Chapter XXIII: Exodus

"Naga's knickers."

Freya and I split apart in time to see Liston gaping at us, blue eyes round in the moonlight. He reminds me of a schoolboy who just learned his teacher is, in fact, a real human woman with a life and does not simply vanish once lessons are completed. Which probably isn't far from what Liston actually is right now.

Through some presence of mind, I have enough dignity to step away and give Freya space to think. She regards Liston with a strained expression, unsure whether to settle into a scowl or merely let the earth below swallow her. Given the prince saw and heard everything, there really isn't much to say. The kid's a teenage disaster, but he understands what two adults smashing faces means.

I catch Freya's eye briefly, searching for some way to make the situation less awkward. Phila and Robin touching down doesn't help matters. The pegasus knight calmly unfastens her harness while our tactician slides off the mount and races towards us. I'm formulating a response to Liston inevitably blabbing about what just transpired when I feel Robin's fist connect with my jaw.

If anyone was going to punch me in the face, I'd expect it to be Freya. Or maybe Chrom once she hears about this. But Robin? Level-headed, strategic, insightful Robin? No. Entirely unprepared, the impact plants me on my ass.

"You godsdamn moron!" she shouts. "Are you ever going to learn?"

I massage the budding welt beneath my cheek. At least she wasn't wearing gauntlets. "Happy to see you too, Robin," I say, beginning to stand.

Her fingers spark. Literally. "Are you seriously joking around after all that? Is this funny to you, Michael? Because I'm not laughing."

I'm not sure if it's her tone or stance or just how she's looking at me with that furious snarl, but it has me seething. In the back of my mind, there's a little voice telling me to let it go, to accept Robin's fury. I smother it beneath sweat and blood and plain stubborness.

"Yeah, Robin," I spit, tromping over and using my height advantage to glower. "It's all fun and games to me. Sure. You're welcome, by the way."

Her eyes blur in a series of rapid blinks. "You expect me to thank you?" she asks, incredulous. "I saved you. You'd be dead if we hadn't turned around."

"No shit. I was doing what I had to do. They were gonna catch us."

Robin's hands ball at her sides. "Nobody asked you to sacrifice yourself. Nobody asked you to try and be a hero." She hits me again, this time lacking any real force as her knuckles rap against my chest. "Family, Michael. Family."

She was scared. So was I. If our roles had been reversed, I doubt Robin would have hesitated to do the same. I know the choice I made was unfair. Nothing about any of this shit is fair. I feel my anger and indignation dissipate, the rising flush on my neck retreat. We got lucky. So, so lucky.

"I'm sorry, Robin," I say, glancing over her shoulder at an impassive Freya. "I wanted to protect you guys."

"I know that." Robin wipes a sleeve across her eye. "But you're an even bigger moron if you think we're not going to protect you as well."

All I can do is nod. No one did anything wrong. Not even me for once. The Shepherds just aren't the sort of group to accept casualties. Robin's right. Believing they'd allow me to die was stupid. That's not who we are.

A lull spreads itself among our weary band. It isn't tense, just… quiet. Full of unvoiced thoughts, a chain of moments each unfolding successively longer than the last. I'm struck by the fact that for a few seconds, I cannot remember what tranquility is. Not this. But not not this. We survived the Plegian wyvern riders. We escaped the burning capital with Emmeryn secured. We also didn't find Marius. We lost our home to invaders.

The respite—if it can be called that—ends when Phila clears her throat. "Daybreak shall be upon us sooner rather than later," she says. "Let us put distance between the Plegians and ourselves while it is still night."

There are no objections. Chrom and the other Shepherds are likely anxious to be reunited with us. Something unpleasant twists inside me when I envision the inevitable discussion we'll have about how Marius was nowhere to be found. It begs additional, darker questions. Questions without answers. I can only choose to believe that Marius is still alive somewhere, and that we will recover him once we know exactly where he is. It feels a hollow hope even as I will it to be anything but.

We are on the move again at Phila's command. She and I hover low in the sky above Freya and Liston, though this time Robin straddles Fury with me, Phila's pegasus requiring a rest after the wyvern ordeal. To say that the atmosphere between the tactician and I is palpably weird would be selling it far below market price. We don't speak. We don't make eye contact. We do nothing but glide in terse silence.

Until I cannot take it any longer and volunteer information Liston will surely spill within 24 hours anyways. "Freya and me," I begin, Robin jerking at the sudden words. "Er, we kissed. A while ago. Just before you and Phila landed. And once before that. When she stormed off after that stuff about Emmeryn. Liston saw the second time. Thought I'd get ahead of the gossip." I probably explain more than necessary. Babbling is, after all, one of my most cherished skills.

I'm not entirely sure what I thought to achieve by telling her this. Levity? Distraction? Or maybe I just want Robin's opinion on the matter. She angles herself sideways, eyes round. I'll tentatively label her expression 'befuddled.'

"Oh." Robin's response is delayed. And packed with much more than the monosyllable would suggest. Her lips retain the shape of the sound well past its sounding. I expect her to expound upon it, to offer some quip or deflecting joke. She does not. My skin begins to warm.

"That's all you have to say?" I ask in absence of a better remark.

Her frame shifts forward and away, then back towards me. Robin settles on a position where she only partially shows her face. "Do I need to say more?" I've never heard her voice quite so… squeamish.

This is not the reaction I predicted. "Are you upset?"

"Why would I be upset?" Robin says, rather like an upset person.

For a strange beat, I interpret her sharpness as jealousy. Then I remember that this is Robin, and the two of us have precisely zero romantic chemistry. If she's bothered by the revelation, it's due to a less petty reason. I work my jaw in an attempt to build a reply and fail.

Fortunately, Robin supplies it in my place. "Sorry." Her sigh seems beleaguered. "I didn't mean to snap. I'm just surprised. I knew you two had gotten close, obviously… But I…" She faces me fully, brows dragged down. "I'll be blunt, Michael. I do not approve."

It is my turn to be surly. "I wasn't aware I needed your approval."

Robin's hand tugs on its opposite sleeve, an exasperated, forceful motion. "I know you don't." We lock eyes, hers slivers of flint, until she blinks and glances at her lap. "Look, I'd like to say it's not my business, that you're adults and can do whatever you want. But I'm the Shepherd's tactician. What am I supposed to do with this? Do I need to worry even more about your bone-headed ass flying into wyverns again because you need to prove you're a man to Freya? Should I keep you separate on the battlefield lest you become distracted? Like it or not, we're at war, Michael. So, no, I do not approve anything that might get one of my friends killed."

When she's finished, arms folded and chin jutting, the need to argue I felt at the beginning of her speech fades into brooding malcontent. I hate that we're fighting. I hate that Robin is judging me, judging Freya. And I hate that her concerns aren't totally invalid.

Is it smart to pursue… whatever Freya and I have? If I'm honest with myself, wholly honest, I can't say I know this won't backfire spectacularly in the future. As always, Robin is putting the needs of the Shepherds first and foremost, just as she should. It chafes that she doesn't support us, but I do understand why. However, we're going to have to agree to disagree.

I rehearse my next lines a few times in my head before speaking. "Robin, I get where you're coming from. I really do," I say, channeling calm. "Do you think Freya and I are the only ones, though? Haven't you noticed Vaiva and Sullivan? Liston and Donna are practically drooling at each other on the daily, and I don't see you lecturing them. Why do you have a problem now?"

Robin does not answer right away. She keeps her back to me, any body language obscured by her voluminous coat. Her voice floats backwards like a breeze. "Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid I'll make a decision that will cost someone else more than it could ever cost me."

At once, everything clicks. She isn't singling Freya and me out. She isn't unaware of other relationships developing within our group. Robin is watching all of us everyday—studying, learning, cataloging information about each individual Shepherd. It's her job. A job that demands she take all that knowledge and cram it into calculated, rational tactics.

But Robin is just a person, someone who cannot compartmentalize every intimate detail with robotic efficiency. She can't change us into pieces on a chessboard moving along black and white squares. In chess the pawns are not people, and in life the people are not pawns. If you lose a piece in a chess match, you don't have to explain to the other pieces why you couldn't keep it alive. You don't have to look into their eyes after the moves you made took from them the person they loved most.

For someone like Robin, romantic entanglements are hell.

I lift my arm, palm hovering over her shoulder, hesitant, before squeezing. "I'm afraid too, Robin." She tilts her head enough to show the profile of her face. "But I think maybe the fear is worth it."

"Why?" Her murmur is distant in a way that has nothing to do with feet or inches.

The sensation of Freya's lips, that willful earnestness and intermingling apprehensive excitement, flutter to mind. "As much as I'm afraid of pain or dying or losing someone, I'm more afraid of regretting never listening to my heart."

"But I—"

"But what?" I interject. "You're still afraid? Of course you are. You're human. You're allowed to be human."

Robin slumps, fingers splaying through Fury's mane. She offers no rebuttal. I sense that she's thinking, processing, not ignoring me in spite or frustration. That's all I can ask. I rub the back of my neck. Probably best to shelve any other plans to lighten Robin's mood with romantic chit-chat down the road, though.

We lapse into another drought of conversation I pretend is better than the last. I find myself longing for the pleasant silent stretches I often share with Freya and peer down at her and Liston. There's no hearing what they're saying or reading lips from up here, but Liston's animated—and disturbingly specific—gestures aren't difficult to decipher. I almost prefer my seat to Freya's. Almost.

Pink-orange blossoms sprout on the horizon as dawn announces itself. The nighttime hours passed without my noticing, apparently swift among swirling thoughts. Phila signals we go to ground, and I ease Fury onto the grass. Not safe to fly now that we may be spotted.

Robin dismounts when we land, idling at Fury's flank. "Just promise me you won't pull a stunt like last night again," she says, unprompted and weary.

If this is a compromise of some kind, I accept. "I promise."

She nods. Her hand lingers at the saddle, roving over supple leather. "Don't screw it up." Robin spins and pads away in Phila's direction.

I tear my attention from Robin's retreating form to watch Freya and her scowling tolerance of Liston's boyish antics.

"I won't," I whisper.

The sun is well into its mid-morning arc when we catch up to the Shepherds. Whatever reprieve Liston gained from teasing his retainer during the journey vanishes as Phila delivers her report on Marius to Chrom. She emphasizes how vital a blow we struck by destroying the Plegian supplies, but Chrom scarcely manages an acknowledging grunt. Perhaps the grimness of it all is what causes Phila to omit certain… elements of the wyvern chase. I'm sure Robin will spare no detail with Chrom later.

Chrom dismisses us after the briefing with unceremonious brevity. Robin remains behind to talk strategy while Freya and Phila issue orders to the Shepherds regarding our ragtag convoy of refugees. Check supplies, especially food and water. Tend to any injuries. Scout behind and ahead for Plegian troops. Organize the fittest survivors into hunter-gatherer parties. The basic post-apocalyptic chores.

I'm preparing to join Sumner on scouting duty as a gloved hand presses against my collarbone. "Where are you going, rider?" I scan up the arm to see it connected to an imperious Phila.

"Scouting…?" It's hard to tell with Phila's carved features how stupid I sound.

"I see," she says. "And when last did either you or your pegasus sleep?"

It's somewhat alarming that I don't know the answer. This must be obvious on my face, since Phila shakes her head. "Rest. You're no good to us falling asleep in the saddle."

I debate asking if she'll also be resting and then decide it's wiser not to. "Is there time for that? We're kinda on the run here."

She points to a wobbling, exceedingly rustic covered wagon in the center of the convoy. "In there will do until we set up camp for the night." Her tone invites no further objections. "Go."

As if to punctuate the command, I spy Fury clambering onto a cart and promptly falling unconscious. The sight of my sleeping pegasus brings the toll of the past 48 hours to exhausted fruition.

So, I go.

The immense burden of hauling my bedraggled carcass the short walk proves Phila's point. Guess adrenaline and near-death experiences can fuel you through quite a lot. Groaning, I bat aside the cloth flap and climb inside.

Freya leans curled up beside a crate, eyes closed. Her armor sits atop it in a neat, fastidious stack. I poke my head back outside. Wasn't she directing people this way and that a few minutes ago? Or am I just too tired to keep track?

"Are you going to stand there like an idiot, or are you going to stop letting in all that light?"

I drop the coarse fabric opening, shadow cloaking the wagon's interior as I turn. Freya glares through lidded eyes, the blanket draped over her now pooled in her lap.

A sheepish cough rushes up my throat. "Did I wake you?"

She tucks errant strands of chocolate hair behind an ear. "Yes, but I'd not slept long."

We stare at each other longer than is polite. Freya plucks at the blanket's frayed ends, and I shuffle a couple steps forward.

"Sorry," I breathe. "Phila's making me rest. I can find a different spot."

"No," she says, rapid, immediate. "That is… Phila insisted I sleep as well. I merely selected the nearest suitable location."

"So… I should stay, then?"

Freya dips her head at the opposite wall. "I believe there is room to share."

My heart thuds. I feel her gaze on me as I unlace my boots and nestle into the far corner. A nearby empty burlap sack becomes my sheet. Itchy. And smelling vaguely of urine. Superb.

I look over at her, greeted by the swish of Freya's long hair and the thick screen of it shielding her face. It's hard not to resent her hair in that moment.

"Michael." Her hands twist the blanket, and enough dark tresses slip back to reveal half her flushed expression. Even in this dim light, the blush is evident, capturing her cheeks, tapering to a faintly crimson neck.

It is an utter and profound miracle I am able to form anything remotely coherent. "Y-Yeah? What is it?"

"You wished to talk, yes?" Freya's voice pitches a fraction, a tiny waver. "We are alone at present. Would… would you like to talk?"

"Only if you want to," I assure her in a manner I hope comes across as accommodating.

Her pause forces me to raise my eyes, and this time she does not avert hers. "Yes. I want to."

I hear her inhale, deep and practiced. "Before anything else, I should warn you," she continues, "as my mother and father have long since passed away, and I have no living immediate family, I… will not be able to offer a dowry of any proper amount."

Violently and tremendously, I choke on air. The spluttering and hacking has Freya reeling backwards, eyes wide. I hold up a hand followed by my index finger. "I'm fine," I croak.

"Your reaction was less than reassuring." I am at least comforted by the familiar, dry and acerbic delivery.

"Just wait a sec," I say, recovering. A heartbeat to compose myself. "OK. Freya. Why the hell would I care about a damn dowry?"

Her blinks come in bursts of three. Genuine confusion wrinkles her brows. "Tis customary for the bride's family to provide the groom with a dowry. Any suitor should know my circumstance. I…" Freya swallows. "Please do not embarrass me further."

It did not occur to me that fantasy bullshit land would also have fantasy bullshit like this. Which, admittedly, I should have predicted. This world has nobles and knights and kings and queens, all the trappings of Sherwood Forest dinner party. Shit, were those two kisses actually incredibly scandalous? And Freya is the Exalted family's personal retainer. There are likely so many traditions and customs I am going to run afoul of.

"That sort of thing is a ways off, right?" My smile definitely feels fake. "When I said talk, I meant more… just about us. Feelings and… you know, what we want."

Freya is no longer blushing or displaying uncharacteristic shyness. Her lips tighten. Her frown is… not the classic kind. She's not happy. No, she's pissed. Extremely pissed.

"What we want? Are you suggesting a looser arrangement?" Icy is too tame a descriptor. This runs deeper, colder, like I've hurt her. Really hurt her. "If so, I have catastrophically misjudged your intentions, Michael."

Don't look at me like that. Don't talk like that. Don't make me think I've ruined everything.

Don't screw it up.

I scoot across the uneven planks, eliminating the gap between us. "Freya, I think about you constantly. I thought about you constantly before I even knew I was doing it. You matter so much to me." I grasp for the right words, for the only words. "You matter the most. So don't think, not for a second, that you… you aren't the only person I want to be with. I just… I wasn't sure you felt the same. That's what I wanted to talk about."

Baring these unfiltered emotions terrifies me. But I did say the fear was worth it. I've told Freya how I feel. We're from literally different worlds, and things clearly do not work the same here. I'm committed, though. Freya deserves everything I can give.

The red tinge returns to color her pale skin. Our proximity bleeds heat and shallow breaths. Freya looks at her knees. "I jumped to an unfair conclusion," she says in what has to be her softest voice. "I apologize. I assumed you knew the depth of my… affection."

"It's alright." My smile is real. "I'm sorry too. This isn't something I'm good at." Doesn't help that we're dealing with practically medieval courtship.

Her lips bend, curve, travel cheek to cheek and adorn her whole face. "We are alike in that regard, it seems," she says, and I can't help but think only I have ever seen this version of Freya.

In a fit of uncertainty, I reach for her hand, pull back, and then clasp it firmly within my own. Her gaze roves from our entwined hands to me. Lithe fingers tangle mine, Freya's nails barely scraping my knuckles.

My thumb draws circles upon her skin. "Can I kiss you?" I ask, unable to contain it.

Freya arches a brow. "You did not seek permission before."

"Well, that was… Well, like—"

She silences the floundering with a lone finger on my lips. "You truly are the most confounding man." And then her mouth replaces her finger, eager yet chaste, slow but unbound. I let the hand that isn't wrapping hers drift to the nape of Freya's neck. It travels along her contours, searching for purchase and finding curtains of silk-smooth locks. Her back hits the wall, and she gasps, sending a blaze coiling up my chest.

I crave more but break away. If Freya's smoldering eyes are any indication, she didn't want me to. I'm having trouble fathoming what I did to earn a woman like Freya staring at me like that.

"You're beautiful." I say it like a fact, because it is.

"No one has ever said that to me."

"Impossible."

She quirks her lips in a wry almost-smile. "Warriors are deadly, not beautiful."

"Then you are both," I reply, stating another fact.

And it is the most true of all. Freya contains so many facets—the dauntless taskmaster, the fierce soldier, the kind and loyal retainer, the pebble-collecting dreamer, the stern friend, the vulnerable partner, and the one in front of me now, who combines them each.

We cocoon ourselves within Freya's blanket, lying together on the floor. It's warm and secluded, and I can forget about the mess outside for however long we're here. Her hand cradles my jawline, combing through the beard I've grown since arriving in Ylisse. When I met Freya, I'd never have imagined her in such tender ways.

I touch the scar on her throat. "You hated me back then."

Freya presses my palm into the jagged line. "Aye." Straightforward, as she is. "But you changed. As did I."

"I have a good teacher."

"I have an acceptable student."

This wins a laugh from me, which proves contagious for Freya. It subsides into phantom smiles and sleepy looks. There's more to be said, more to experience. More to know.

But for now, I am content to let drooping lids lie still and enter the realm of ink and shade.

I'm surprised several hours later in the afternoon to wake and see Freya sleeping, the infamous early riser defeated at last. It has been a harrowing two days, and she's borne the brunt. I adjust the blanket to cover her shoulders, doing my best not to make any noise. She stirs and mumbles an unintelligible garble but remains asleep. Collecting my boots and blade, I hop from the wagon, squinting at sunlight.

Our surroundings are rockier, less emerald hills and forested groves and more rocky, shrub-coated outcroppings. The convoy trudges onward, pace brisk for a gaggle of misfits but sluggish for anyone else. I look for a friendly face, and Stana astride her horse enters my view. A band of spear-wielding civilians, grave countenances and dragging limbs, trail behind. She directs them towards another group of refugees, who accept the spears and sharpened sticks.

Stana herself sags in her saddle, ponytail half undone and trousers mud-caked. She conjures a wan smile for the new set of citizens approaching, who seem, at least for their part, livelier than most of these sorry sods.

I walk over, ignoring the dull throb in my legs that the glorified nap did little to improve. "Need a hand?" I offer, shooting Stana a threadbare grin. Best to be useful instead of standing around like a bum.

The corners of her eyes crinkle as she plasters on another smile for me. "Michael, you're awake," she says, and it's lacking some of her usual optimistic lilt. She doesn't quite maintain her expression. "I heard how the rescue mission went."

Whether she's referring to our sans Marius situation or my wyvern dive bomb, I cannot tell. "At least we blew some shit up." My accompanying shrug is all the energy I can muster.

"Should give us some time," she agrees, echoing the sentiment. A few more seconds than ought to pass before Stana transitions. "Anyways, we're taking shifts going hunting. Know how to hunt boar?"

Not unless I want to wind up getting myself Robert Baratheon'ed. "Does providing moral support count?"

She chuckles a bit. "No, but Liston might need some." Stana motions toward the largest wagon, its bed lined with the injured. "He's the only healer, and everyone else has been assigned other jobs."

I'm more suited to scouting than bedside manner, but I don't see Phila or Chrom anywhere. I doubt Fury is raring to go at any rate. If the ramshackle infirmary is where I'm needed, I suppose that's that.

I wish Stana luck on the next hunt and jog—pathetically limp—to Liston's wagon. As I survey the patients, it's like a fresh serving of anger. The Plegians did not discriminate on who they attacked. Men, women, children, the elderly—all are present. And I don't need to be a doctor to know some of these people aren't going to make it. Yet, there Liston is, looking like a wraith himself, slick with grime and blood and the day's labors.

He examines each person methodically, even scribbling notes on a pad I haven't seen him use before. Occasionally, his staff alights, the incandescent crystal flickering like a faulty filament bulb. Kid needs an assistant. Or twelve.

Or in this case, a guy who's medical knowledge includes CPR and an assortment of Discovery Channel specials.

"Hey," I say, waving a hand. Liston glances up from a middle-aged man with a bandaged shoulder.

The spark in his eyes injects life into him, makes him seem less like a graveyard shift ER resident. "Mike!" His enthusiasm reminds me that he saw me kiss Freya, and that I've yet to suffer through any teasing. I try not to wince.

Liston bundles around his patients, bouncing in a kind of hospital hopscotch to reach me. "You disappeared this morning, you clod," he accuses, staff under my nose. "Rude."

"Is it rude to sleep after nearly dying?" I gingerly push his staff to the side.

He huffs in particular Liston fashion. "It is when you have explaining to do."

"Why don't we deal with more important things?" I say, spreading my arms out, palms up, to encompass the wagon filled with the wounded.

I'm copping out, but it does the trick. Liston is a cleric first and a gossipy teenage boy second, after all. The daggers his eyes become, however, imply a round two awaits. On the one hand, I know he's struggling holding it together. He lost his home, then learned his best friend was captured, who we then failed to rescue—all in one night. Liston could use some cheer in his life. But on the other, what would I even say? I shudder to think how Freya endured that ride back to the convoy.

Credit where credit is due; Liston flips the healer switch and goes all business. Despite my reluctance to spill the tea on my love life, he appears to appreciate the assistance. Liston has me replacing bandages and checking for infections, applying vulnerary to the more stubborn injuries. Most of what we do doesn't rely on his healing magic. According to Liston, the orb fueling his staff's power needs replacing, and it should be conserved for the worst. Until we have access to more healing spheres, traditional techniques will need to suffice.

I'm dabbing at sweat beading upon a woman's forehead when he curses. A mild swear but a swear nonetheless.

Liston kneels by a young man, no older than twenty, his entire left side blackened and peeling flesh. The man's mouth hangs open, his chest motionless. Magic or no, I doubt Liston could have done more.

A guttural growl, a vexed rumble hisses past Liston's ground teeth. Tossing his staff aside, he overlaps his palms on the man's chest and shoves. His form and posture are all wrong, but I recognize what he's doing.

"Liston," I say evenly. "Liston, stop."

He doesn't, and I crawl toward him. Liston tenses with each desperate compression. "Why won't it work?" he seethes, smacking his fist against the man's lifeless body.

"Liston," I repeat. "He's gone."

The prince's eyes are twin infernos. "Show me what you did!" he demands. "When you saved my sister. Show me!"

I think back to the burning forest and those horrible few minutes when we all thought Chrom was dead. That was different. There was a chance then.

My hand glides over his, staying it. "We can't save him." The truth of the statement affects me too. I wish I wasn't growing numb to death and devastation. Between Dergus and the litany of gruesome happenings, something is fracturing inside me. 'Michael from Earth' has never been a more surreal concept.

"But… but," he stammers, tapering. "He escaped the city. It's not right."

No, Liston, it isn't right. Not just. This man, whoever he was, died for absolutely no good reason. The pointlessness of all the crushing loss and destruction hangs heavy, a senseless, bitter weight.

His hands quake beneath mine, irregular tremors. "Move over," I say. "I'll show you how it's done."

"You said—"

"I know what I said." Fuck death. Fuck this war. "Knowing the proper method might help you save someone else."

He absorbs my instructions with renewed spirit. I guide Liston through chest compressions and the breaths, how to tip back the chin and pinch the nose. Part of me urges the dead man to surge to life, revived and fighting against fate. Liston and I perform hundreds of repetitions. No matter how much air fills his lungs, the man never breathes. I tell myself the universe will reward our efforts at a later date.

Only the pained moans of other patients drag him from the lesson. Liston cares. He will always care, even as the world conspires to sap all the good and wonderful things. My eyes fall once more on the burn-ravaged man, his cracked lips, his deformed scalp.

I decide, staring at what was once a man, that I too will always care.

Liston and I tend to the wounded refugees until Chrom declares we're setting up camp. Twilight sun simmers on sweat-soaked limbs and faces, illuminating our caravan's ubiquitous fatigue. I'm lucky; half these people haven't slept since fleeing Ylisstol. I don't think Liston has done more than doze.

Cliffs encircle the campsite Chrom chose, sheer bluffs of granite disguising our presence. We can't erase evidence of our route from Plegian trackers, but it's something. All we have to do is survive long enough to reach Regna Ferox. Plegia won't overextend their forces that far just to catch us. Or so we assume. This 'mad king' of theirs has a penchant for unpredictability.

Small mercies, though: we finally hear from Emmeryn's contingent ahead. A messenger arrives carrying a letter from the Exalt explaining how she and her retinue are sheltering in a cave for the night. As Chrom reads the contents aloud, the relief on her face reflects in the eyes of everyone listening.

Waiting for Chrom to finish, the messenger addresses her and the nearest Shepherds. "Princess, the Exalt has requested I remain here to escort you all in the morning to a safe location where you may rendezvous with Her Grace."

"Understood," Chrom says, nodding. "Morning cannot come soon enough."

Agreed. Criticisms of her military acumen aside, these people need their leader, a symbol that Ylisse will not surrender to tyranny.

Chrom and Robin begin asking the messenger questions about Plegian activity in the area and how far away the rendezvous point is. Phila stands at Chrom's left, statuesque save the subtle grind of her heel in the dirt. Seeing her formality and bearing, I jolt at the realization Freya is not here.

Naturally, Freya has exquisite timing.

"You did not wake me." Her voice is low, just behind my ear.

I jump, and the twitch of her lips betrays amusement. "Was I supposed to?"

She rolls her shoulders. "I slept well, so I will forgive you. Today." Freya looks past me at the messenger. "Who is that?"

"The Exalt sent her," I explain. "Came with a letter from Emmeryn."

Freya studies the woman. "What did the letter say?"

I figured Freya would be more pleased at the news. "That she's safe in some cave," I reply, frowning. "Messenger said Emmeryn wants to regroup in the morning."

"Was that written in the letter?" she asks. "Regrouping?"

The seriousness of her demeanor takes me aback. Not that Freya isn't always serious. No, this is more skeptical, like the shrewd inquisitiveness she reserves for forks in the road or leering strangers.

Our gazes clash. "No, it wasn't." An odd twinge in my gut. "Freya, what's wrong?"

Her answer is to beckon for me to follow as she joins Chrom. The princess hasn't gotten halfway through her greeting when Freya interjects.

"Milady, may I see the correspondence from Her Grace?"

Bewildered, Chrom hands her the parchment. Freya's eyes flit as she reads, scrutinizing creases knitting between her brows. The letter is succinct, but she must read it several times. And then Freya's returning it to Chrom, placid as an idyllic pond.

"Thank you, milady. It will be a balm to have the Exalt with us once again."

Something knowing passes across Chrom's face, the fleeting glint gone when she turns back to the messenger. They resume their conversation, Robin and Phila donning curious looks.

Freya hovers for a while, gradually blending into the background, out of earshot. I go where she does, albeit less gracefully.

"Mind telling me what the deal is?" Wary pinpricks traverse my spine.

She intentionally avoids glaring at the messenger, aiming her stony eyes elsewhere. "If Her Grace wished to rendezvous as stated, she would have written it in her missive." Freya allows the implication to dangle.

The pinpricks evolve into jabbing needles. "It's her handwriting though, yeah?"

"Correct," Freya says, and I'm not convinced I like her tone. "However, the letter contains a code."

Blades, not needles. "A code? Like a secret message? Why would she—" I blanch. "She was forced to write the letter."

It's a sickening moment, all the connotations of what that means seeping in like a bloodstained rag. Freya's high cheekbones, her sloping brows, the defined lines of her face I've traced over and over—the angular symmetry freezes into determination.

"Indeed." She's harsh, but I know it's not for me. "Years ago, Exalt Emmeryn and I devised a code of communication should she ever be unable to speak freely. Whoever has her erred in letting her compose the letter herself."

Probably figured they were being clever, having Emmeryn's own writing lend credibility to the message. And they were clever. Fooled Chrom and Robin and Phila and all of us.

But not Freya. Never Freya.

"What did Emmeryn really say, then?"

Her knuckles crack under the pressure of her clenched fist. "'Trap. Do not go.'"

If there's a question as to whether we'll actually stay put, it's crushed in that fist. Frankly, I'm shocked she's not already beating the shit out of that messenger. When it comes to any of her charges, Freya does not fuck around.

"Want to go have a chat with our new friend?" I jerk my head towards the woman.

A controlled gust exits Freya as she uncurls her fingers. "Not yet," she says. "Tis best they believe we know nothing."

"What? But they have Emmeryn. The Plegians are using her as bait. We need to do something!" I can't keep the edge from my voice.

Freya's palm lies against my chest. "We will," she insists. "Intelligently. Not rashly."

Her touch tempers the swell of irrationality. "OK," I mutter. "OK. Do you have a plan?"

Footsteps crunch twigs. Chrom leads Robin, Phila, and Liston towards us, sporting puzzled grimaces. Freya slides to my side to receive them.

"Oh yes," Freya whispers, leaning close. "I do."

The fine hairs on my neck rise as her breath hits. It cultivates a savage sort of allure, both frightening and appealing. This woman flanking me, this proud, powerful, complex woman, is worth any fear.

Author's Note: Hello, everyone! It has been well over a year since my last update. Some of you probably thought this story was dead, and I certainly do not blame you for it. I've gone on long hiatuses before, though none quite like this. However, I've always maintained that I love this story and won't abandon it. That's still true. These characters and the story they populate exist in a special place within my heart. So please continue to bear with me as I write this fic. Personally, I'd also like to put out faster, timelier updates. I make no promises regarding the schedule, just that I'll try to keep you all satisfied. Thank you so much for sticking with me this long.

This chapter honestly took months to write. I started and stopped more than I can count. I debated certain plot elements and directions I wanted to take almost endlessly. I know where I want this story to go and have always known that, but getting there can sometimes be a bumpy road. Specifically, I wanted to develop the relationship between Mike and Freya in a way that both reflected the world they live in and the feelings they share for one another. Romance is fucking hard, folks. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how different Freya's conception of a romantic relationship must be from Michael's. If someone from the 21st century teleported to 13th century England—setting aside all other logical conundrums—and fell in love with a person from that time period, it simply would not play out by normal, modern standards. People haven't changed much throughout history with regard to the nature of our desires, dreams, and emotional capacity. But the rules regarding the expression of those things has. That is what I am attempting to portray here. It is my hope that the result over the coming chapters and months is the depiction of love growing between two people who want essentially the same things but must learn how to show them, how to respect them, how to balance them, and most importantly, how to love the person they love.

So get ready: we're going on a godsdamned adventure.

Review responses will resume next chapter, since 15 months of reviews would make this chapter obscenely padded if I responded to them as usual.