeling a hitch in my chest. "They'll heal her, right?" I don't know why I'm asking. Stana doesn't know any more than I do.
She meets my eyes vacantly. "They'll do their best, Michael." Stana's fingers knead the hem of her shirt.
"The abdominal laceration appeared grievous indeed," Miro adds, robotic as ever. "Without immediate attention, the prognosis is grim. Nonetheless, there are two clerics attending… Optimism is not always foolish." I catch Miro's lips quiver almost imperceptibly.
We all trade glances, an unspoken revelation between the Shepherds stuck on the sidelines that things are dire. Basilia's champions want this victory as much as we do. Protagonists don't have a monopoly on happy endings, do they? Across the aisle from every hero is the main character of a different story.
Sumner and Liston remain quiet, their complexions a sallow pallor. Virginie rather uncouthly chews a thumbnail. Kelda, for once, is plain to see, and it's even plainer that she can barely endure the grave situation unfolding. Stana and Miro sit at my flanks, the waves of concern rank and palpable. And then there's me. Pathetic. Helpless. Afraid. Vaiva… what happened? How did someone as tough as you end up like that? Aren't we meant to win this thing, to confront Plegia and the Risen with the might of Ferox at our backs? In truth, I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. How does the story go? Like this? Like a glass house, pristine and transparent until a ball of toxic lead shatters the walls and rains down jagged shards? Fuck. It's not a story. You can flip to the end of one of those to know if it's worth reading. There's no skipping here, no putting down the book and choosing something nicer. I don't remember Awakening. And it doesn't matter, because this must be something else.
Sullivan falls next. The two Feroxis trip him up and force him to yield. They draw no blood; Sullivan's pride is the only casualty. I can't hear him over the din of the crowd, but Sullivan's body language screams loud enough as an officiate escort him off the field. Stana hangs her head at the sight, bangs concealing whatever dark emotions color her face. Though I'm hardly faring better, I gently touch her upper back. If it comforts her, Stana doesn't show it.
We're outnumbered five to three. Two Shepherds are down while not a single one of Basilia's group has withdrawn. Morale can't sink lower. A gloom percolates the atmosphere, tension and taut muscles. Basilia gloats to the fans, throwing her arms up and beckoning for them to roar. They rise to the occasion. Khan Flavius' half of the arena boos. I'm not sure if it's directed at Basilia or our losing performance. Either way, there's little joy for us.
Freya remedies that. Capitalizing on a mistake, she spears a soldier through the arm. He takes a knee, clutching the puncture. With his sword arm rendered limp, the man forfeits and hobbles towards the healers on standby. The pair who bested Vaiva and Sullivan charge Freya in retaliation. This soon proves to be another error. Freya anticipates their assault, dodging the woman's battleaxe and clotheslining the man with her lance. He quickly earns a mouthful of Freya's boot while spluttering for air. Two of Basilia's warriors out of commission.
The shift to an even match revitalizes the crowd. It revitalizes us, too. We watch with rapt attention, the building excitement when you sense a reversal in fortune, a tipping of the scales. Eyes that were downcast and sullen moments ago now shine with hope. Yes, hope. Daring to hope, to realize faith spurs us forward and catalyzes our actions—we cannot submit. Freya, you didn't give up on me when it looked like Dergus would run me through. You threw me a sword. You trusted that I could prevail. I can't aid you in the way you did me, but I can show you, all of you, that I am with you.
Liston drapes himself across the rail-guard and cups his hands around his mouth. "Chrom! You can do it, sis! For Ylisse! Show them who you are!"
Heh. He beat me to it. The others join Liston at the railing, shouting encouraging words. Sumner yells a few lines that seem ripped straight from a novel, hammy delivery and all. Kelda's soft-spoken voice transforms into a throaty bellow, rich and most definitely not unheard. Virginie unleashes a flamboyant hurrah. Miro says something, but it sounds suspiciously like an observation instead of a cheer. No one cries out louder than Stana, her rally an unbound display of passion. I open my mouth to let Chrom, Freya, and Robin know that I believe in them.
But sometimes, belief is not enough.
The fighter engaging Robin catches their sword on his own, wrenching it away with his hilt. A second later, Robin eats a pommel to the side of the head, crumpling. The tactician doesn't stir, unconscious or at least equally incapacitated. Once again, Freya must battle two foes at a time while Chrom deals with the dark-haired woman. Simultaneously, we slump, our thunder dissipating, spirits deflating. God, what a nightmare. Forget about me—why do these people deserve this? What did they do wrong?
The battleaxe hefting woman drives Freya backwards, her friend moving in an arc to pinch Freya in. Freya's lance is long, but the battleaxe rivals its range and boasts devastating power. She retracts her lance to avoid having it severed, creating an opening for the other Feroxi warrior to stab at Freya's side. Fortunately, a piece of steel plate deflects the blow. But Freya can't maintain her defense forever.
"No, no, no, no," a voice behind me says. "I'm too late."
I whirl around to see the origin of the words. A lithe figure wearing a mask, shaped like a butterfly's wings, stands halfway cloaked in shadow. Marth. A rush of memories crashes into me, a deluge of pain soon after. Marth was meant to be Basilia's main champion, not this other woman. Marth, Chrom's daughter, son in this case, from the future. Real name… Lucina. Though I doubt that's his name in this world.
"You," I say, trying to shake the burning in my skull.
Marth leers at me, or at least his mask points my direction. Does he know anything about my memory loss? And why didn't he arrive in time to serve as Basilia's champion?
He gazes out over the arena floor, scowling. "Ylisse cannot forgo this alliance." It's a statement of fact, not a plea or lamentation.
By now, the rest of the Shepherds have acknowledged Marth as well, torn between his curious appearance and the battle. Only Liston has seen Marth before. The prince studies him with wide eyes.
"Marth… What are you doing here?" Liston asks slowly. "Is this about what you said in Southtown?" His face pales. "What do you know?! Chrom… Is she going to be OK?"
The time-traveling Exalt stays silent. I may know who this is, but I haven't the faintest idea about anything else. Obviously, the future is bad. So bad Marth needs to leap through time to change it. I just wish I could remember why.
"You know this person, Liston?" Sumner says.
Liston nods. "Yeah. Marth is the one who got us out of Southtown." He fixes Marth with an imploring look. "If something terrible is going to happen, please say so. I need to know Chrom will be alright."
"I…" Marth glares at his feet. "I did not arrive in time. We are at the mercy of fate."
An ominous chill sweeps past. Just what future was Marth trying to avert here? In his timeline, Basilia must defeat us. Would it be impossible to convince her to grant the alliance? Khan Flavius agreed under the pretense that we make him reigning Khan. What does Ylisse have to offer Basilia?
I turn towards the battle again. Freya is tiring. Even a master like her wears down eventually. Chrom struggles as well, the woman who shouldn't be there having inflicted several flesh wounds. However, Falchion scored some hits too, considering the oozing cuts on the woman's forearms. Still, it's Freya who's in the worse position. And if they beat her, then Chrom is finished. She'll have no recourse.
That can't happen. No way. Freya, what do I do? You have to win. You have to give Chrom a fighting chance.
One of Freya's opponents—the swordsman—cleanly slices the back of her knee. She staggers, the afflicted leg wobbling. The injury compromises her stance. It's over.
No. No, it's not. This is Freya. Someone just needs to remind her that Freya doesn't quit.
Fuck fate.
Fuck whatever shitty-ass future Marth came from.
Maybe belief sometimes isn't enough. But the great thing about believing is that it's a choice. It's a choice I'm making.
I push through the Shepherds to get to the railing. "FREYA!" My lungs flare in protest. The people around us stop their own noisemaking to stare. "IF YOU DON'T KICK THEIR ASSES I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!"
Freya looks up. I know she sees me. I know she heard me.
The woman wielding the battleaxe seems even more eager to end the fight. She cocks back to swing at a limping Freya. My teacher, my mentor, my… Freya… ducks.
The axe sails over her head and connects with the man behind her, cleaving through his neck. The momentum unbalances the woman, and before she can contemplate the fact she accidentally beheaded her ally, Freya thrusts her lance up into the woman's gut. The battleaxe clatters to the arena stone, and the woman topples. Freya attempts to move to assist Chrom, but she falls prone. It's OK, Freya. You did it.
The crowd explodes. Khan Flavius straightens on his throne while Basilia stiffens on hers. Fans begin chanting Chrom's name, the taste of triumph tantalizingly close. The Shepherds huddle around me, feeding off the residual energy. Even Marth joins us, adopting a guarded pose a few feet away. This is the moment of truth.
Chrom and the elegant myrmidon cross blades, surging for the final time. Metallic clanging reverberates, punctuating their clash. As the duel intensifies, each woman vying for the last glory, the Arena Ferox quiets. It's the hush before dawn, the stillness before rain, the pause before lightning gives way to thunder.
A flash of movement, a blur. Chrom shoulders the woman, who tries to lift her katana, but Falchion glitters in its regal, iridescent splendor, the tip tucked under the woman's chin. Basilia's champion, the stunning mistress of the blade, relinquishes her sword and holds up her hands.
Eruption.
All the pent up electricity blasts out at once. The Arena Ferox trembles under the zeal of its occupants. Khan Flavius pounds his fist against his chest, howling in exuberant celebration. Dejected and infuriated, Basilia clocks the nearest attendant in the jaw. Poor bastard never sees it coming. I'm not sure how long Basilia has held the true power in Regna Ferox, but having it snatched can't be pleasant. But I don't feel sorry for her. I wish the two warriors who died fighting Freya didn't have to, yet we can't afford to waver when the stakes are so high. We need this. It's us or them.
"The future… it's being rewritten," Marth says, a bit awed. Is it? I do know without him I probably would not have called out to Freya.
I want to confront him about what the hell is going on, but I'm swallowed up in a mass of bodies. The Shepherds jump and whoop, random spectators dogpiling us as well. One man tears off his tunic and trousers, dumping a flagon of beer over himself and screeching. It's pandemonium. I pry several people from my waist, including an elderly woman trying to lasso me with her scarf. I'm ecstatic we won, but I'm not interested in learning that lady's intentions. When I free myself from the throng, Marth has vanished. Typical.
"Oi, Shepherds! Follow me!" Khan Flavius barks, his voice carrying. The new absolute sovereign of Regna Ferox practically skips past, Raimi on his heel. After the rigmarole of separating from the delirious Feroxi audience, we tag along with the Khan and his retainer. They lead us away from the grandstands and down into the area off-limits to anyone not competing. The clamor above muffles under the thick stone. In clear and calm space, reality sets in. What did this victory cost? Vaiva. Is she… There are no smiles among us.
Flickering wall sconces dimly light a hallway just wide enough for two people to walk abreast. A claustrophobic unease simmers among our party, a pressure cooker of unspoken nerves. It smothers us in sticky heat. No one voices the omnipotent concern, for that might lend it credence. Like Schrodinger's cat, Vaiva is both alive and dead in the limbo of the unknown. At the end of this narrow path, the answer awaits.
The tunnel opens to an oval room. Wooden doors dot the walls, and a vaulted entryway to the arena floor rests on the far side. A giant brazier occupies the middle of the room, casting an orange glow. Chrom, Freya, and Sullivan sit on a bench, each looking thoroughly trashed. Robin reclines in a chair nearby, cradling their head and squinting. I search the room for Vaiva, but she's not here.
Liston barrels toward Chrom, embracing his sister as she winces and feebly pats his back. Whatever garbled mess comes out Liston's mouth Chrom apparently understands, since she laughs wheezily. The prince leans back, this time saying something intelligible.
"Where's Vaiva?" Liston's urgency speaks for all of us.
Chrom gestures at one of the doors. "She's recovering. The healers treated her injury. They said she'll be fine with some sleep."
Thank God. Naga? Well, thank the healers, that's who. At any rate, murmurs of relief travel around the room. We can allow ourselves to relish the victory. Somehow, someway, everyone survived. It's nothing short of a miracle.
Khan Flavius approaches Chrom, and Liston detaches himself from her. "Princess Chrom," the Khan says, extending a hand. "You honored your side of the bargain, and I now I will honor mine. The alliance is yours. Regna Ferox stands with Ylisse."
Grasping his hand, Chrom shakes, eyes bright. "Many thanks, Khan Flavius. From myself and my people. May we weather the coming storm together."
The Khan grins in return, then gives Freya a friendly shove. "And you!" The knight frowns, wary. "You fought like a godsdamned demon! Why don't you stay here in Ferox and teach my men a thing or two?"
Freya musters her familiar professionalism. "I have sworn my life in service of the Exalted Family. No matter how generous the offer, I must refuse."
Khan Flavius blinks before laughing heartily and shoving her again. "So serious! Like I'd poach you from your liege right in front of her!" He looks at Chrom. "Keep this one around. She's a riot."
The princess tries to respond, but a boisterous shout interrupts her. "Flavius!" Basilia marches inside from the hallway. "You dog. I haven't been this upset since that cask of Valmese mead I ordered was lost at sea."
"Basilia," Khan Flavius says curtly, facing her.
They share a tumultuous look. Basilia ends it with a smirk. "Well fought, Flavius. Best tournament I've ever seen. But damn if it doesn't sting." The two of them clasp arms, the immense respect for one another obvious.
If the two Khans were any other people besides Flavius and Basilia, I don't know how the system would work. The amount of integrity demanded of them boggles the mind. Feroxi culture confuses me, but I can see how a society might value the efficiency of settling things through prowess.
Making a grandiose, spinning motion, Khan Flavius beams at each of us. "Ylisseans… My champions! Tonight, we feast! We drink! It's time you witnessed a Feroxi party!"
A creaking sounds from across the room. The door Chrom pointed to earlier nudges open, a shock of blonde hair poking through the gap. "Ain't no party goin' down without Teach." Vaiva supports herself on the doorframe, one hand pressed against her stomach.
Sullivan nearly faceplants hurrying to her. "The hell are you doing up? Get your ass back in that cot," he orders, shooing Vaiva.
She resists, batting his hands and snarling. "I didn't get stabbed for nothin'. Nobody's stoppin' me. There's a party, and the Vaiva's crashin' it."
"Ha! That's Feroxi spirit right there!" Khan Flavius chuckles and taps Raimi as he passes her. "When they're ready, take these fine people back to Castle Ferox for the celebrations. I have an adoring populace to greet!" Raimi salutes, and the Khan exits the room, humming.
Basilia snorts. "Bah! Flavius'll take any excuse to party." She eyes Chrom, a small smile on her lips. "So, it was you and your band of misfits who removed me from power. Satisfied?"
"Khan Basilia, was it?" Chrom says evenly. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I am Chrom, sister to Exalt Emmeryn of Ylisse. Forgive me if I am, in fact, satisfied."
"Ho, you got a pair of brass ones there, Princess." Basilia rubs the top of her bald head. "I expect no less from the woman who bested the Blade of the North."
"You mean the woman I fought in the arena? That's her title? I cannot say I disagree."
Hands on her hips, Basilia nods. "Never saw her equal until today." She glances back at the tunnel we entered from. "Speaking of her, here's a present before you all get wasted with Flavius. Stop sulking and come out, Lon'ri."
The Asian woman emerges, her expression rivaling even the sourness of Freya. She hovers a fair distance away, sharp and angular eyes darting from person to person. Up close, she's a strange sort of beauty, hostile and edgy, but also picturesque. We gather around her, exchanging pleasantries—well, offering them; Lon'ri doesn't reply. Liston, being the friendly, hormonal teenage boy he is, inches toward her, dreamy-eyed.
"It's kinda amazing sis beat you," he says, blushing slightly and pausing a couple feet from her. "You're… very graceful."
An odd feeling something was supposed to happen that didn't sneaks up on me. Chrom rolls her eyes, brushing aside Liston to no doubt save him from himself. But as she does so, Lon'ri recoils and goes rigid.
"Away, woman!" the myrmidon growls, leaving Chrom bewildered.
Basilia guffaws. "Forgot to mention that! Lon'ri has some issues with us of the fairer sex. Ironic, right? Gods help her if she encounters a mirror." She laughs a second time, drying the corner of her eye. "Sometimes, I tease her myself."
Lon'ri backs away. "Khan Basilia… please, don't," she says stiffly.
"Don't worry, Lon'ri. My teasing days are spent. Especially now that you're joining Princess Chrom."
Chrom starts in surprise. "Are you certain, Khan Basilia?"
She closes her good eye. "Aye. Regna Ferox is a friend to Ylisse. Consider this my contribution."
"And Lon'ri? What say you? I'd hate to make you uncomfortable," Chrom says kindly. "Though, you had no trouble when we fought."
Lon'ri cringes, shifting her feet. "I can suppress my… condition in battle. But I have my orders. My blade is yours," she grunts. "Outside the battlefield, however, keep your distance."
Among our group, there are a few chuckles and quizzical looks. And Robin. Gradually retreating. Could it be…?
"Robin," I say loudly, catching everyone's attention. "Why don't you say hello to Lon'ri?"
The tactician has never appeared more stupefied than they do now. "I did already," they say nervously.
My fellow Shepherds seem to understand what Lon'ri's phobia means. We can finally know the truth! Stoically, Sullivan and Sumner each grab one of Robin's arms. Our ambiguous friend writhes but to no avail. Once Robin is dropped in front of Lon'ri, the Blade of the North shrinks, repulsed.
Robin glances from side to side. "It's not… I'm not…" She sighs. "Fine. Fine. I might… possibly… actually… be a lady. To be fair, you all made it too much fun. But I'm a little flattered that at least one person can tell."
"What did I just witness?" Basilia asks, brow arched.
Chrom wipes her face. "It's a long, long, long story. One that is finally over."
We all stare at Robin. Does she seem any more womanly? Maybe her hair? Her chin? Her eyes? Nope. Still Robin. Whatever Lon'ri sees, I don't.
"Well, that is one pestiferous enigma of the world elucidated." Miro adjusts his glasses.
A couple moments lapse, and laughter saturates the room. Laughter at Miro's idiosyncrasy. Laughter at Robin's reveal. Laughter at this weird new Shepherd. Laughter at the absurdity of everything.
Laughter that we fucking did it.
Feroxi partying is exactly as expected: lots of booze, wrestling, and half-naked people dancing. I abstain from alcohol. My last adventure with the delightful ambrosia didn't go quite according to plan. Besides, there's something to be said for watching the antics of a bunch of shitfaced hooligans while sober. The Feroxi can drink. If I didn't know any better, I'd assume their diet consisted of nothing but beer and chicken… dunked in beer.
The party began in the large room, the one with the windows overlooking the courtyard, Robin and I talked in prior to my duel. Over the course of the night, it expanded into other rooms and even floors, reaching its current state. I'm still in the original room, having returned after noping out when I saw two people fornicating on top of a bearskin rug. I've lost track of most of the Shepherds, but Chrom, Liston, and Freya are within view. The siblings chat with Khan Flavius, Freya shadowing like a helicopter parent. The knight hasn't consumed a drop of alcohol, not that I'm surprised. She probably doesn't drink period. My lips dip into a frown. That woman truly doesn't know how to have fun, does she? Shit, she never even relaxes. How does she live her life wound-up so tightly? Jesus, this makes me want to drink.
"Miiiiichael," someone slurs in my ear, a sudden weight on my shoulders buckling my knees. "Buddy. Pal. Frienderoni."
I stumble and fall, taking whoever this is with me. Crawling from under her, I push a very intoxicated Vaiva away, her body slinking against the floor. I guess a near-death experience just fuels her desire to drink. But sweet lord, she reeks.
"Oof," Vaiva moans, face down. "I fell."
An astute observation. Like any good Samaritan, I haul her mostly limp form to a wall, propping her up. "Easy," I say. "Don't move."
Vaiva's unfocused eyes flit about. "I'm fiiiine!" Her head lolls into her chest.
"You are definitely not fine. You're drunk, Vaiva." Hammered into oblivion more like.
"I'm not… hic… drunk."
How much did she drink? "Sure. Sure. Just stay still."
Her head snaps back up, and she pokes my face. "Miiiiichael. Ya know what?" Vaiva sways. "Sullivan's a big… giant… wyvern turd."
"Er… what?"
"Sullivan!" She tosses her hands up, inadvertently smacking her own face. "He's always arguin' with me. Badgerin' me. Makin' fun'a ol' Teach. Calls me a knucklehead… He's the knucklehead!"
What brought this on? I mean, Sullivan did try to make Vaiva rest against her will, but... "Vaiva, since when do you care what anyone says? Your ego is enormous."
She smushes my cheeks together. "Ya don't get it! It's like he don't even see me! As a lady, I mean. Teach is beautiful! Strong! Ogre's teeth, didn't he say he wanted a woman who could keep up with him?"
Oh.
Ohhhhhhh.
The confessions of a drunken heart. "Look, right now, you need sleep. Sullivan will still be there in the morning." And hopefully you'll have forgotten this conversation entirely.
Vaiva mumbles under her breath, teetering and only partially awake. "Sullivan…." The whisper tapers into a snore.
I take back what I said about enjoying the antics of drunks. It stops being enjoyable when you change from observer to chaperon. I'm stuck with Vaiva using me as a pillow, since I can't wander off when she's in this state. It reminds me of my college days, solemnly guarding those who failed to manage their alcohol intake. A glob of drool pools on my shoulder. Excellent.
The source of Vaiva's woes traipses into sight, thankfully seeming mostly sober. Sullivan, it's your turn. This is your problem. I carefully align Vaiva so she doesn't slide onto her side and head towards Sullivan.
"Hey," I say when we make eye contact, thumbing at Vaiva. "Go clean up the mess you made."
He peers around me. "What? Vaiva? What do I have to do with her being a drunken moron?" he snaps.
This dude seriously has no clue. "Just go take care of her," I say, exasperated. "She kept talking about you. Vaiva's a girl, too, you know."
Sullivan's forehead wrinkles, and he musses his hair. "I ain't blind! I know she is. But why is she bringing me up?"
I'm not cupid. I'm not about this shit. "Figure it out, man." I nudge his arm as I walk by. "Think hard. I'm sure you can guess why."
I continue on, leaving Sullivan dumbfounded. Que sera sera. They make a good pair, though. Couple of jocks always training to get stronger. Maybe love blooms when you bash each other repeatedly? I gotta say I prefer the dinner and a movie route. Far less chance of bodily harm. But whatever works.
Dealing with Vaiva's shenanigans distracted me enough that I missed Khan Flavius abscond with Chrom and Liston. Freya stands in a nook alone, glowering. Did they ditch her? She looks like a duck out of water in this environment. I meander over, Freya noticing when I'm about halfway. Her brooding aura softens a minute measure.
"Michael," she says, a greeting I'm accustomed to hearing from her.
"Freya," I return, easing into her alcove. "Not sticking to Chrom and Liston like white on rice?"
I don't know if her frown is from the idiom or the sentiment therein. "Milady instructed me to 'take the night off.' So… that is what I am attempting to do," she explains, fidgeting.
Freya might be the only person on the planet who fidgets at the prospect of a break. "You suck at it," I say flatly.
"I shall consider it a compliment that I am unfamiliar with leisure." Haughty is a good word for her face at the moment.
"It's not a compliment. There's such a thing as too serious."
"There is also the more fatal distinction of not serious enough."
We glare at each other. It feels routine. I say something. Freya disagrees. Cue glaring. Rinse. Repeat. Our entire relationship is fundamentally based upon annoying the shit out of one another. So… why aren't I annoyed?
"Thank you." Her voice is more wisp than whisper.
"Come again?"
Freya picks a spot on the floor to study. "Thank you. For today. In the arena," she murmurs. "When you called my name… and said those ridiculous words… I knew I had to persevere."
I massage my neck, also picking a spot on the floor. "Well, we're even now. You did the same for me." I hesitate, risking a glance to find her glancing at me as well. "Um… Is there a verdict on the type of man I am yet?"
She doesn't answer for a long while. "Yes."
"Can I know?"
"Absolutely not."
I sigh. "Is there a reason why not?"
"None other than that I do not wish to tell you," she says in the most Freya tone imaginable.
"Well," I begin, "I'll just assume it's in my favor."
We exchange sidelong looks. "You are free to make whatever assumptions you desire."
I smile. Another span of silence. "Freya," I say. "Why were you late to my duel?"
She shuffles her feet, and chestnut hair obscures her face. "I needed to find something. Perhaps it was silly, but to me, it made a difference." One hand brushes the pouch of pebbles at her side.
"I think I understand, Freya."
"That is… good, Michael."
People dance and sing and celebrate in every direction around us. We keep our eyes forward, soaking in the scene. I don't mind at all who it is that stands beside me.
Author's Note: Just a quick reminder that the "best gurl" poll on my profile will close in a week. I've added Robin and Lon'ri to the list. If you haven't voted, be sure to cast a ballot! So far, Chrom is slaying the competition.
And there you have it! Alliance achieved! Did you wonder if the Shepherds were going to win? Truth be told, when outlining this story, I went back and forth on the result myself. I hope this chapter was a satisfying conclusion of sorts to the Regna Ferox arc. Things are heating up for our gang, and you'll just have to stayed tuned for more. But I think we can all welcome a return to Ylisse.
Also, obligatory mention of the new FE fanfiction subreddit at r/FireEmblemFanfiction.
Thank you all for reading and supporting this story. Every review, follow, and favorite warms my heart and pushes me to keep writing.
And, of course, a big thank you to ThreeDollarBratwurst for continuing to beta and making my story better. I need to thank Mixed Valence, author of Earthborne, this time too. He gave me an awesome shoutout in his most recent chapter, and that's just really kind. I'm sure most of you are familiar with his story, but read it if you haven't.
Review responses!
Haro654- You could be onto something with the memory loss.
Sigmatic- I'm very glad that my story seems to have overcome some common problems with SI's!
Rileva- I'm doing my best to keep the weekly updates coming! I'm not sure if every Shepherd will get the kind of treatment Chrom and Freya do, but I plan to give them all the spotlight. Most of us love Awakening for its cast, and I'd be doing these characters a disservice not to develop them. And maybe a surprised you a little with Lon'ri?
Yexius- Blood was indeed spilled. Though they evaded any lasting damage. This time.
Geust- You might be right about a poll for the boys. I intended to hold off on it for a while after this poll ends anyways. Sullivan and Sumner will both be expanded in the near future.
ImReallyShort- Marth did show up, just not in quite the ideal way. Hope this chapter was worth the wait!
Serendipitous- Disney Channel is a lot more graphic these days, huh? But yeah, pegasus rider Mike had been brewing for a bit. He does need to play his part, and I wanted to give him a role that makes sense for his character and offers something more unique than usual. Don't expect him to start slaughtering enemies by the dozens, though. OP MCs can get out. We finally have a new crew member in Lon'ri. Hope she was entertaining! Thanks for checking out the subreddit as well!
RequiemAnon- I may have said this before, but M!Lucina's name departs from the pattern I've set. When we hear it, I'll give an explanation in the author's note, as it has specific reasoning. Names in general are important in this story. I tried to make them hold meaning. Like Vaike to Vaiva sounds similar but also comes from the word 'vivacious,' since Vaiva is lively. And as you saw with Fury, that name has additional meaning too.
Caellach Tiger Eye- Again, your reviews are always a joy! I do hope I haven't worried you too much with the memory loss or other elements that could easily go south. I'd like to assure you right now that Michael won't ever forget his own origin. That just does't make much sense and also it's not how the mechanic at play works. On the subject of 'Cornelius,' I debated a few names, like Cordell, Corbin, Cordon, and Corwin. But I went with Cornelius because of it's similar length and the fact in canon, Cornelius is the name of Marth's father. Which is of minor importance to my Cornelius. The Jugdral series, according to Kaga himself, takes place long before the events of anything mentioned in FE1/FE11. As for 'Fury' being recognized by Sumner, it's important to remember that Sumner's knowledge comes from a book, a legendary retelling of supposedly historical events. That book might not be entirely correct in actuality. That's all I'll say. And yes, Sumner does love horses too. He's simply warning Mike not to consider pegasi and horses as the same. It might not be completely in line with Sumia and Sully's supports, but I wanted Sumner to stress that the differences matter.