Author's Note: There will be a longer note at the end of the chapter. Also, for the purposes of this story, Donnel's village is located in a more plot convenient location.
Chapter XVIII: Feel it in the Air Tonight
It's strange to think that I've spent more time in Regna Ferox than Ylisse, but returning brings a profound sense of relief. Trading endless snow and mountains for the verdant, rolling hills, forests, and sparkling streams of Ylisse doesn't bother me. While going anywhere in this world is like hiking through a Yosemite-caliber national park, Ylisse invites us back with a natural radiance that speaks in equal measure of staggering beauty and comfortable intimacy. Perhaps it's because I landed in Ylisse when I first arrived a month and a half ago, though it seems far longer. Or maybe it's because Chrom and Freya and Liston and all the other Shepherds are Ylissean. The reason really doesn't matter. I'm just glad to be back in Ylisse.
We left Regna Ferox the day after Khan Flavius' victory celebration, Lon'ri and a variety of Feroxi liquors and seasoned meats in tow. And, most importantly, a declaration signed by the Khan himself binding Ylisse and Ferox together in official alliance, the countries' first in two-hundred years. A factoid Chrom has espoused on multiple occasions. To say she's pleased with the outcome is an understatement. Our spirits on the whole are jovial and light, but Chrom brims with vindication. She's entitled to it. By virtue of her own merit, she won her nation crucial aid. Pride may be a sin, but sometimes it's good to sin.
It's currently our fifth day marching since we entered Ylisse. For most of the trip, I've ridden Fury. I'm already much better at neutral flying than when Sumner first started teaching me. One of the benefits of a lengthy journey is the practice. All day in the saddle—it's hard to beat that kind of experience. Pegasi do need to rest their wings, however, so about half that is regular ground travel. I've learned that Fury despises when she's not in the air, her displeasure evident through impatient whinnies and forlorn glances to the sky. And at takeoff, she accelerates beyond my comfort zone, only slowing once we've reached a height Fury deems acceptable. The pegasus lives by her own rules; if we're to get along, it shall be as equals, not master and steed.
Fortunately for our mutual sanity, Fury and I fly alongside Sumner and Esther at the moment, scouting the landscape for Risen, bandits, or Plegian agents. My hands grip the reins, queasy thoughts of those decaying monsters an unwelcome invasion. In my dreams—nightmares—I sometimes see Freya, a scarlet tide pouring from her throat, impassive and soulless Risen surrounding her. No one knows this. The scene haunts me more than Dergus. I'm stronger now. Slightly. I like to think I'm not the same person who put Freya in danger. But I still did it. I still have the memory. That one won't fade. Robin told me my self-loathing needs to stop. She's right, of course. It just niggles in the dusty crevices of my mind if I'm brave enough to never let that happen again.
Sumner and I bring our pegasi to a hover. A few hundred feet ahead lies a village, smaller than Southtown by a good margin. Square and rectangular farm plots encase dwellings little more than huts. Thick forest shields a thin dirt road snaking into the town center, which hardly qualifies as a "center" at all. I suspect most of the inhabitants sow the fields rather than operate shops. Regardless, it might be nice for the Shepherds to sleep somewhere resembling civilization for the night.
I look over at Sumner. "We should let Chrom know about this village. Maybe they'll put us up," I say, already tugging at Fury to turn around.
"It can't hurt," he replies. "Even a bed of hay indoors is better than the tents."
We head back to the main group, descending to solid ground once the Shepherds come into view. Chrom greets us, waving her hand and walking forward with Freya.
"Anything to report?" the princess asks.
I answer before Sumner can stutter himself senseless. "There's a village down the road a ways. It could be worth asking if we can stay the night."
Chrom shrugs at Freya, who seems mostly indifferent. "I don't see why not," the captain agrees. "Though, I won't be using my title to impose ourselves."
Expected of Chrom. While her manner of speech and blatantly noble upbringing set her apart from common folk, she never lazes about on the cushion of her bloodline. Liston might be more approachable, but Chrom objects to special treatment more often. In Ferox she unequivocally refused to dine with the Feroxi upper strata unless the rest of us were allowed. That she leads from among and not above is not in question.
Our party covers the relatively short distance to the village in an hour. As we draw near, the odors of wet soil, pigs, manure, and barley waft throughout the area. Liston plugs his nose, and the rest of us try to avoid sniffing. Except Vaiva. She's undaunted by the smell, which Sullivan lambastes her for as a product of her own stench being too powerful. As per usual, they fire snide comments back and forth until Stana steps in and mediates peace. God, is Sullivan a shounen protagonist? Dude's denser than the dust gathering on Miro's sense of humor.
Ignoring the grumbling between the pair, I watch as a couple villagers walk towards us on the outskirts of town. Judging from their grimy and sweat-stained attire, they've been working the land.
"Who're you lot? We don't want no trouble, ya hear," one of them says several yards away. His companion holds a pitchfork. "We ain't got no coin neither. Them bandits done took all we had."
Raiders? Is there any part of Ylisse that isn't subject to bandit attacks?
Holding out her palms in a gesture of goodwill, Chrom steps forward. "Peace, friends," she says confidently. "We mean you no harm. We're simply traveling to the capital. Whoever those ruffians are, they're not us."
The villager stands in place. "Then state yer business. An' be quick about it!"
"If you are willing, we would ask for your hospitality. Warm beds and the like." Chrom pauses, frowning. "But if you've trouble with brigands, my friends and I have some skill in combat."
Before the man can respond, his partner leans in and urgently whispers something. His eyes widen, and he stiffly bows. "Oh, Naga's breeches!" he exclaims. "F-Forgive me, milady! I'm right foolish for not realizin' who y'all are!"
"You know of us?" Chrom asks with a note of surprise.
He dips his head and drops to one knee. "Right as rain, I do! Can't believe I missed it!" he says breathlessly. "Yer the Shepherds! And yer ladyship must be Princess Chrom. The Mark on your arm's clear as day!"
So, these yokels recognize us, but Raimi and apparently all of Southtown had no idea who we were? Raimi's just stupid, but are the Shepherds more well-known in certain parts of Ylisse than others? There are only a handful of Shepherds, so it makes sense that they've had to pick and choose their battles. I still don't know how large the Halidom of Ylisse is, but if I had to guess, I'd say roughly the size of the United Kingdom. That's quite a range for a small squad to patrol.
Our captain smiles reluctantly, a sheepish expression. "I should hope you do not feel obligated to comply simply because of who I am," she says.
"Nah, the Shepherds done good round these parts," the man says reverently. "It's nothing at all to let ya use our village, yer highness, 'specially if yer gonna fend off them bandits."
In spite of Chrom's sincere aversion to using her royalty to win favor, we accept the villagers' invitation. But hearing about their struggles with extortionist thugs, Chrom refuses to take advantage of the village without protecting our hosts. She promises to eliminate the bandits before we leave for the capital. According to the townspeople, the criminals last attacked two weeks ago, killing the mayor and several others in the process. Anyone who resisted met a grisly end. Even though they stole all the healthiest livestock and most of the gold, the bandits threatened that if the village could not scrounge together more by their next "visit," all would be slain.
A month ago, I regret to confess I might have been more concerned with my own survival or only interested in helping for the nominal praises and adoration that accompany good deeds. Maybe I'm still a selfish bastard, but these people don't deserve this suffering. Am I ready to fight and kill? Physically or emotionally? No. I'm not sure choosing to be ready is a luxury I have, though. When people need help, you help them. It's that simple. If you don't, then you might as well join the enemy. Do I lack courage? Probably. But I can't rectify that without confronting my fear.
The two farmers escort us into the village proper, a marginally denser cluster of houses. One of them knocks on the door to a residence with stone walls, the only one not built of primarily wood. A plump, middle-aged woman with sunken eyes wearing a grubby apron answers the door. Stress lines mar her face, and her gaze narrows as she sees the Shepherds.
"Who're these folk, Kip?" she questions. "Not trouble, I hope."
'Kip' grins and shakes his head. "No, ma'am! These are the Shepherds! That's Princess Chrom right there!"
Chrom offers a guilty-as-charged smile and waves. The woman unceremoniously bumps Kip out of the way, her otherwise taut expression brightening as she examines us. "Praise the gods! It's an honor, yer ladyship!" She attempts a clumsy curtsy. "Is it too forward to hope y'all have come to deal with the bandits?"
"Truth be told, we only sought shelter for the night, but I cannot turn a blind eye to people in need," Chrom says, that familiar virtuous resolve coloring her tone.
The woman smiles as if she hasn't done so in weeks. "Bless you." Ushering Kip off the doorstep, she motions to the interior of her house. "Please, come in, miladies and milords. My home ain't fit for fancy folk, but it's better talkin' indoors."
One at a time, we file into the building. Calling the place "humble" might be a tad generous. As far as I can tell, there are only two rooms—a main living space with a hearth, square dining table, some kind of stove, a few chairs, and a door to what must be a bedroom. Near the stove is a trapdoor, its splintery wooden surface contrasting with the ruddy, hard-packed clay floor. Chewing my cheek, I realize most places I've been in Ylisse or Regna Ferox shame this one. Of course, I also remind myself that a house like this is precisely the kind I should be acquainted with given my concocted backstory.
Our host clangs several pots around, bustling and muttering to herself while digging through cupboards near the stove. After a fair amount of loud, metallic banging, she pulls out a dusty kettle and attempts to wipe it clean with her apron, only succeeding in smearing whatever filth cakes the surface. The woman makes a strained grunt and faces us again.
"I'd thought to whip y'all up some tea, but the kettle ain't fit fer no such task," she says, eyes downcast. "Forgive me, yer worships."
Placing a placating hand on the woman's shoulder, Chrom smiles. "We didn't come for the tea anyways, my good lady. Don't trouble yourself."
"Yer too kind, yer highness."
The door I assume leads to sleeping quarters swings open, a girl perhaps Liston's age stepping into the main room. "Ma!" she shouts in the same heavy drawl all these villagers seem to possess. "What in tarnation is all that fuss yer makin'? It's like a herd of..." The girl's indignation tapers off into a meek squeak upon seeing Chrom. A fervent blush dyes her cheeks, and she flails for a few seconds before clutching a small sack over her mess of curly, chocolate hair.
There's swift intake of breath from one of our number, and I catch Liston staring, dinner plate eyes and all, at this odd girl. Liston is no stranger to googly fixations on attractive women we encounter, but this is something different. The pair of them meet each other's gazes. Farmer's market Shirley Temple grips the sack over her head tighter, the deep blush receding to a rosy glint that blends well with the smattering of freckles dotting her nose. I can tell Liston wants to speak, but his voice hitches. I exchange a few bewildered glances with my companions.
Even Chrom, in all her classic obliviousness, cannot miss what transpires between the two. Her brow creases. Her lips set. Protective embers flicker in her eyes. Not hostility, however. More like a face of anxiety, an expression that does not come naturally to a woman like Chrom.
I never believed in it, what's happening right in front of us: love at first sight. That's what it is, though. No other explanation.
The girl's mother seems to realize it too, a dawning look of horror sprawling across her features as she waddles toward her daughter. "Straighten up, girl!" she hisses. "And get that stupid sack off yer head!" The older woman snatches the offending item and tosses it into a pile of nearby clutter. Without her protective bag, the girl's wild mop flares out, cascading all about her face and shoulders. Liston lets out a truly tortured sound, the breathy rasp of a guy whose heart is leaping out of his chest.
"This is my daughter, Donna," the woman explains hastily. "Apologies again, yer graces. She ain't got no manners."
Chrom's face eases with what appears to be considerable effort. "It's fine. There's no need for formality. We are guests in your home, after all."
Nevertheless, the woman prods Donna with her foot until the girl bends into a sloppy curtsy, mud-colored dress brushing the floor. "Sorry fer yellin', yer lordlinesses," the girl mumbles, eyes trained on Liston.
An awkward lull descends until Chrom asks the woman her name as well. She introduces herself as "Bonnie," and the rest of us take turns with our own introductions. Liston stumbles through his in a manner that puts Sumner to shame. Freya observes the scene as if she's just sucked an entire lemon dry. I imagine she must be even more flustered than Chrom.
Once we've finished, Virginie leans over to whisper something in Liston's ear, causing the poor kid's head to basically morph into a giant cherry. Rather than bear the situation any longer, Liston flees, bursting out the door and throwing incomprehensible words back towards us. Donna squirms next to her mother, looking for all the world like she wants nothing more than to hide under that sack again.
The level of sheer cringe taking place at the moment is more than enough for me as well. "I'll go after him," I offer, not waiting for approval before following Liston.
I find him around the side of the house, crouched and gasping, back pressed against the stone. He cradles his staff between his knees, the orb bobbing up and down with each truncated breath. Shit. Liston's got it real bad, huh? He doesn't take notice of my presence until I lean on the wall and clear my throat.
"M-Mike!" he squeaks, scrambling to his feet. "W-What happened in there… it's not what it looks like!"
Liston, has anyone ever told you that you're a piss-poor liar? I shake my head. "And what exactly is it not supposed to look like? Because what I saw was two kids undressing each other with their eyes."
His face adopts an entirely new, previously undiscovered hue of red. Whatever tumbles out his mouth aren't words. I stare, fighting my damnedest to stay stony, until he reaches the point where he can form a sentence. "I don't… I don't understand what this is. My chest feels like it's on fire, Mike. I'm scared. I'm scared, and I want to see her again."
I'm no expert in matters of the heart. How someone can fall for a person just by looking at them is beyond me, but I can't question the veracity of Liston's feelings. I sigh. Only thing left to do is support him.
No one else has left the house yet, so it falls to me to clasp Liston's shoulder and offer my best brotherly smile. "You remember her name, right?"
Liston nods. "Donna," he breathes, a certain reverence evident.
"Well, as long as you're hiding out here, 'Donna' is going to be all you know about her." I squeeze his shoulder as his gaze flits from me to the front door. "Go back in there and follow your heart, Liston." God, I sound like a Disney movie. But it has the desired effect—Liston sets his jaw, and his hands stop quaking. The poor village girl and the softhearted prince. Definitely a Disney movie.
Newfound resolve strengthening his steps, the two of us head back towards the entrance only to be intercepted by a disgruntled Freya. Her puckered lemon expression of earlier has been replaced with one of profound consternation. I know Freya well enough at this point to recognize her stance just before an impending lecture. However, her mouth just opens and closes in guppy-like fashion. Liston frowns and pushes past her.
"Sorry Freya, I'll be going inside now," he informs her, all the determination of a man in love fueling his words.
She doesn't protest.
We stand facing one another, Freya with her immaculate posture and me with my arms folded across my chest. Freya blinks, and I feel like for the first time since she appeared that she actually sees me. I half-expect her to berate me or deliver an otherwise snide remark. Those days are perhaps gone, though.
Her lips settle into a familiar pursed and taut line. "Milord seems more collected than a few minutes past." She fixes me a glare that doesn't seem authentic. "I must presume that is your doing, Michael."
I shrug. "He's in love, I think. I don't really get it, but if he's happy, who cares? I just told him to do what he wanted."
Freya's resulting scowl is certainly authentic. "Milord is a prince of the Halidom. It is beneath his station to pursue dalliances with… with—"
"Dirty country girls?" I supply. I'm surprised by my own snark. "The heart wants what the heart wants, Freya. You can call it whatever you want, but are you gonna try and take this from him?"
"I fail to see how any of that is your concern. It is my sworn duty to protect the best interests of my lieges. Sometimes that requires protecting them from even themselves." I really don't like the hard edge to her tone.
I move forward until I am nearly invading her personal space. We had been making such progress too. "I'm disappointed, Freya. I didn't think you cared about shit like birth and wealth as long as Chrom and Liston were happy. I mean, yeah, sure, he's barely spent three seconds with this girl, but it's his life."
She slumps, and my eyes widen. That's the last reaction I expected. "I am aware of milord's sense of agency, Michael."
It's unusual not to bicker or swap insults. Are we… talking? Like adults? Like mature, civilized people? Maybe I can speak with Freya in ways I previously couldn't. I think back to the tournament after party, how we stood side by side in comfortable silence. How she thanked me. How she told me she knew what kind of man I was. Fuck it. Freya is… Freya. I just have to do what feels right.
My palm finds her upper arm, if only for a brief moment. She starts but says nothing. A stark contrast with the last time I reached out to touch her. "Look, I know you're worried. And it's probably not my place to dispense advice to Liston or anyone else. But he's my friend." I chew the next words carefully before speaking. "Before the tournament he confided in me about… girl troubles. He's a teenager, Freya. And I think he's lonely. I have no idea if this is the answer, but I figure that's for Liston to discover."
Her face is a mask. She angles away from me, and I catch a downward twitch of her lips. "You are right about one thing, Michael," she says, eyeing me sideways. "It is not your place."
Goddammit. I swallow the volatile urge to retort. She's putting up a front. Vulnerability isn't Freya's cup of tea. I might have overstepped, but couldn't she just for once let something go? Am I not allowed to talk a kid through his feelings? No one else stepped up to the plate. She's probably just angry I filled a role she felt should be hers again. The more I think about it, the more I want to tell her off.
But I don't. Instead, I stow my thoughts and walk away in the direction of Fury and the other mounts.
"Wait."
Freya's studying a patch of weeds. "I apologize."
I regard her for several silent seconds. Freya is Freya. Whatever that means.
"Apology accepted."
The Shepherds spend the night in the village, Bonnie having provided us with accommodations at the town hall using her authority as de facto mayor. The last mayor had been her husband and Donna's father, leaving Bonnie the unpleasant task of leading a wounded and battered village. He apparently died a hero at least, fighting the bandit leader and protecting his child. My fists curl recalling the story. Pointless violence and evil.
Adjusting the bedding over my straw cot with more muscle than necessary, I expel a frustrated breath through my nose. Tomorrow, we set out to forested hills to locate the ruins the bandits use as a base. As the two pegasus riders, Sumner and I will scout the area and relay information so that Robin can formulate an attack strategy. It should be simple for the Shepherds, eliminating some undisciplined bandits, but according to Robin any unknown quantity is a factor that can get someone killed. Obviously, she's right. Still, my nerves won't quiet. Even with Sumner as my wingman, this is the first real mission I've had as a Shepherd, not counting my disastrous actions when Freya was injured. My friends are depending on me. Amateur hour is over. People's lives are at stake.
I don't realize how tightly I'm gripping the bed sheet until hearing my name yanks me back to reality. "Michael," the voice repeats. Chrom's furrowed brow enters my field of vision. "You look pale."
I wave a dismissive hand. "I'm fine. Just been a long day. Do you need something?" My smile feels painted on.
Chrom stares long enough that my attempted smile falters. "I came to collect you for first watch, but now I'm considering just telling you to go to sleep."
"I couldn't sleep right now even if I wanted to. Night watch is better than tossing and turning," I say and begin fastening my sword belt around my waist.
There's an awkward lack of conversation as I gear up, and I'm uncomfortably aware of Chrom watching me the whole time. "Michael, if something is bothering you, I'd like to know."
"Nothing's wrong." Hasty. Too hasty. "I mean… it doesn't matter. Who is my watch partner?"
She ignores the question. "It matters to me."
Yet again, there's no escaping Chrom and her diligent kindness. "Alright," I concede. "It's just jitters about tomorrow."
"I'd be more worried if you weren't nervous." Chrom sits down on the end of my cot, patting the space beside her. I oblige, leaving a polite distance between us. "To be honest, I still get butterflies in my stomach before a big day. It's natural, Michael. What's important is controlling that and focusing on the task at hand."
A number of "what if's" pop into my head. Dwelling on them is useless, of course. These villagers need our protection. Anxiety, fear, doubt—none of my emotions change the facts. This is a job I can't shirk or half-ass. Nerves be damned.
Chrom allows me to process what she'd said for a while before speaking again. "I believe you'll do well. Sumner tells me you and Fury have really taken to each other."
Having Chrom's vote of confidence helps. It also stacks on the pressure. I can't let her down. I can't let any of the Shepherds down. "Fury is an obnoxious horse gremlin," I quip, cracking a genuine smile. "But I wouldn't change her one bit."
Melodic, hearty laughter fills the air. A not wholly displeasing heat climbs up my spine. Chrom's eyes shine, and she's… so achingly beautiful. We could theoretically all die tomorrow. I know exactly how I feel about her.
Ocean blue eyes.
Brimming with confidence, charisma, compassion.
Flushed cheeks. Rosy. Lively.
Lips.
Glossy lips.
Mine. On hers. Both soft and rough, warm, gasping—
Gone.
My eyes fly open. Shit shit shit shit. Chrom is standing, rigid, looking down at me with wide eyes and a fiery blush. "M-M-Micheal! That's… Please excuse me!" She hurries away, far away, and leaves me blinking and frozen.
Oh fuck.
My first instinct is to chase after her. I don't. I've made some mistakes since coming here. A lot of mistakes. But this? What the fuck are you thinking, Mike? Oh right, you didn't think. That's the fucking problem. Liston's love at first sight debacle seems tame. I kissed the Crown Princess of Ylisse. It can't be undone. Even Chrom isn't dense enough not to understand what transpired. I run my hands over my face, groaning. What do I say to her? The truth, I suppose. Our friendship might still be salvageable.
Falling back on the first instinct I had, I exit the town hall, tiptoeing as to not wake any slumbering Shepherds. It's far darker in the village at night than in Urbos Magni or Ylisstol. Without a torch I can barely see anything. However, my eyes shortly adjust enough to spot a flicking flame a few dozen yards away. Trudging through the darkness, I play out scenarios in my head. None of them end well. Blowing it happens to be my specialty after all. As I approach the flame, a figure's silhouette takes form, one that does not belong to Chrom.
Illuminated in the firelight, Freya's stern face squints at my arrival. "You're late, Michael."
Late? Oh. Night watch duty. Of all the… it just had to be her, didn't it? Thankful for the dim light, I try to shape my expression into something less stupid and surprised. "Uh, sorry. I got held up."
She grimaces, surveying my haphazardly attached sword belt. "You failed to bring a torch," she observes neutrally. "Though I suppose bumbling in the dark suits you." Freya holds a branch up to her own torch and passes it to me once it catches light.
"Thanks," I mumble. So Chrom isn't around, then? And said nothing to Freya it seems. Actually keeping watch was the furthest thing from my mind when I went out here. An impatient sigh escapes my lips.
"Do you have somewhere else you would rather be, Michael?" Freya asks. I don't have to see her face to know she's glowering.
Yes. You are literally the worst person to be around after what I just did. "Not at all, Freya. Not at all."
Freya chooses not to comment on my surliness. We lapse into silence, a tense kind, soaked with the unspoken, nothing like the time we spent together after the tournament. Our torches splutter and crackle. Owls hoot. The forest beyond remains shadowed and still. I shuffle my feet and shift around; Freya is statuesque.
"I was in love once."
I almost drop my torch. "What?" I know this is boring, Freya, but please no. Anything else. "That's… nice. You really don't have to—"
My objection tapers off at her raised palm. "This is not frivolous chatter. It has purpose." She clears her throat. "As I was saying, I was once in love, years ago. I am sure you find that shocking, given how you must see me."
Can't say I expected it, no. But even Freya must have desires. Impossible to imagine as that may be.
"I was little more than a girl, training at the Knight Academy. He was older than me. Two years. Capable and strong and committed. That's how I saw him. I watched from afar sometimes, even spoke on occasion. But I never confessed my feelings. He graduated and went to work in a prestigious noble house, and I have not seen him since."
Freya remains stoic as ever recalling the story. I listen and say nothing. It's uncomfortable and strange, and despite standing right next to her I feel as if I am overhearing something I shouldn't. Freya doesn't talk about herself. She's a brick wall. I simply don't know what to make of it.
"I say all this because it is one of my few regrets. Though I have little time to ponder such things these days, I know that one is only young once. You were right earlier. About milord. Prince Liston is his own man, and it is my duty to serve him. I was myopic when we last spoke. If he wishes to fall in love, then I least of all can stand in his way."
She quiets, and I sense Freya is finished. I truly don't understand her. That's OK, though. It dawns on me that getting to know her wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. "Thank you for telling me." I mean it sincerely.
Our eyes meet briefly. "I should not have to remind you that if you repeat any of what I have said tonight, I shall skewer you and discard your flayed remains along the southern coast."
I repress a laugh. "Duly noted, ma'am."
We pass what's left of our shift in much the same way we passed the night of the tournament.
Stana and Sumner relieve us some time later. Contrary to all rational thought, keeping watch with Freya did wonders to remove both my anxiety about tomorrow and the horrifying fact that I kissed Chrom.
That is, until I see the subject of my discontent waiting outside the town hall for our return.
My boots grind against the earth as I halt. Freya quirks a brow at me, and Chrom steps forward. "Freya, go on inside. I would like a word with Michael."
Suspicion clouds her features, but Freya acquiesces. "As you wish, milady." She dips her head and enters the building where the rest of the Shepherds sleep.
I give it all of ten seconds after Freya disappears before I launch into a rambling torrent of word vomit. "So, hey, listen, Chrom, that was totally not what you think. I mean, it was what you think because, you know, I did put my face on your face. Kiss. Yes, kiss, that's the word. But yeah, anyways, maybe we should just, like, move on and forget it ever happened, am I right or am I right? Besides, kissing is basically nothing. People do that as a greeting or, like, when you go over to have dinner at your mom's house. Completely normal and not weird at all in even the tiniest, slightest bit. You know, I think—"
"I am sorry I fled before, but Michael, I need you to tell me how you feel about me."
During my aimless rant, Chrom rooted herself only a couple feet from where I stand. My word waterfall runs dry, and I gulp. Shit fuck ass shit fuck goddammit. I have to come clean, don't I? No horseshit about it not mattering. No idiotic dancing around the subject for days. No romcom wishy-washy shenanigans.
I breathe. In and out. In and out. In and out. "I have romantic feelings for you."
In the light of my torch, Chrom smiles softly. But it's not a smile that reaches her eyes. It's not a smile I want her to make.
"When you… kissed me, I was more than a little surprised," she says, a hesitancy in her voice. "I think of you as a friend and companion. Romance is unknown to me. I've had suitors and proposals, but it's never amounted to anything. In truth, that was the first time a man has ever kissed me."
I don't have any right to think about how lovely the shade of red on her cheeks is.
"Running was unfair of me. So I owe you now an honest answer to your feelings. I'm sorry, Michael, but I cannot return them. I do not feel the same way about you, and I am deeply sorry if I have given you the wrong impression. It would mean a great deal to me if we could stay friends."
Rejection. I didn't really hope for better, but having it laid out plainly and succinctly hurts. I guess any rejection hurts. But Chrom is my friend, and that has value. Of course I want things to stay the same. "I would like that, Chrom."
This time her smile stretches from ear to ear. "I am so glad to hear it."
Neither of us can think of anything else to say. Chrom tucks back a lock of hair. "Well, I ought to go back inside," she says gently. "Michael, if there's anything you need, just let me know."
I barely register my nod as she departs.
I'm happy we're still friends.
It's a long, long while before the tears stop rolling down my face.
Author's Note:
There will not be individual review responses this time as usual. It's been while, everyone. Almost eleven months in fact. A lot of stuff has happened in the past year. I don't have much of an excuse for disappearing other than that life is hard. For those of you aware of my health issues, I imagine my absence might have literally caused you to wonder if I was still alive. Obviously, it is my pleasure to inform you all that I am healthy and well. I can't speak to how frequent my updates will be from now on, only that they will be happening. An Odd Awakening means a lot to me, and this chapter was especially difficult to write as I am sure most of you can guess. Over these past months, follows and favorites have continued to roll in despite my inactivity. It occurred to me that there are a lot of people who love this story. And I do not have it in my heart to let all of you down.
Of course, I know that having Chrom outright reject Michael might anger some of you. But I believe this is best for his growth and the story. Friendship is so important, and romantic love is not the only kind of love there is. Will Mike be forever alone? Well, I think you all know the answer to that is no. 3
I thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for sticking around this long. It's going to be a bumpy road and massive journey, but we will get there together. You all are still the reason I write. I hope to keep it coming for a long time.
With love,
Syntaxis