Chapter XIX: You've Got a Friend in Me
Fury must know I feel like shit, because she curtails her speed and flies more cautiously than she has since Regna Ferox.
The day's mission has barely given me a moment of respite to process what happened last night. From the crack of dawn, we began preparing to deal with the bandits. Robin held off on concocting a full plan until we know more about the bandits, but that didn't stop her from divvying out tasks. Sumner and I already expected to fly recon, though every other Shepherd received instructs as well. Mostly weapon maintenance or armor inspections, standard stuff to make sure certain someones don't forget their axes. Still, I think Robin understands the importance of morale and mentality before a fight. Loafing around makes us complacent. In the Shepherds, our feet never come off the gas. We're always training, always doing something productive. It's a constantly eager and gung-ho group.
Me, though? Not so much. Chrom's rejection and the importance of this mission combine to form an unholy amalgamation of godawful that I can't shake. Of course I should be focused. Of course I need to pay attention. But… Jesus, I have to get it together. Chrom gave me a straight, honest answer. She expects me to be mature enough not to fall apart and get someone killed today. My love life, or lack thereof, can wait.
Nickering her approval, Fury speeds up to match Esther and Sumner's pace. I'm not sure how I feel about my pegasus being so attuned to my thoughts and feelings, but Fury knows as well as I do that moping right now accomplishes nothing. Stroking her mane, I decide to be thankful. Being understood, even by a creature that cannot speak, is better than suffering alone.
Beneath us, thick forest stretches out for miles. A sea of green, unbidden and wild. Looking at from up here, it's easy to see why these bandits can come and go as they please—swooping in from the wooded hills to pillage and then disappearing where not even the best trackers can find them on foot. It disgusts me to admit that the thugs know what they're doing at least. All that ends today, though. Everything else and all my trepidation can fuck right off.
Sumner shouts something I cannot decipher over the din of the wind, but looking in his direction tells me what I need to know. A clearing, not natural, scars the otherwise seamless forest. Ruins of a fort overgrown with vines and vegetation fill the area. This must be it. Banking high and away, we fly parallel to the crumbling stone structures so the bandits don't spot us. Little figures, no more than stickmen at this altitude, wander around the buildings. Based on what Bonnie and the others told us, there's no doubt that these people are the ones terrorizing the village. Sumner and I circle the encampment for a few laps to get a proper layout. It's a tough location to attack. While the bandits only number slightly more than the Shepherds, the ruins provide defensible choke points that they can use to repel any advances we make. Thankfully, figuring out how to crack them is not my job. Robin will find a way. She always does.
Exchanging a nod with Sumner, we turn our final pass into a flight back to base. Knowledge is power, as they say, and we have the advantage there now. A small bubble of pride swells in my chest as we fly. Successful scouting mission. No casualties. No unforeseen disasters. And no fucking Law of Interrupting Catastrophe.
We touch down just outside the village, where Chrom and the others ready themselves for the operation. She greets us professionally, Freya and Robin at her flanks.
"Sumner. Michael. Welcome back," Chrom says, all business. "Did you find the brigands? What are we dealing with?"
I struggle to keep my face neutral as we lock eyes. Chrom's lips droop as a fractional frown but otherwise betrays none of last night's conversation. It's better like this. We're adults. This isn't the playground, and it's not recess. Unfortunately, I hesitate too long, prompting Sumner to start stuttering through our report.
"C-C-Captain! We've l-l-located the bandits!" That'll do, Sumner. That'll do.
Sparing him further embarrassment, I pick up the slack. "The villagers were right; the bandits are occupying some ruins maybe a few miles into the forest. There aren't a lot of them, probably just a handful more than us, but we don't have many attacking options."
Chrom taps Falchion's pommel. "Thank you both." She sighs and grinds her heel. "It's never easy, though, is it? Robin, I trust that you can see us through the coming battle?"
The tactician murmurs agreement, already deep in thought. She fixes me a pointed look. "Can you draw a map of the ruins? I need to see what we're up against."
A picture's worth a thousand words. I fish the whittling knife from my belt and set to work scraping lines in the dirt. My rendition of the hideout likely isn't perfect, but I remember the most important sections. When I finish Robin gestures for the knife and adds little arrows and circles of her own. She whispers under her breath while the rest of us gather around. Suddenly, Robin thrusts the knife into the ground. Sumner and I flinch.
"We can't beat them in direct assault," Robin declares, turning to Chrom. "Or rather, we can't win without a high risk of fatalities. And I will not endorse any plan that doesn't see each of us safely home."
"Well said, Robin," Chrom agrees. "But the question remains how we do prevail. I take it you have some ideas on that front?"
Robin sits back, her hands folded in her lap. "Yes. It's… rather unorthodox, however."
Freya narrows her eyes. "I do hope you are not suggesting some sort of dishonorable action."
"More dishonorable than killing villagers for cows and coin? Or rigging a duel?" Robin snorts. Freya manages to pull off looking both ashamed and dignified in response. Robin only smiles. "But no. This is more just using the tools at our disposal. Chrom, would you gather the Shepherds so I can detail the plan?"
It doesn't take her long to round up everyone. We form a semicircle around Robin, giving her the floor.
She clears her throat. "Alright, for those of you who don't know, Sumner and Michael discovered the bandits and have mapped their fortifications. I'll be frank: it's not good. If we attack head on—" Robin shoots Vaiva a glance—"we will win, but not without losses. Still, we have something they don't."
Why are you looking at me, Robin? Hey, stop looking at me, Robin. Please don't tell me—
"Pegasi," she says, grinning. "If we distract them on the ground, they won't notice Sumner and Michael flying above. We can render their defenses useless with sufficient firepower from the air. A pegasus can support two riders at the cost of some speed. Miro and I will bombard them with magic, disorienting them and causing enough mayhem for the main force to break through. Once we bypass their front line, cleaning up should be straightforward. Of course, this isn't foolproof, and they can take cover from our magic. Which is why we will be using this."
Robin produces a small squashed disk from within her cloak. The oval is devoid of any adornments or runes, a small plug at the top its only distinguishing feature. "Khan Flavius entrusted me with this as a gift," she explains, sheepishly gazing at Chrom. "I apologize for not mentioning it. I was hoping to study it more before employing it in battle, but I don't want to gamble with our lives against these bandits."
Chrom waves a hand. "No apologies necessary, Robin. I know you were simply waiting until the right time. Now, don't keep us in suspense. What is it?"
"The Khan called it a 'fire mine.' Apparently, when a person steps on the cap here," she explains, pointing at the plug, "they trigger a Bolganone level magical explosion. A radius large and powerful enough to take out a squad. Miro and my magic will be to direct the enemy onto the mine, disposing most of the bandits in one fell swoop. I don't want our people caught in the blast, so it will need to be placed somewhere away from where we're fighting. In other words, inside the ruins."
Like clockwork, Freya objects. "And how, pray tell, do you expect us to place this… fire mine?" She gives Chrom a beseeching look. "Milady, I must ask you to decide against this course of action. We do not even know the true contents of this strange weapon. Furthermore, it is particularly egregious to me that Robin concealed it from us."
For once, I'm inclined to agree with Freya. Using a landmine seems dubious enough. But we have to go behind enemy lines to set it? I'm not that keen on ferrying Miro or Robin on Fury either, but it beats one of us accidentally blowing ourselves up or getting captured. Surely, the landmine is overkill?
"I will place the mine myself," Robin says, fingers digging into her palms. "No one else should have to take that risk. My only concern is getting our team home safely. I will sneak into the ruins tonight and make it out in time for us to begin the next phase."
Something doesn't jive here. Robin knows how dangerous this is. Why is she so adamant about this particular plan?
Freya opens her mouth to retort, but Chrom silences her with a shake of the head. "Peace, Freya. I can handle this." She eyes Robin carefully, gaze traveling from her clenched fists to her locked jaw. "Robin, is this truly the only way you believe we can avoid losses?"
"Yes. I would not broach the idea if I didn't feel that was true."
"And what about your life? You are in by far the most peril with this tactic." Chrom's voice stays even, though strained.
Our tactician does not hesitate. "It's a pragmatic choice. I am the most familiar with the fire mine."
This is wrong. All wrong. We can try another approach. Chrom, don't agree to this.
"Alright, Robin. We'll do as you say." The princess pivots to address the rest of us. "You all heard the plan. If Robin believes in it, so do I. Shepherds, prepare to march."
A wave of affirmation sweeps across our number. You all think this is a good idea? I watched Band of Brothers. Landmines are not fun and games. And Freya's right about us not knowing what it will really do. What is Robin thinking? Chrom, too, for that matter. As the Shepherds disperse to pack for our trek into the forest, I catch Freya stomping away from the scene. Beating down bile and unease, I follow her.
"Freya!" She turns when I call, meeting my gaze and promptly continuing forward. "Hey, wait! None of this feels right to me either, Freya."
I match her stride step for step, and she eventually slows. "I do not need you to placate me." Her scowl at me seems routine. "Milady has made her decision, and I can do nothing to question that."
Bullshit. "We don't always see eye to eye," I say, planting my feet. "OK, hardly ever, but my point is we're on the same page here. I don't like this at all. You don't have to be a hard-ass right now. I'm on your side."
Freya's mask-like expression falters. "Robin, mysteries aside, is a sound tactician. Her battlefield instructions are logical. She was… unusual just now."
"So you saw it as well." Freya nods. "We have to talk to Chrom and Robin and convince them to change their minds."
She expels no small amount of air from her nose. "As much as I believe this plan is pure foolishness, Robin appears zealous about pursuing it. And milady trusts Robin wholeheartedly." Among the formality, I detect bitterness.
"Then we just do nothing?" I ask, staring Freya down. "Robin could get herself killed. Who knows what will happen?"
"Perhaps that is her wish."
I blink. "What?"
Freya looks past me at Robin, who's speaking tensely with Chrom. "Have you not noticed her behavior since leaving Regna Ferox? Morose. Quiet. Something troubles her."
After some thought, I realize Freya's right. Robin sticks to the back of the party, speaking usually only when spoken to. Normally, she interacts with all of us, chatting and bantering, always scribbling things in her journals. How did I miss it? I want to use all the flying I've done with Sumner and Fury as an excuse, but I know the real answer is that I just wasn't paying attention. So much for awareness training.
"If Robin's upset then that's all the more reason to talk to her." Fresh anger rushes forth, spewing out as a jabbing finger into Freya's breastplate. "Robin is our friend. Are you going to let her self-destruct or whatever the hell she's doing?"
She swats my hand. "Robin is a fellow member of the Shepherds, appointed by milady as our tactician. She is not my friend."
Liar. Freya, you're lying. "And what about me?" I ask, taking a step. "Am I just another member of the Shepherds? You couldn't even bear my presence, but you trained me. Saved my life against Dergus. Why are you walking away from Robin?"
The knight retainer's face contorts, pained and conflicted. The way her lip wavers, I'm unsure if she wants to scream or punch me. "This conversation is over."
No, you're not getting out of this that easily. Freya is… Freya is my friend, goddammit. More than anyone on this godforsaken planet, she's been there for me. Chrom and Robin and all the others treat me with respect and consideration, yet Freya taught me how to be a better person. I'm still learning, obviously. But I owe Freya my life. More than that, I owe her my livelihood.
"It's not over," I say, low and urgent. "Robin's in pain. You're in pain. Talk to me, Freya. I… You can trust me."
Freya is a woman with walls. I watch them shatter, disintegrate into particles of dusty emotion. She's shown me her thoughts and feelings before—this is different. "Michael, I am losing the things I hold most dear," she whispers, voice thick. "Milady and milord are grown. They're moving beyond me. Robin is… Robin is no traitor. I know this. Gods, I am a prideful woman. Petty. I detest being wrong. And lately, I feel that is all I have been."
I'm grateful we're near a copse of trees, a fair distance from prying eyes and ears. Freya is strong. So strong. But she's just a person. A person who doesn't allow herself to have friends or confidants, a person who keeps everything bottled inside. I don't know why I'm the one who she reveals these things to. It's not worth wondering about right now. I have to be her friend.
"I don't think you're losing them, Freya," I begin, wringing my hands. "Chrom and Liston love you. Everyone here respects you. I've fucked up so many times. I do something wrong basically every day. And I've come to terms with that. Mostly. I have to work harder and make less mistakes. You're the one who changed me. You. It's complete bullshit that you feel like this. So what if you're prideful? So what if you're not always right? You're still you. That has value."
She listens silently, eyes laden with things I cannot even attempt to define. Her silence turns into mine, and we stare at our boots, the grass, the trees, the sky—all places where our gazes won't cross. I said what I wanted to say. Did it work? Fuck if I know. Freya needs someone, a peer, an equal. I'm insane to think I can fill that role. I will never hold a candle to Freya.
"To think you of all people would succeed in lifting my spirits. It beggars belief."
I look up from the fascinating saga of Beetle Climbs Pebble to see Freya peering at me. She's wearing the tiniest quirk of the lips, a Freya smile if ever there is one. I'm so surprised to see it that I don't even toss back a pithy reply. Freya straightens while I'm slack-jawed.
"At any rate, we have more important duties to attend to than… this," she says, coughing. "Forgive my earlier outburst. We are all comrades in arms. Let us be off to persuade Robin."
Just like that? Well, it's bad form to look a gift horse in the mouth. Freya's 180 is hardly unwelcome. Or, not a 180, but rather she laid off being so tsundere for five seconds. Whatever works. We have a much better chance making headway with Robin together than me alone.
She and I walk side by side to where Robin and Chrom pour over the dirt map I drew. Ignited fervor colors her eyes as she stabs the ground, clawing out rivulets representing troop movements. There's a manic air about her, like a person who's been up a week straight on nothing but energy drinks and gumption. Chrom offers hums of understanding, but the more Robin talks, the more wary Chrom seems. So all three of us know Robin's not well. Intervention time.
The tactician notes our arrival with a grunt. Scanning Robin, brand new shame washes over me. I really haven't been paying attention. She's disheveled, prized coat grimy from journeying. Her hair lacks luster, particularly evident given her white tresses. Robin isn't the obsessive groomer that Freya is, but she takes care of her appearance. Whoever this Robin is hasn't taken a bath in a while. She's a far cry from the person who told me to stop being a little bitch that night in Regna Ferox.
Freya elbows me in the ribs, jerking her head at Robin. My idea, my lead, I guess. "Robin, we need to talk to you," I say, diplomatic but blunt.
She doesn't even pause to look at us. "Can it wait? I'm still fine-tuning some details. Everything has to be perfect."
"That's actually the problem." Freya provides her version of an encouraging nod, and I continue. "This mine thing… This whole plan… Robin, are you alright? Maybe you should slow down a moment."
My words earn a blazing glare. "I can't slow down! If you don't have anything else to say, please go prepare for the mission. I'm very busy."
Chrom palms Robin's shoulder, who shakes her off instantly. "Michael is just concerned," she says. "Honestly, I'm getting worried too. I support your decision making, but you're acting strange, Robin."
"Just leave me alone!" The venom with which Robin delivers the exclamation sends Chrom reeling. A moment passes. Then another. Robin's hand flies to her mouth. "Gods, I'm so sorry! I don't know what came over me. I'm…" It dies in her throat.
"Emotionally compromised," Freya finishes flatly. Never one to mince words, are you, Freya?
Robin hangs her head. "All I need is a couple minutes to collect myself," she explains. "I'm fine."
"You're definitely not fine." I try to make eye contact with her.
Her eyes flit between the three of us until she sighs. "Outnumbered." Robin rubs her temples, frustrated groans that want to be more cascading past her lips. "I absolutely cannot incur any casualties. I'm failure if I do. This is the only way."
"Robin, you've never failed us," Chrom argues, bewildered. "Where is this coming from? Did something happen?"
"Are you all blind?!" Robin stands, attracting a few stares. "During Michael's duel, my plan failed. During the tournament, my plan failed. At the Longfort, I failed. We are alive because of luck. Sheer luck. Time and time again, I fail to foresee complications, account for our adversaries' actions, all the things a tactician must do. I woke up in a godsdamned field with no memories! This is all I have!"
Her chest heaves with effort from bellowing. There's not a Shepherd present who didn't hear her. Jesus, today is a nonstop one-way feels train. Are we all this insecure? With a jolt, I'm struck by the sobering fact that I've put all the Shepherds on a pedestal, infallible and almost superhuman. But most of them are younger than me. Some, like Liston, are still teenagers. They're brave and talented and passionate, but there's so much pressure to being a Shepherd. To being entrusted with the hopes and dreams of an entire nation. I'm an idiot. And I'm selfish. I've known for a long, long time that these people are more than characters from a game I barely remember. They're human, though. Just human.
But you know what? I've heard a lot of bullshit today. And Robin's is the worst. She's a hypocrite. Telling me I make it all about myself. Telling me I don't lean on my friends enough. This is no different from my own transgressions. Robin, you're getting a dose of your own medicine. From me.
"Hey, Robin," I say, causing her tortured gaze to fall on me. "Do me a favor and shut the fuck up."
Freya and Chrom both turn, aghast. Robin's lips flap without sound. I ignore the reactions. "It wasn't too long ago that you said those exact words to me, minus my personal touch," I say, eking out a smile at my friend. "You didn't let me degrade myself back then, and I'm not gonna let you do it to yourself now. You think it's luck that we're alive? Did luck set those Risen on fire after Southtown? Did luck defeat them on the Northroad? Robin, you're one person, and you can't do everything. You show us the path. We've won because you give us the tools to do so. You haven't failed. Your friends have simply been there to support you. Just like me. We're the Shepherds, Robin. We've both been here the same amount of time. If this is all you have, it's all I have too. And I'm not letting you throw it away because you don't feel worthy. I don't know if this mine thing is your way of atonement, but you have nothing to atone for. Nothing. Robin, you are not alone."
I'm acutely aware of all the pairs of eyes watching me. But I'm not embarrassed. I will say it as many times as it takes. Because as Robin pointed out that night, it's not about me. It's about us. Who we are when we're together. The Shepherds aren't strong because Sullivan can bench press twice his weight. They aren't strong because Virginie can split one arrow with another. We're strong because no one is left behind, no one is forgotten, and no one walks alone. Stana said it best: When one of us falls, we all fall. And we all lift whoever falls.
Robin sways on her feet, and then with a choking croak, she begins to weep.
Slowly, the Shepherds tighten around Robin, and Liston is the first to drag her into his arms. Stana and Sumner follow, then Kelda—who is very large and very visible—and Vaiva with her crunching embrace. It's reminiscent of after my duel. Chrom manages to get a hand around Robin's, squeezing. All the Shepherds show Robin that she's wrong. She never failed her friends. I can't bring myself to join the group hug, rather content to just observe the scene of solidarity. I'm not sure I deserve these people in my life, but that's not for me to decide anymore, is it?
There's a light tap on my shoulder. "You are a far better orator than I could have expected," Freya says.
She's not really the group hug type either, is she? "All I did was tell her the truth."
"It must be strange for you to have a reason to be modest." I'd call it another classic Freya jab if not for the genuine and wide smile breaking out across her face. I've never seen her smile like that. Even when she laughed back Ferox. Freya has… a warm smile.
I fold my arms. "Are you teasing me?" I feign cowering. "Or maybe it's true. What Liston says about you only smiling before bringing down the axe?"
The scowl I know and expect returns. "You mock me."
"No more than you mock me."
We've been in this position a lot lately. Shoulders nearly brushing, drinking in the sight of our friends celebrating or consoling. Our breathing calm, satisfied, as sweetly seasoned silence coils about our persons. It's always Freya. I don't think I wanted to admit it. Or maybe I've been afraid to. But Freya is my best friend.
I wonder what I am to her.
"Freya?" I ask, forcing myself to speak to her face and not the ground. "Are we friends?"
She regards me as usual—somewhat aloof, reticent and shrewd. Freya speaks to the ground and not my face. "You are more friend than foe."
"So, that's a yes?"
Her boot nudges a pebble, rolling it along the earth. Its pale marbling glints with afternoon sunlight.
I've come to understand what the silence between us means.
"Alright, Freya. More friend than foe it is."
The pebble rests beside her foot. I resolve to collect it later.
Robin abandons the fire mine idea. She acquiesces that a thorough and chaotic peppering of magic from the sky should soften the bandits enough that we can overrun them with a ground pincer attack. Thus, here I am, carting Miro on Fury, the lithe mage holding his wide-brimmed hat so the wind doesn't catch it. Red-orange dots prick the darkness ahead, bandits bearing torches as they patrol their camp. Useless for spotting pegasi this high but perfect for target practice. Starlight gleams just bright enough to outline Sumner and Robin at my right. The moment Robin releases her first bolt of lightning will be the signal for the Shepherds to move into position.
We're almost directly above the ruins when she fires. Her strike must hit true, because a man's agonized wail starts a chain reaction of hollering and shouting that turns the night into a frenzied bedlam. Miro hurls fireballs down as volcanic rain, tome pages rustling. Sumner and I fly a looping path, providing our cargo with ample opportunity to aim and wreak havoc. The pair launches as many attacks as they can manage before the clashing of steel indicates that the rest of the Shepherds join the fray.
In the dark and up here, there's no guarantee that they wouldn't hit one of our own, so we circle back to the forest and descend through the canopy. Robin and Miro will spend the rest of the battle on foot, and Sumner intends to harry the bandits with javelins and his lance astride Esther. I haven't received a single lesson on aerial combat yet. Not that Sumner is incapable of teaching me. Chrom just believes that particular task best left to Sky Commander Phila. All this basically means my role in the fight is complete.
I don't like it. But I can't and won't argue. I'm not ready. Not against Risen and sure as hell not against human beings. That horrible squelching of the sword shearing through Dergus' chest makes my stomach roil. Cutting down another person without hesitation isn't possible for me. Even amoral savages like these bandits. I'm not sure I ever want to be ready to kill like the other Shepherds. I want to say it isn't too late to stick to carving training swords. That's a lie, though. Going back isn't an option. Not since I threw my lot in with Chrom and Freya and Robin. Not since I chose to walk with warriors.
Not since I drove a blade into another man's heart.
I'm a hindrance on the battlefield right now. That's the only reason I'm not risking my life with them tonight. But I know deep down that it won't always be that way. One day, possibly one day soon, I will be called upon to do my duty as a Shepherd so that some other nameless soldier doesn't have to die in my place. I once heard that graveyards are filled with middling swordsmen. Can I ever be more than that? With a rueful smile, I remember that the Shepherds won't allow me to stand alone. No matter what, I have the strength of every member, every friend, right within reach.
Robin, Sumner, and Miro depart, and I wish them well. My only job now is alerting the Shepherds should any enemies try to surprise them. Not that I find that likely. If everything goes smoothly, the bandits won't even be able to escape their hideout. Sounds of warfare drift through the woods, battle cries and yelps of pain from voices I don't recognize. A good sign. Besides, Liston is there to patch up any of our people.
Unless someone's heart stops.
Calm down, Mike. You're worrying. Nothing like that will happen tonight. These bandits aren't half the fighters we faced at the Longfort and not a quarter the ones in the tournament. I mutter reassurances to myself like mantras. Try as I may, the macabre thoughts pervade. From here there's no clear line of sight to the skirmish, no vision of Freya or Chrom dancing around opponents with ease. Nothing to quell the disquiet growing in my chest. My friends are in danger. Literal mortal peril. I can't quash the the anger rising from my core, rage that I lack any ability to change the outcome of this battle. Now isn't the time to feel such things, but I just can't help it.
The crunch of a twig or branch creates a crisp report in the brush opposite me. I barely have time to draw my sword before Donna stumbles from the foliage.
"What are you doing here?" I hiss, sheathing the blade. "You should be in the village, waiting with everyone else for news that the bandits are defeated."
She roots herself in a defiant pose, legs shoulder-width apart, piece of wood with a sickle tied to the end firmly in her grasp. Donna glares up at me from under the bronze pot threatening to swallow her head.
"Them bandits killed my pa!" she snarls. I don't need to be a mind reader to see the flame of vengeance in her eyes. "I ain't sittin' in the village doin' nothin' while the yellow-bellied dastard who murdered him is right here!"
I frown. Not the best situation. I can't fault the kid for wanting to avenge her father. I also can't let her run onto a battlefield in the dead of night with no armor, a makeshift spear, and a fucking pot on her head.
"Look, I get it. I do. But you'll get yourself killed."
She shoves me, and Donna isn't like she was blushing at Liston. "You don't get nothin'! If I ain't make right by my pa, then I ain't never gonna sleep at night again."
I yank the spear from her hands. "Leave it to the Shepherds, kid." I wish it didn't have to be like this, Donna.
Her eyes harden. "I'm real sorry 'bout this, Mister Shepherd."
What is she—SWEET CHRIST!
I swear one of my precious boys just rocketed into my intestines. Donna retracts her foot from between my legs as I collapse, gagging. Oh holy fuck this hurts. I crawl feebly along the ground, attempting in vain to grab Donna's ankle as she rushes past. The fetal position is about all I can do for a good while, taking measured breaths to abate the tumultuous queasiness in my gut. When I finally gather the strength to rise, Donna—and the spear I snatched—is long gone.
Wheezing, I fumble in the dark, using trees for balance. This is really, really fucking bad. Shelve the embarrassment of getting absolutely destroyed by Donna for the time being. She might have a titanic soccer player's kick, but she's a farm girl beelining for a war zone. I have to prevent her from making the same mistake I did weeks ago. She could be maimed or killed. And trust me, dealing with someone else taking that damage for you isn't any better. Every time I look at Freya, I see the jagged scar on her throat. Maybe she's forgiven me, but I haven't forgiven myself. Not completely.
The throbbing pain dulls as I hobble towards the Shepherds and the ruins. Adrenaline numbs any lingering discomfort. Donna, where the fuck are you? A glittering spark from two swords colliding alights a pair of duelists: Lon'ri and a rather burly ruffian. From what little I saw during the faint glow, Lon'ri has the upper hand. She nearly defeated Chrom—this fugly asshole isn't going to beat her. As predicted, I hear the wrenching of flesh and bone, a masculine gurgling of death. Cautiously, I approach.
"Halt!" Lon'ri growls. "State your name or I shall cut you down."
I shuffle forward, tentative, trying to judge where she is in the inky black. "It's Michael," I whisper, directing my voice at her faint silhouette.
Lon'ri's form trudges closer until she's grasping my collar. "You're not supposed to be here," she snaps. "If you cannot fight, get out of the way."
Charming. I wrest myself free. "I'm not here to dick around." Dimly, I can just see her reproachful eyes. "Donna… got past me. I think she's inside the ruins by now."
The swordswoman flicks her katana clean of blood. "The fool girl who put on that nauseating display with the prince?"
"Well, yeah, they had a moment." I shake my head. "Anyways, that's not important right now!"
Lon'ri sighs, more of an irritated snort in actuality. "You want my help."
That would be ideal, yes, you sour grape. Khan Basilia did force her to join the Shepherds. She hasn't exactly meshed with the group yet. "I can't do it alone, Lon'ri. I'm gonna assume you don't want an innocent girl to die for no reason."
She stiffens. Did I touch a nerve? "I am no craven," she hisses. "Come. Let us rescue this idiot girl." Yeah, I pissed her off. Whatever. If it galvanises her into action, I don't care.
We slink along the ruin walls, moss and flakes of brittle grime latching onto my gambeson. The fever pitch of battle reverberates almost within my core. The darkness and unrelenting clamor combine as unadulterated pandemonium. It's wise to keep me out of this. Hilariously—but devoid of all humor—here I am again, weaving through combat. The only mercy is that I can see. Burning furniture and rubble bathe the bloodshed in fire. Dead bodies lie strewn, contorted in dying poses. No Shepherds. Only bandits. If we weren't searching for Donna, I might puke. At the Longfort we tried to spare lives. Risen are rotting corpses already. At Southtown, we ran too fast to watch. I've never seen so much blood and death, not up close.
Snarling, Lon'ri drags me past Sullivan engaging an axe fighter. "Stay focused!"
Shit. Donna is the priority, Mike. Donna. I nod at Lon'ri's derisive scowl. She leads me around a couple corners, mercilessly hacking an attacker's abdomen at one point. This part of the ruin looks to have once been an audience chamber or similarly spacious room. A dilapidated chandelier rests atop waist high grass in the middle, a cumbersome obstacle some of the bandits are using to dodge Chrom, Robin, and a dismounted Freya.
Chrom sights Lon'ri and I from the other side of the chandelier. "Michael!" she shouts, notifying Freya and Robin as well. "How many times are you going to defy orders?!"
"Forget about that! Donna ran in here! She's trying to get revenge."
The princess grimaces and waves Freya to her side. "Go with Michael and Lon'ri. We vowed to keep these villagers safe, and by Naga we shall."
Freya salutes her liege and bustles to join us. I can't read her inscrutable gaze. "Have you seen the village girl?" she asks, giving the area her own cursory glance. "I fear we may be too late if we do not act soon."
Lon'ri scoots back, a repressed reaction but obvious. "No," she answers, a little wooden.
Very enlightening, Lon'ri. I offer more. "I think Donna is after the guy who killed her dad. Not that I have any clue who that is."
"The leader of this band of riffraff," Freya says. "According to Donna's mother, the mayor died by his hand."
Right, right. I heard that secondhand after tending to Liston's teen heartthrob. "And have you seen this dude yet?"
Freya motions for us to speak on the move, couching her lance beneath her arm. "He retreated to the remains of the chapel when the fighting began. If she is smart, she will have deduced where has gone."
"If we know where their leader is hiding, why aren't any Shepherds going after him?"
Her face tells me I just asked a very stupid question. "Michael, do you think we have not tried? The way is blocked and narrow. Only now have we gained an adequate advantage to press."
Lon'ri clucks her tongue. OK. I get it. I'm a moron. Thanks. "Then what do we do? If that's true, then Donna is running right into a clusterfuck."
My mentor's lips thin. "Which is why we must make haste."
At that, the three of us graduate from jogging to sprinting. Lon'ri outpaces Freya and me effortlessly. I get the sense she's handicapping herself so we don't fall behind. Freya admittedly excels more as a distance runner, but she still forces me to haul ass not to be dead weight. The Shepherds we blitz past have the bandits reeling. As a contest, this battle is already game, set, match. The chapel is the enemy's last refuge. Even if we weren't working double time to find Donna, it wouldn't be long before we breached the chapel.
Vaiva and Stana tag team a hapless swordsman, the latter tripping him with her lance and Vaiva delivering the coup de grace. His death opens a path into what must be the weathered remnants of the chapel. Its steeple crumpled long before this battle, probably long before bandits occupied the ruins. Only the chapel's shell stands, decayed oak doors open off their hinges. No sign of Donna, though. Did she somehow sneak past? That seems next to impossible. They didn't just let her in, right? That's more chilling than I want to consider.
We leap over the dead man's body and turn a final corner. My heart plummets, flung down into my stomach at vicious speed.
A bloodied and bruised Donna leans on her sickle-spear. Swelling above one of her eyes surely obfuscates her vision. The pot that contained her mess of hair rests dented and discarded several yards away. Sneering at her in manner too sadistic even for Dergus is a great brute of a man wielding a cruelly curved axe. There isn't a scratch on him. Feeling my blood boil, I realize Donna's only alive because he isn't done toying with her.
"Oi, oi, oi," he spits, grinning at Donna through plaque-infested teeth. "You challenged me, ya runt! I let the boys send ya in cuz I figured you'd be fun. But yer as borin' as yer old man."
Donna screeches, taking a lopsided swing. He bats aside her strike almost playfully and hurtles a savage fist into her gut. He laughs as she slumps, grip slacking on the spear.
She's a kid, you fucking piece of shit. I'm witnessing evil. True, unfiltered evil. Risen are mindless monsters, killing without thought or will. This… man is something worse. Something heinous. Fuck people who say good and evil are just constructs.
Evil smiles as it inflicts suffering. There is no ambiguity about that, no moral gray. This man is evil.
"Let her go—"
The rest never leaves my mouth. Human beings don't make the sound Lon'ri does. It's primal, primordial, a guttural roar that hearkens back to an era when we struck stones together to conjure fire and called it black magic. Molten fury. Unbridled anguish.
Lon'ri charges.
Her katana nicks the bandit leader's thigh, eliciting a low squawk. He raises his axe in defense, parrying her next blow. Lon'ri stacks slash after slash, violent thrusts and stabs. Possessing neither the skill or blistering speed of Lon'ri, the man concedes numerous oozing gashes. Whatever this is though, it's not the elegant swordplay Lon'ri exhibited at the Arena Ferox. Only murderous intent informs her attacks. And I have to give the bastard credit; he's holding his own.
More than that, this fucker is smirking. I exchange glances with Freya, and she darts forward to assist. As she does, the flat of the bandit's axe clips Lon'ri's head. The power staggers her, and with ruthless efficiency, a front kick follows. Gasping, Lon'ri careens into the advancing Freya, toppling them both. Spiteful laughter rings sickeningly full.
"I ain't done with this bitch," he says, ambling to Donna. She's struggling to stand when his boot pins her to the stone floor. "Quit yer squirmin'."
Donna's arm reaches for her spear, quaking. "Roddick," she coughs. "Yer gonna pay fer what you did to my pa."
"Ohoho? Big words for a little squirt!" He grinds his boot onto her spine.
I look at Lon'ri and Freya, tangled in a heap. They won't reorient themselves fast enough. Lon'ri seems half-conscious anyways. "Ke'ri," she mumbles, delirious. "Ke'ri!" What is that? Foreign language? In any case, she's out of it.
The only thing between Donna and an untimely demise is me. Roddick, or whatever he's called, can snap me in two. It's not a fight I have any chance in hell of winning. And honestly, I don't want to die. I really don't want to die. But it might be me or Donna. My life or hers. So many people have put their lives on the line for me since I came to this world. If I watch Donna die, I'm not worthy of someone like Freya's friendship. Most importantly, I'm not a Shepherd either.
So I draw the sword Chrom gave me in the Shepherd's armory. "Your name's Roddick, yeah?" I say, gaining his attention. "That's literally just 'rod' and 'dick.' Are you compensating for something?"
He squints and lifts his foot from Donna. "You some kinda comedian?" Roddick removes a hatchet strapped to his belt and cocks his head. "I don't like jokes."
Roddick flings the hatchet. It bites into my side, rending the gambeson and sundering tissue. I've been injured before. By magic and weapons. But the shit doesn't exactly hurt less the more it happens. I scream, clutching my flank and spluttering as blood wells around the crescent axe edge burrowed inside me. Roddick chuckles.
"Now, where was I?" he whistles as he returns to Donna. Roddick stoops to yank her into the air, but as her tiptoes brush the floor, Donna skewers the back of his hand with a hunting knife.
Cursing and cradling his bleeding puncture, Roddick drops her. "Fucking brat!"
Donna rolls to retrieve her spear, whirling it on her belly in an upward arc. The blunt end smashes Roddick's groin, putting him on his knees. Good God, Donna, master of testicular destruction. I think I can live with having been practice for that.
She rises, only just taller than a kneeling Roddick. "I said you'd pay." Donna raises her sickle-spear. "Fer the village. Fer my friends. Fer Pa."
The last thing Roddick sees in his miserable life is Donna's harvesting stance. Just before she removes his head like a stalk of corn.
Donna pants for a moment, then falls onto her back. She's avenged her father. No, it won't resurrect him or any other villager these fucks murdered, but Roddick deserved it. Rest, Donna. Rest.
Wish I could do the same. The goddamn axe sticking out of me makes that a tad difficult, though. Any slight adjustment—attempting to prop myself, bending at all, moving my shoulders—results in herniating agony. Freya gives Lon'ri's now fully unconscious person a quick check and scuttles over to me. Her hands hover above the axe.
"Until Liston arrives, the axe must stay," she says, brows knitted. "You will lose more blood if I dislodge it."
"Sounds exciting."
Freya slaps me across the cheek. "Idiot! What if the axe had hit something vital? Your lungs? Your liver? Your heart?"
I wince and glare at her. "Yeah, but it didn't. You could be nicer to the guy who just ate an axe because you and Sleeping Beauty over there were indisposed."
"Be silent! I feared… I feared that you were..." She stares at me. I nod and offer a lame smile. It's OK, Freya. You don't need to say it.
Freya doesn't leave my side even when Liston bursts into the chapel, babbling gibberish as he fusses at my wound. He tells me he's going to pull the axe out on the count of three. Blond bastard does it at one, the oldest trick in the book. Hurts like a motherfucker, of course. And I get a nice splurt of blood on the unsullied part of my gambeson. I expect to faint while being healed, but I get to enjoy every second of Liston's magic stitching together the laceration. I'm sore afterwards though mobile once more. A vertical scar to match the horizontal one.
Liston scurries to tend to Donna—especially Donna, heh—and Lon'ri, along with the myriad injuries other Shepherds accumulated. Freya leans back, supporting her body with her palms flat on the stone. Blood, gore, and God knows what else cake her face and hair. None of it her own. She narrows her eyes at me in predictable, if oddly comforting, fashion.
"Satisfied, Michael?" Freya sighs. "You appear fond of rushing to your death."
My lips settle into something between a scoff and smile. "I'm not dead yet, am I? That's gotta net me some points."
Freya's eyes bore into mine so fiercely that I balk. "Surely, you must know by now that points are detrimental?"
"Yeah, yeah." I poke her arm. "I'm glad you're safe too, Freya."
"I never said I was glad."
"You didn't have to."
As Freya obscures her expression behind her hair, I squeeze the marbled pebble inside my belt pouch.
We spend another day and night in the village, recuperating and not so begrudgingly partaking of Bonnie's minced meat pies. This is what being a Shepherd is about. Seeing the faces of joy when you tell a bunch of downtrodden villagers that they're finally safe. And meat pies. Always meat pies.
When we say farewell, accepting embraces and gifts of food (mostly more meat pies), Donna barrels out from the crowd, rucksack and spear-sickle in hand. The dented pot jostles around on her head as she runs. Liston meets her halfway, steadying a visibly excited Donna.
"D-Donna!" He adjusts the pot as to see her flushed face. "What's all this?" Liston gestures at her pack and traveling outfit.
She wriggles, a bashful countenance overtaking her features. "Milordliness, I know I ain't much, but I'm real decent with livestock! So! Take me with you! Please, I gotta be a Shepherd!"
We aren't those kind of Shepherds, Donna, but I suspect she's just making a point. Bonnie raps her knuckles against her daughter's pot helmet. "Witless girl! Get back here and quit makin' a scene!"
Donna rounds on her mother, chest puffed out, resolute. "My whole life I ain't been nothin', Ma! Lemme do this! Pa's gone. But I know there's other folks out there sufferin' like us. I can do more than pickin' turnips!"
Liston turns to Chrom, and his pleading eyes say all that need be said. If they took me in, they can't turn down Donna. She's probably a lot more useful than I am. I might even pick her brain about medieval carpentry. Besides, one look at her and anyone can tell she's meant for more than plodding around some nameless village.
No one speaks as Chrom steps forward, regarding Donna and her plucky determination. "Donna, a sickle's not far from a sword. But we protect the innocent. The oppressed. Do you know what that means?"
The farmer never flinches. "I ain't good with words, yer Graceliness, but I know right from wrong. I know the world ain't all sunshine. My pa died so I could keep livin'. Not everybody's got a pa like that, though. That's why I wanna be a Shepherd."
Chrom nods, smiling, and looks past her at Bonnie. "I believe your daughter has courage and heart," Chrom says warmly. "We would be honored to have her."
Our captain lowers herself to one knee. Freya copies, and soon the rest of us comply, the entire company bowing before Donna's mother.
Murmurs of shock sweep through the villagers. Bonnie gesticulates frantically, prancing in place. "Please, please, yer worships! I ain't worthy!"
"You are," Chrom counters, standing. "You both are. Ylisse is built on the backs of her citizens. Never forget that I, and all the Exalted family, are forever in your debt. Not the other way around."
Several minutes pass until the villagers, and particularly Bonnie, calm. In the aura of such charisma, how can Bonnie deny her daughter this? They share a tearful goodbye, and Donna promises to return alive. Hearing that, I make a promise to myself to do everything I can so that this woman sees her child again. Shepherds are one.
Our newest member glued to Liston's hip, we march for Ylisstol. Ripples of homesickness, of longing for the capital trickle through our group. Risen and tournaments and bandits and Khans and moronic gatekeepers named Raimi—it's taken a toll, extracted spirit and soul. Even I am hankering for that tough bed in which I only spent a single night. I want to know how Agatha's doing. I want to see Emmeryn again, bask in her radiant peace. Hell, I want to train with Phila and the Air Corps.
Fury and I soar in our usual position flush with Sumner and Esther. We're flying ahead, hoping to bring news to the Shepherds that we might be able to sleep in the barracks tonight. Everyone deserves it. Just one night of respite. One night, on home soil, laughing and drinking and fucking thankful that we're alive.
We deserve it.
I tug Fury's reins, bringing her to a hover. The acrid smell of smoke stings my nostrils.
On the horizon, on her proud hill, painted there against the fading pink of twilight, Ylisstol burns.
Author's Note: Well, here I am with another chapter! This one I hope did pretty well with using action to flesh out characters. I planted a couple seeds, and I'm looking forward to writing more about the new Shepherd as well! And of course I am sure some of you had an "oh shit" moment with that final line. Big things are happening! Interesting things! I cannot wait to share them with you all! Thank you so much for reading!
This time I must also thank ThreeDollarBratwurst and mixedvalence for being great partners in crime and giving feedback about the chapter! It's good to be part of the team again, and anyone here who hasn't read their stories, Birth and Re-Death and Earthborne most definitely should! Please also consider joining our discord server! Discord. gg/ 3mdunvc
And while I have your attention, I've also started a Three Houses insert called Strings Attached! Give it a read if you are so inclined!
Now, some long overdue review responses!
TheRebelSkeleton- 10,000 years indeed haha! But I'm back, and I appreciate you sticking around so long!
DestructionDragon360- Thank you for reviewing! I tried make Chrom's rejection of Mike as realistic as possible. He made a hasty, emotional action, and she reacted how I feel like I would have in that sort of situation. I'm also really glad that you like Freya! If it isn't obvious, so do I!
Dracus6- I mentioned it above, but I have a 3H story now! It's not quite what you described, though. Still, it exists!
Rileva- I'd had the rejection scene swimming around in my head for a long time, and writing it was a huge relief. It's great to hear that you think it was handled well! Freya and Mike have a pretty complex relationship, so I love that you've been engaged by it from the beginning! Expect lots more!
Achiever- Thank you for still reading! I'm going to try my best to put out chapters regularly. I learned a lot of things during my hiatus, so it's good to be back.
Indigo One- I had to google who Astolfo was, and I laughed when I saw them. Playing with Robin's gender was a lot of fun for me, and of course characters that haven't met her yet can certainly still be messed with.
Serendipitous- Hello again! A big round of F's for Mike indeed. I'm glad to get yet another review from you! And even more glad that you're still enjoying the story! It's wonderful to be here again and writing. I'm sure you've seen me on the discord server, but I am unfortunately stumped as to who you might be haha
NoteBlade- Perhaps it is time hehe
thebeast29- The real waifu, huh? Possibly~~~
Sigmatic- It's great to have you reading! Hearing that you've grown attached to Mike warms my heart!
Narwhal Lord- I appreciate you dropping in to review! And that you felt the scenes with Chrom and Mike were emotionally mature! That was my goal, so I'm happy to hear that it worked for you!
Kareem- Mike won't be crafting any guns, unfortunately. He'll be carving his own path forward, one that I hope proves satisfying to read. If you do want an SI who builds guns though, mixedvalence can help you out!
ThreeDollarBratwurst- Boi u no wut u do. I'm happy to be back! Very excited that you're along for this ride, too.