Chapter XXIV: Freya, Part II: The Valkyrie
They all stare somewhat blank-faced in the wake of my explanation. Only Michael, who heard it moments prior, does not appear as if slapped by the news. 'Tis a difficult thing, bearing witness to the dejection writ large within milady and milord's expressive eyes. If only I had been more prudent, perhaps none of this… No. Her Grace would not blame me, and so I shall endeavor to do the same.
Michael's eyes flit towards the others, the slight jerk of his head a reminder not to leave them so bereft. I choose to address milady.
"Obviously, we cannot allow Her Grace to remain their prisoner," I say, standing tall. "However, we also cannot allow these people to know we are aware of the situation."
Lady Chrom clenches Falchion's engraved handle. "To hell with that," she hisses. "We already know that coward Validar wants her dead. And I assume King Gangrel is not opposed to her death either. We'll make the messenger talk and then go save my sister."
Her reaction does not surprise me. Tight nods of assent follow from Robin and milord. In all honesty, I too wish to alight upon the brutes with the vengeance of a wrathful goddess. But I have spent my life training for, obsessing over this exact scenario. To act without thought would be to doom Her Grace.
I affix my most austere frown. "No, milady, I believe that unwise." Undisguised confusion radiates from her. "Answer these questions: do we know who has captured the Exalt? Do we know the strength of their number? Do we know how the woman they sent will signal them? Do we know anything besides that they are using Her Grace to set a trap?"
A brief lull of contemplation arises, broken by Michael. "Pretty sure it's the Plegians who have her, right?" He musses his beard. "I mean, who else is there?"
Months ago, I would have chastised him for the assumption. I suspect I will chastise him many times to come about many different things, but where I once felt derision, I now feel affection. Affection for his predictable behavior, for his uncomplicated style of speech, for the very fact I know he asks this question to be corrected. Because Michael understands me. And he trusts me.
I shake my head. "It may be bandits or other unsavory types. Our scouts have encountered no signs of Plegians, yes?" My gaze lands on milady for confirmation. She dips her head reluctantly. "I am inclined to believe the Plegians are not the culprits. The messenger knew where to find us. If the Plegians had that information, they would have decimated us at first opportunity."
Something about the admiration in Michael's eyes, the barest hint of that lopsided grin he so often wears, releases a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. I manage to shoo the invasive creatures. Not the time or place for such girlish idiocy.
"All right," Robin says. She folds her arms in a manner that hides them within her sleeves. "So, what now? We let it play out? That cannot possibly end well."
'Tis no secret pride is my greatest indulgence. I permit myself a vague smile, the sort which elicits unease in strangers and friends alike. 'Twould be a lie not to admit I take minor joy in watching whoever sees it squirm.
"That is precisely what we will do. With some… alterations." My companions look among themselves, wary.
Ever since Michael dueled Dergus, when I concocted that bit of trickery with the sleeping agent, I have discovered a talent for deception lurking inside. I am partial to an honorable, straight fight, but there are circumstances which necessitate a defter hand.
As I describe my plan, the wariness they've shown thus far becomes wicked appreciation. Never mind that it relies on a gamble, on an inference, and on a rather disreputable addition to our ranks. Yet, the reward outweighs the risk. The alternative is to endanger Her Grace by refusing to play their game.
I finish detailing the plot, being as concise as I can. For this to work, we must act posthaste. On another night, another less fraught eve where the Exalt's life did not hang in the balance, I might label such a scheme foolhardy or misguided. But we do not have the luxury of those evaluations. My duty is to the halidom, and I will not fail for lack of initiative.
Robin speaks first, expected given her tactical mind. "I can't fault the creativity. One question, though," she says, hands on her hips. "What if it doesn't work?"
A valid inquiry. I've asked myself the same. "Then we take the direct route and pray Naga protects Her Grace." Not the best solution and why I much prefer the more crafty approach.
Our tactician fidgets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, but she does not offer an opposing view. It must gall her so to defer to another's judgment on these matters. Would that all problems be solved solely on the battlefield—alas, 'tis not so.
"I should go, not Sumner."
My glowering scowl, these days more a dour accessory of mine than an expression, falls upon Michael. He does not flinch from my gaze nor meet it with a glare of his own. Michael stares neutrally, a peculiar brand of fortitude.
"It should be me," he says again, louder. "Sumner was in the Air Corps, and everyone knows how close he is with the Exalted family. I'm a nobody, and that makes me perfect for this."
Ah, but you are not a nobody to me. I keep this thought private. "Michael, I respect your volunteering, but Sumner is more skilled." I do not seek to wound his pride, only to state fact.
To my quiet dismay, milady interrupts. "No," she says, a mask of solemnity, "He's right. It has to be him."
Instinctively, logically, I know I must concede the point. But I do not want to. I do not want Michael out of my sight, exposed to factors I cannot counter. 'Tis the pinnacle of folly, this selfishness, and I've no illusions otherwise. Despite my past efforts to deny it, I am… attached. And wrong in this instance. I sigh.
"Very well." My shoulders feel leaden. "If that is all, I suggest we begin."
Michael's fingers glide across the back of my hand, the lightest touch. I jerk my own to my chest and wish so desperately I had not when he leaves.
"So, lemme clarify this here," Gaia drawls, lollipop stick dangling from her mouth. "You want me to cut a fake deal with our messenger friend to kidnap the Exalt from the people who kidnapped her?"
I try so very hard not to lock my jaw. "That is the sum of it, yes."
She laughs, and it is an irritating sound. "Giggles, you gotta know this is nuts."
"Please refrain from using that absurd moniker."
"What, 'Giggles?'" Gaia winks. "Suits you perfect, though."
'Tis a mercy for us all Michael intervenes. "Not to be a dick or anything, but you're kinda the only one of us who can pull this off. Because, you know." He shrugs, and my lips twitch. I make note to school him in less vulgar vocabulary someday.
Gaia answers with a shrug of her own, an exaggerated shimmy. "Yeah, yeah, to do a shady deal you gotta have a shade-ster." She wags a finger back and forth. "That ain't the issue here. The issue is you all seem to think she's gonna trust me not to stab her in the back."
I defer to Michael, my face a puddle of exasperation in a palm. "No shit. I wouldn't trust you farther than I could throw you." Gaia grins as if this is a compliment. "Which is why we make it clear we need her as much as she needs us."
"'Cept she doesn't need us at all," Gaia counters. "Big assumption she'll even take the bait. And you know what they say about assuming."
A pit forms in my gut, one that's impatient and aggravated. I should have anticipated this resistance. No, I did anticipate it. I merely also anticipated overcoming it. If it weren't for the thief's heroics at the palace, I'd ask milady to keep Gaia bound and gagged on principle.
"Enough!" I shout, turning both their heads. "Either you do this or you do not. Stop wasting our time."
She puts on a show of tapping her foot and toying with her orange ponytail. "Fine, fine. But you follow my lead. And if I say bail, we bail."
I am tempted to remind her whose plan this is but determine 'tis not a detail I care to debate. Instead, I nod and motion for her to… do whatever it is she does. Gaia smirks as she saunters toward the messenger, who's seated somewhat separate from the rest of a group gathered by one of the supply wagons. Michael and I keep our distance, squinting in the fast-fading twilight. I suspect the messenger will attempt to contact her conspirators once the sun fully sets, so this is our chance.
Gaia wanders past her, dropping a bauble of some kind beside the woman's boot. I cannot make it out clearly, but it appears to be flat and glittering, like a brooch or pin. The messenger scoops it up, turning the object over in her hands before looking side to side barely in time to notice Gaia slipping into the densest patch of nearby foliage.
The woman stays rooted to her log for several seconds, and I fear she's chosen not to investigate when she abruptly stands. I shadow her, Michael not far, as she enters the same copse Gaia did. We move at a careful pace, soft steps and scanning the ground for any branches or crumbling rocks. It's only behind the cover of a modest boulder that we hunker down, peering over its rim at the pair of women.
"Can I help you with something?" the messenger says, a nervous little tick in how she examines her surroundings. "Is there some reason you left this with me?" She raises the item from before, what I now identify as a small, embossed magpie pendant.
Gaia props herself against a tree trunk, nonchalant. "Oh, come on. Don't play dumb. We both know Her Gracliness didn't send you."
"I have no idea what you mean." Her tone is more defensive than it should be.
Springing from the tree, Gaia swaggers forward. "You wouldn't have followed me if you didn't know what that was," she says in a lofty fashion, flicking a lazy hand at the magpie trinket. "Us undesirables know a kindred spirit when we see one."
The messenger stiffens. "You must be mistaken."
"Look," Gaia sighs. "This can go one of two ways. First is you come clean, you listen to my proposal, and we make each other rich. Second is I call for help, tell all those shining armor types you're a fraud, and they beat the truth out of you. Take your pick."
This cracks the woman's facade, who sucks in an agitated breath. "What the hell do you want?" she spits. "Give me a good reason not to gut you before you can even squeak." A curved dagger emerges from within her cloak.
"Woah there," Gaia says, palms out in a pacifying motion. "Like I said, I've got a proposal. I think you'll find it intriguing."
In all clashes, of steel or otherwise, there exists a scale which measures the balance as it teeters between sides. Oft a fickle thing, but I sense it tilt in our favor with Gaia's sly temptations.
Curiosity has out its claws. "Talk." The messenger brandishes her knife. "Fast."
If the threat of violence deters her, Gaia smothers it beneath ample roguish charisma. "I'm gonna paint a picture, so tell me if I miss something." She has the audacity to flash a cocky smile. "You've got a crew, maybe two dozen? Gang does alright, robs the odd traveler here and there, might raid a village from time to time. But then!" Gaia frames the space ahead with her hands. "Then you see the Exalt of the whole godsdamn halidom just walk right into your turf."
The woman lowers her dagger, not so much that it isn't still held aloft, but enough to show she's affected by the speech.
Gaia continues. "The Exalt, now that's a catch. One that would be worth a lot to the right buyer. The Plegians, perchance? So your boss hatches the grand scheme to kidnap her and use her to snatch up those pesky siblings of hers too for good measure. Sound about right?"
Rhetorical. The knife is nearly pointed toward the dirt.
"And you," Gaia coos, "my dear…. What's your name?"
"Lydia," the woman grunts.
Gaia snaps her fingers. "Right, Lydia," she says. "You, Lydia, got offered the teensiest itty bitty raise to lure us poor folk into the trap. But what if I told you we could make so, so much more together?"
Lydia watches Gaia, leg bouncing as she considers the words. "I'd ask why I can trust a Shepherd."
The question hangs there a moment, the inevitable stumbling block. Gaia chuckles, a tut, as if Lydia is a silly child asking silly things.
"Because," she says, enunciating each syllable, "I'm a thief before I'm a Shepherd. We speak the language of money, my friend."
I try to ignore how easily the honeyed lie slips from Gaia's mouth. All part of the ruse. Yes.
A heartbeat passes. Another. Gaia's coy smile never wavers. "Tell me what you have in mind," Lydia says, and the dance is nearly done. Greed, nay, avarice, that dulcet siren who seduces many a merchant or peddler, chants its song.
"A masterpiece." Gaia wriggles, an ornery display of eagerness. "Your people are gonna ambush us, yeah? Leaving the Exalt behind at the hideout? Without too many guards?" She prompts more than asks.
For the first time, Lydia smiles, a toothy, malicious rictus. "Be a shame if she got misplaced, I suppose."
"A crying one," Gaia purrs. "How much does an Exalt go for these days? Split three ways, I'm guessing a fair chunk more than you're getting now."
"Three?" Lydia says, a gravely grit to her voice. "It's just me and you."
Michael fidgets beside me, turning, hazel eyes glinting. I wish I could impart more than a look, tell him I am sorry for earlier, that I am a stubborn, selfish woman. Even if our silence was not imperative, I know I lack the finer skills of speech such delicate matters require.
He threads his fingers between mine, and I seize his hand, perhaps too aggressively. Michael does not recoil or shirk. Then he stands, the warmth of his skin lingering in my palm.
"Every heist needs an escape route," Michael says, walking out into the clearing, causing Lydia to bristle and raise her dagger.
Gaia bustles to meet Michael, taking jaunty steps and pointing at Lydia as she moves. "Settle down. He's your ride. Or did you expect to waltz off no problem tomorrow to go steal the Exalt from your pals?"
She hefts the blade at Michael. "Ride? Start explaining."
"He's a pegasus rider," Gaia says, silk-sweet. "Someone's gotta ferry your ass back to me and our royal prize after you lead the Shepherds to the ambush."
Lydia's eye twitches. "OK, sure. How do I know you two won't just bail and take her for yourselves?"
My muscles coil, ready to leap into action should the situation sour. Gaia clucks her tongue in a peppy rhythm. "We need you, and you need us. You know the lay of the land better than we do, make sure we all get the border and get our money. Teamwork makes the dream work, babe."
We're almost there. One final push. I will Lydia to acquiesce, grip the pommel of my sword in a fist.
"You trust this guy?" Lydia gestures at Michael with her knife. "He's awfully quiet."
Gaia claps her hand against Michael's… rear and squeezes. "That's how I like 'em," she chortles, casting lascivious eyes across his body. "Me and him, we're bumpin' uglies. Smooshin' butts. Rollin' in the hay. You know, the business. So, yeah, it's all good with my man here."
"Thanks, I get the idea," Lydia groans, rolling her eyes.
Michael, for his part, maintains composure. Only our familiarity allows me to detect his discomfort at the improvised theatrics. How his arms cling to his sides, too rigid. How his mouth seems to vanish within his beard. How he glances at my hiding place for the briefest moment.
I, however, feel something foreign sprawl throughout my chest, an alien pang. I am no simpleton; I know what this emotion is. Jealousy. A dreadfully base sensation, one entirely illogical as I am aware Gaia harbors no sort of honest desire for Michael. Nonetheless, it stirs in me a possessiveness I'd not previously acknowledged. For some time now, I have viewed Michael as… mine. An absurd notion—I do not own him. He is not my property. Michael belongs to himself as much as I do to myself. And yet, here I am, wondering if when he looks at me, is he plagued by the same thoughts? More troubling still, I believe I may want him to be.
Gaia and Lydia agree on a 50-50 split for the profits from the sale of Her Grace to the Plegians. 'Tis only fair, Lydia argues, given that Gaia and Michael will benefit from each other's earnings. All imaginary anyways. As if this slovenly toad could ever pawn the Exalt like some crude barrel of Feroxi tavern swill. She, along with all her traitorous ilk, shall receive their due in blood. If it should be my lance which hastens her journey to the afterlife, I will consider it a transaction well-paid indeed.
To seal the terms, all three of them shake hands. Lydia uses her dagger to draw a series of lines in the dirt meant to represent the hideout and how to reach its location. I cannot see the details well from this angle, but Michael can relay the highlights afterwards. Not that I will be joining Gaia as she frees Her Grace. 'Twould be rather suspicious if the ever-present Royal Retainer was not with her charges tomorrow. If we've any luck, Cornelius will be among those imprisoned, and Gaia can enlist his aid. At least then Exalt Emmeryn shall be in the company of a proper knight.
Lydia returns to the convoy several minutes before Michael and Gaia as to not attract prying eyes. In her absence, I permit myself a solitary sigh, one full-bodied exhale. Our course is set. I will not celebrate until Her Grace stands with her siblings once again, but 'tis a hurdle cleared.
After Gaia bids us goodnight, spinning away with twirling whimsy, Michael and I share scattered glances. I am not sure what I should say, what I want to say. Or if there is any need to speak at all. So often we do not, and I feel I understand him no less for it. But I want to understand him more. Know him more, and in doing so accept parts of myself I've come to realize I can no longer deny. If I am with Michael, if I am not alone in the sense I have been for so many years, then perhaps 'tis safe, 'tis right even, to be seen.
"Are you tired?" I ask. An inane question. Another blundered attempt at conversation.
Michael laughs, gentle and accommodating, a sound that reminds me he does not care I've no great gift for this. "Yes, but I couldn't sleep if I tried," he says. "You? Gonna go for round two even though you slept the day away?"
I shake my head, feeling a not-quite-smile on my lips. "I think not. I cannot rest knowing Her Grace's predicament."
"Figured." Michael ruffles his hair, a habit of his. "Freya, we'll save her. I know we will."
He does not know this. Cannot. I am reassured regardless. "We will," I concur and mean it.
Our quiet lapses are never uncomfortable. I use them to gather my nebulous thoughts into coherent phrases. Michael does not talk to fill empty space, and I have always appreciated this. 'Tis a rare trait. Especially within the court to which I have devoted so much of my life.
"Michael," I say. "May I ask you something?"
His brows rise and fall. "Go ahead," he replies, and I enjoy how he elongates the words.
A pause. To select the best delivery. "Will you tell me about your family?" I wring my hands. "'Tis a sudden inquiry, I know, but I wish to learn more about you."
Formality and routine are my armor. In truth, I am incapable of other approaches. A peer at the Knight's Academy once compared interacting with me to being interviewed or interrogated. I pray Michael does not hold the same opinion.
He dwells on his answer long enough that I begin to regret my boldness. Doubly so as I study his burgeoning frown.
Michael has said very little about his personal life. When we met my natural skepticism led me to believe he was lying for some nefarious purpose. And he was lying, though not for the reasons I suspected. Gods, I loathed him. I loathed everything about him. But most of all, I loathed the insidious insecurity he brought out in me. An insecurity he ultimately helped me confront. Now, I want to show the man whose devotion to becoming better—truly better—thawed something long dormant within me that I value so greatly not just the effort made by the man but the man himself.
"I mentioned my uncle, right?" Michael says, breaking the stillness. I nod, recalling that his uncle apparently taught him woodworking. "Well, he's gone now. My parents too. I had a younger sister also."
Past tense. Michael's expression seems… fractured. Like a shattered porcelain plate that's shards have been arranged in the shape it once was but can never really be again.
He swallows. "Her name was Mae." A lovely name. "She wanted to be a doctor. My dad called her 'Miracle Mae.' I…" Michael wets his lips. "I'm sorry. I don't think I've talked about my family with anyone in a long time."
Is this why he was in Southtown that day? Because he had lost everything? Why he wanted to be a Shepherd so desperately?
"Are they…?" Our knuckles brush, and I notice we've drifted closer and closer. "Is your family…?"
Even in the darkness, I see his pain, a pain he has not made visible until now. "They're all gone," he says, tears streaming down. "I'll never see them again."
Whatever happened, I do not press him for more. 'Tis not what he needs. I slink my arms around him, bringing his trembling body flush with mine. He clutches my back, fingers curled, and sobs. I cannot restore what is lost, but I can offer this. I can hold him. I can witness his grief, be his confidant.
Michael steps back, hands on my upper arms. "Freya, I am so sorry," he croaks. "I am so sorry for everything. I haven't forgiven myself for what I did to you. How I acted. I was awful. How can you even… How can you be here with me? Like this?"
How do I answer? That he proved me wrong? That he risked his life more than once trying to win the forgiveness he has not allowed himself to accept? That I don't hate him? That I could never hate the man who has seen the wretchedness in me and stands before me still? That I decided the night after we won the tournament for Khan Flavius that he is a good man? A man I can trust.
I cup his cheek, the wet tears hot against my palm. "I forgive you, Michael," I murmur. "I forgive you."
I'd not said the words. Not aloud. Absolve yourself, Michael. Do not suffer for a sin since repented. We can bear our burdens together.
He envelopes me within arms stronger than I expect and breathes gratitude in my ear again and again. It is in this moment I know beyond all doubt I have begun the slow, steady descent into love.
I do not tell him. Not yet.
At dawn, all the Shepherds—excluding Gaia—and the most hearty refugees depart to 'rendezvous with the Exalt.' Lydia guides us through craggy paths and scant shrubbery, occasionally locking eyes with Michael. He discussed the ambush with Lydia this morning, and we know from his report the approximate stage the bandits chose for the attack. This part of the plan is simple; repel the enemy and ensure Michael sets off for Gaia and Her Grace. Lydia, of course, shan't be hitching a ride.
Robin raises her fist at the head of our column. Destination reached. Lydia turns to the tactician, asking what's going on, only to receive Falchion's pommel to the back of her head. She flops forward, face-first, unconscious. Lydia will live. For now.
'Tis time to deploy the crux of our assault. Robin arcs a globe of blue-yellow thunder magic high above the field.
Screams.
If not for the severity of their crimes, I might pity them. Instead, I wait, lance in hand, for our foes to appear. On the trail's left, Pan rips apart their ranks hidden behind rocks and bushes. The brigands on the right contend with Miro's magic and Virginie's arrows. As Robin predicted, those able to do so exit their nooks and alcoves, fleeing from unknown assailants. Into the maw of a much more vicious animal.
A dozen or so eclectically clad men and women burst from cover, their mismatched gauntlets and breastplates obvious spoils from previous raids. I spur my horse onward and charge.
Our band crashes upon them, shrieking and howling in that scarlet savagery unique to battle. My lance gores a man in the stomach as I ride past, slicing with a slickness out the side of his abdomen. In a wide swathe, the Shepherds dispatch our would-be ambushers with hardened efficiency. Sullivan tramples a husky man under hoof, a spear-tip silencing his dying wails. Stana hurls a javelin through a woman's chest, the shaft rupturing from the already dead bandit's back. Vaiva swings her axe in mighty blows, cleaving flesh and sundering armor. No glory. Only death.
Phila and Sumner swoop down from above, catching sunlight in metallic flashes and skewering the unfortunates below. This is the result of an organized stratagem, the annihilation of the opponent, the difference between a gang of ruffians and professionals. But I scowl. Fights are never easy, and there is always a cost.
Across the battlefield stand two men, unhurried and unperturbed. They don minimal protection, much of their torsos bare, bulging musculature on display. If I hazard a guess based on resemblance, I would say they are brothers, twins even. A brutish duo, I am sure. One balances a double-bladed battleaxe on his shoulder while the other's throwing axes hang loose on a leather and hide belt. At a cursory glance, I sense these men are leaders, another class in prowess. That alone does not concern me. We are more than equipped to handle them. No, 'tis their heinous grins, yellow and malicious, the kind worn by those who know something you do not.
The man with the hand axes extends his arm, wrist aloft. A bracer runs the length of his forearm, and 'tis unlike any I've seen. It's make is neither leather or steel, rather a latticework of inky cloth and glass. Blue runes ring a purple gem in the center, thrumming as they pulse. He presses two fingers into the foul diamond, and identical, far larger runes etch themselves in the air. Risen pour forth, putrid and rancid, their stench polluting the atmosphere. They shamble forward, obeying commands from the man with the bracer.
What sorcery is this? Nothing about our encounters with Risen thus far has suggested they can be controlled or summoned. Risen are random. They are a pestilence devoid of all intellect or objective. They are not… this.
I shout warnings to my comrades, milady and Robin barking orders at the same time. The creatures outnumber us three-to-one. Without a terrain advantage or narrow passage to defend, we've no recourse but to form a shield wall and brace.
"Freya!" I look up at Michael's voice, seeing him hovering astride Fury in the sky. "I'm staying! I can't leave now!"
Stupid man. "No! Her Grace is more important!" I bellow to be heard among the din of combat.
He flicks Fury's reins, and the pegasus lowers several feet. "It won't matter if she doesn't have anybody waiting for her! Gaia can manage on her own for a while!"
"Go!" My mouth dries as the Risen near, the impending impact rattling the earth. "Michael, go!"
We are both inflexible in a way, he and I. Michael will not abandon us, I know, but I must force him to. I swore an oath, one that shall never be forsaken, to the Exalt and her family. And if I am to fall here in service to my duty, then I will at least die knowing Michael and Her Grace yet live.
Unclasping the pouch from my side, I fling my collection of pebbles towards Michael. He catches the bag more by reflex than choice, eyes a bewildered blend of vexation and disbelief.
"You must go. Now," I say, all bile and flint. "Bring those back to me when you return."
For the most agonizing second, Michael stares. He refused to leave me at the palace, and I fear he may refuse again. Please, Michael. Do this for me. For Ylisse.
He clutches the pouch. "You don't have my permission to die, either, you know," Michael says. "So don't you fucking dare."
And he nickers at Fury, wheeling her around to hurtle away on the wind. I face the Risen. Because I must fight. Because I do not wish to see the back of him.
The undead mass collides with our shields and swords. I thrust into the writhing decay, noxious mist beginning to cloak the ground. Bony, diseased hands tug at my stirrups and saddle, attempting to unseat me. I sever the limbs, some still clinging for an unsettling while until dissolving. Too many. Too many to withstand. Milady hacks at the tide of Risen not far from my position, milord using what magic remains in his staff to keep our soldiers upright. We cannot last. Not forever.
Our left flank collapses. Most of the Shepherds migrated to the right during the battle, the left side becoming a more fragile strip of refugees. A casualty of chaos. Risen bust through the tattered line to slam into the core of our formation.
Lady Chrom sounds the retreat, many of the refugees routing before she can. I slash free from the pair of Risen clambering up my horse. Milady and milord are my priorities. Avoiding Risen and living alike, I weave across the bloodied grass and mud to grasp milord by his collar and heave him onto the saddle.
He yelps, dropping his staff. "What the—Freya!" Prince Liston cries, thrashing. "Put me down! People are injured out there!"
"I cannot, milord." His strength wanes, blond head dipped. "You know I cannot."
If there existed another way, I would take it. Milord slumps, and he says nothing.
Robin and milady work in tandem to usher survivors out of danger, stabbing an encroaching Risen or knocking them back with bolts of lightning. The Risen are dauntless, however, and will hunt us for miles. Something must be done.
My steed rears onto its hind legs, nearly bucking milord and me to the ground. A tumble of hooves crashes into the dirt, sending a cloud of dust to blanket the area. Commander Phila. Her pegasus lies motionless, an arrow protruding from its chest. Phila herself unbuckles her harness, rolling away, any wounds sustained superficial. Milady rushes to assist her, helping the commander stand.
"Gods, Phila, are you all right?" Milady asks, dragging her by the arm.
Commander Phila turns back to her pegasus, the maroon of her eyes ablaze. "I am fine, milady," she growls. "Do not worry about me."
Milady's hand slips from Phila's arm. "Then we must hurry. Risen will be upon us again any moment."
I know the fire in Phila's eyes. I know it well. 'Tis a flame which burns brightest at the end. When a decision has been made. When the die is cast.
She shakes her head. "No, milady," Phila says. "I will give the rest of you a chance to reach safety."
"Phila, what are you—"
The Commander of Ylisse's Royal Air Corps raises her palm. "Peace, milady." She swivels to land that burnished crimson gaze on me. "Protect the Exalted family with your life."
My only reply is an affirmative salute.
"Freya," Phila says, striding past. "When you see Her Grace, tell her I died on Ylissean soil, not the sky. And tell her my answer was and will always be 'no.' She will understand the meaning." Phila straightens her spine, rolls her shoulders. "Now ride."
I do. Milady tries to protest, but Phila marches on. Some sacrifices cannot be prevented no matter the energy we expend, no matter the convictions we carry which stipulate no one of us is worth any less than another. There are days, dark days, where sacrifice is the only outcome.
We ride, milord with me and milady scooped onto Sullivan's horse while Stana escorts Robin. The Shepherds who cannot fit onto someone's mount guard the rear. And I look back at the bravest woman Ylisse has ever known, her head held high against the oncoming wave.
Those in the Royal Knights called Commander Phila 'the Valkyrie,' a title earned during her tenure in Her Grace's father's crusade against Plegia. 'Tis said when warriors die in battle, Naga sends spirits known as Valkyries to escort their souls to the next life. They called Phila the Valkyrie because no one else alive has sent more men and women to the meet the Divine Dragon.
I watch as the Valkyrie removes her helm, flinging it aside. The elaborate braided bun containing her long cyan hair unravels as she combs through the tresses. Phila buries her lance in the ground and outstretches her arms.
"Face me!" she roars, every set of wraith-like eyes upon her. "Face me, and I will send you all back to the hell from whence you came!"
The first Risen to meet her finds Phila's fist wedged in its mouth just before she beheads the tainted revenant using the sword at her hip. Its head quickly evaporating around her hand, she pummels a second Risen's throat with what solid mass remains. The Risen do not stop. They converge as one, opening gashes in her flesh, biting and clawing and tearing.
But Phila does not fall.
She sows carnage throughout their number, the purple haze of their twice-dealt deaths following Phila like a billowing cape. When one splinters her lance, she drives its sheered haft inside the beast's skull. When they rip the sword from her fingers, she gouges their eyes and swings the forged toe of her boot upward, the steel sinking deep into a Risen's temple. When teeth clamp around her bicep, she wrenches the thing from her body and snaps its neck under the same arm.
When the Valkyrie breaths her last, she does so on her feet and is then swallowed whole by the fetid storm.
I look to the path ahead, to the future Phila has granted us. We will not squander it. Michael and Gaia will rescue the Exalt, and we will make those men rue this day. I swear it.
Phila, I am sorry you will not see Ylisse triumphant once more. But by Naga, by the holy blood which flows through the veins of this nation, I will avenge you.
I shall be the Valkyrie in your stead, and all who would oppose us, terrorize us, defile our people and land—they should do well to choose a favored god and pray the Valkyrie does not find them.
Author's Note: Bet you didn't expect another chapter this soon, did you? Well, surprise! I'm pretty happy with this one, and I especially enjoyed getting into Freya's head again. She's an immensely fun character to write. I also felt that since we've seen how Michael is processing their relationship, it is only right that we see Freya's side as well. These two have quite the road ahead of them, for sure. I hope you all are looking forward to it!
On a more somber note, this chapter marks the first time a character belonging to our band of misfits as died. Phila, of course, dies in the game as well, and you might have thought given recent events that I was sparing her. I thought about it. But I also thought about the cost of war. How pervasive it is, and how lucky the Shepherds have been until this chapter to avoid paying the toll. Phila seemed to me a character who isn't given proper depth in the game. Even her death is pretty lame, you know. I tried very hard to make sure that was not the case here. My only regret is that she won't be around when we learn more things about her.
Thank you all for reading! If you've made it this far, considering following or leaving a review if you like. That stuff makes my day! I also need to thank ThreeDollarBratwurst and Mixed Valence for discussing a couple fic related things with me and being in general just swell people. Thanks so much!
Review Responses:
Sigmatic- Next chapter is here! And it didn't take a year and a half! Hope you enjoyed that sweet, sweet Frike :D
Imposter1427256- Hell yeah indeed. And hell yeah for another update!
UDTimburrhog- Yes, I believe this is your first review as well! And I really appreciated how detailed it was! I'm glad you liked the main event so to speak of the last chapter, Mike and Freya's interaction in the wagon. It took me so long to get that chapter out and so long to figure out how I wanted to dig into their relationship, that it feels really good knowing it worked for you!
ThreeDollarBratwurst- Thank you for your kind words, sir! You're well aware that I appreciate your feedback and support. But I have to say I really liked reading how you find the differences in our approaches to healing magic interesting. I'd actually not thought about it a lot before that, but you're right. Those little alterations in world-building are part of what makes these types of stories so fascinating!
SadNewYorkGiantsFan- I hope you ended up liking the chapter! And that you liked this one too!
DD360- Yeah, I won't lie to you, it was a rough time figuring out how to play their romance. At first I thought it'd be easy, you know, just a natural progression of what I've already written. But once I started really considering it, that's when I knew I had to change my approach to reflect that this really is not a modern romance. There have to be cultural hiccups. And I believe the story is better for it.
OneSidedBias- I'm also really happy to have finally put out another chapter lol
The Black Kraven- Thank you so much for going through and leaving all those reviews as you reread the story! I cannot thank people enough who do that sort of thing. Honestly, you rock!
GunsRuth- Yes, the author is back, and she is indeed stronger than before!
Call Brig On Over- I'm so excited to be writing in earnest again! And excited to continue the story of Mike and Freya's journey!
Cavik- Never a dull moment for sure. These poor people just cannot catch a break. I almost feel bad doing all this to them. Almost.
Shizu23- Thank you for your patience in waiting this long for a chapter! The fact people just came right back to review made me feel pretty awesome.
Maxis the Mercenary- Glad to be back!
Crowbars357- Well, I'm not sure how well Mike is doing on the whole "beat reality" front, but at least he's not dead!
Caellach Tiger Eye- Hey, I've had some health issues in the past, so honestly the concern was not that ill-founded. But fortunately, I am here and healthy and writing again! It was wonderful to see you review the story after that long hiatus. I'm really glad that I've written something that people can just come back to months later and still find enjoyment or new things to think about. Hopefully, I don't take so long to write another chapter again, but the knowledge is still comforting. Thank you, as always, for your detailed thoughts!