Chapter XXVI: Who We Are
Robin would never, never, betray us.
Also, she was, y'know, blasting some zombie motherfuckers in the face with lightning last I saw her.
But I've been around Robin for more than a few days—way more than Cornelius. Whoever the hell he saw or whatever the hell it means, I know Robin has nothing to do with this.
Well, I hope.
With my memories of Awakening reduced to a few sparse details and abstract notions of impending disaster, I don't know anything.
I can, however, choose to trust Robin, my friend.
My family.
That's exactly what I do.
Cornelius rustles in front of me, busted leg making him seem awkward on a pegasus in spite of how incredible I'm told he is. Not incredible enough to protect Emmeryn from bandits or Robin's apparent doppelgänger, I guess. Genuine badass or not, the guy's at least built like a Classical statue. Lean, sculpted muscle defines his frame, more cut than Sullivan or Vaiva's bulk-first mentality. Cornelius is the dude they find to pose in shirtless ads for some product that unequivocally does not require one to be shirtless. Combined with his Hemsworth-y face, I imagine Virginie may, in fact, spontaneously combust upon seeing him.
He sighs.
He sighs again.
The third sigh has my lips thinning into threads. Maybe it's all the time I've spent around Freya, how readily she voices her opinions and grievances, but if someone has something to say, they need to just spit that shit out. It hasn't been long enough for me to really get a proper read on Cornelius—though I'm not terribly keen on whatever he's doing with all this passive-aggressive moaning.
"Cornelius," I say above the wind, "do you have a problem?"
Turning in the saddle, a baroque oil painting of sour grapes, he glares. "Other than our missing Exalt and the mortal peril the other two members of her family may be in? No. None at all."
Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, we've got ourselves a smartass. "Which is why we're headed back there," I say. Cornelius swivels away again, shoulders so tense they're almost level with his ears.
"You should have taken Gaia or Marius, not me."
Not a terrible argument considering the broken shin. It's not like Cornelius could be much use if things get dicey. But what's the alternative? Leaving him to Gaia and Marius to babysit while they keep watch on the bandit camp? Besides, he's the only one who actually saw this Robin clone snatch Emmeryn. Escorting him to Chrom and the other Shepherds beats him lying around in a useless huff.
I tap his pauldron, and he gives me half a glance, long enough for the eye contact I wanted. "Robin needs to hear your story. They all do."
No response other than a dip of the chin that's some ways short of a nod. We don't speak again. Nothing to say there's any point in saying. Noxious tension building in my gut, I miss Freya's silences, the ones that don't feel nervous or empty.
Her pouch of pebbles rattles on my hip, the sound somehow rising above the chilled gusts and Fury's flapping wings.
As we near the ambush site, no steely clamor or screeching battle cries greet us. Cornelius does not weigh in on the lack thereof, and I don't dare tempt disaster with a hopeful quip. The trees scatter, a trampled clearing visible among sparse shrubbery. From our vantage up in the sky, the prone bodies all look the same—dead, unmoving, and contorted.
Fury descends to a low hover once Cornelius and I confirm no Risen or marauders patrol the ground. Those men controlling the Risen must have taken the monsters with them; hopefully away from and not towards the refugee convoy.
Freya isn't here. I scan the corpses twice over to make sure before my mind begins to register who else they might be. Relief sprouts in my chest, growing into a disfigured, sickly plant as I comprehend the scene. Not all the civilians we brought along survived, their forms lying entwined with those of our attackers. No Shepherds, though. No one I—
"Commander!"
We've not yet landed when Cornelius unstraps himself and flops onto the earth, managing an acrobatic, inertia-dampening roll even with his injury. He limps around the dead in a peg-legged gait. Fury whinnies, and I press my palm into her mane before dismounting.
Following him, any choice words I have for Cornelius dissipate, becoming forgotten vapors on my tongue.
Dull maroon eyes staring into the emptiness ahead. That's what I see first.
The leader of Ylisse's pegasus knights half-stands, half-slouches where she died, a dented helmet clinched in one fist. Two splintered lances hold her upright, shafts wedged into the dirt. A gory canvas of blood cakes her face and armor. Too many missing chunks of flesh to count dot her limbs, some still heavy with congealed ooze. Mangled. Savaged.
I try to feel something other than rage. Grief or regret. Sorrow. Respect for who she was?
Nothing else comes. Only the unfairness, the cruelty, my own disgust at everything that led to this.
Maybe Phila died a hero. Maybe it was swifter than it appears. Maybe her final thoughts were someplace far removed from this field. I wasn't there. All I can do is look at her and wonder what bastard decided dying in this shitty patch of mud was how Phila should go out.
Cornelius collapses beside her. His shoulders quake, head bowed. I hear no sobs or muffled prayers, just his uneven breathing, like he's finished a marathon in some unremarkable middling position.
He slams down a hand, sending up globs of earth, and I avert my eyes. I never knew Phila like he must have. I never will.
"I'm alone now," Cornelius says, serrated as a sound can be. "They're all gone. Even her."
Platitudes and hollow comforts teeter unspoken on my lips. No purpose to those sorts of things, not when they're wasted coming from someone who doesn't really understand what it's like. There's always that type at a funeral who says "let me know if there's anything I can do," without any meaningful intention. It's a line in a script. Does anyone actually appreciate that? I don't. I won't be that guy to Cornelius.
"Come on," he grunts, abruptly on his feet, leaning to keep off his bum leg. Cornelius waves me away as I try to lend him my shoulder. I glance between him and Phila, eventually settling for a muddy groove at Cornelius's heel.
Before trailing after Cornelius, I promise those vacant scarlet eyes we'll return. For her and everyone else we lost here. We owe them more than sun-baked decay.
The rest of the battlefield contains nothing but entrails and blood-infused grime. We scour the grisly leftovers, righting facedown bodies and praying each time it isn't someone we know. Or rather, I do all this. Cornelius does his best to help, but there's only so much he can accomplish hopping around using a branch as a crutch.
An oppressive dearth of conversation suffocates us, amplifying each grim discovery. Even if I had anything relevant to say, I don't know if I could will the words to leave my mouth. Phila is dead. Emmeryn is missing. Again. Goddamn bandits are summoning Risen. And we're here, sifting through the aftermath, clotted residue lodging under our fingernails.
Something stirs beneath a brawny man's torso, groans emanating from under his tattered hauberk. Cornelius jerks his head at the noise, eyes cautious. I ready my sword for a swing. One hand wriggles free to claw the muck surrounding the man. A grimy mop of black hair emerges next, clumped and greasy with sweat and viscera.
Lydia.
She hisses, pushing against the corpse pinning her. Being a fairly slight woman, Lydia probably won't succeed anytime soon. Her squirming subsides into aggravated whines.
Blowing slick, frazzled strands out of her eyes, Lydia's bleary gaze finds my boots. She cranes her neck to see as she traces up my trousers. Our glares clash, and all the cloudiness in hers vanishes.
"You son of a bitch," she growls, forced to rasp by the pressure on her chest.
Honestly, it's an appropriate reaction.
I feel the same when I shuffle my foot, sending a healthy serving of mud into her eyes.
Lydia yelps and spits and lets fly curses in a language that sounds a lot like Feroxi. The arm she's wrenched free flails toward me, fist whiffing harmlessly. I squat before her and show Lydia a solid view of my blade.
"That's my line," I say. "You never mentioned your bosses could control fucking Risen."
More thrashing. More cursing. "The hell are you on about? I'll rip your dick off, you double-crossing piece of shit!"
How vivid. Rain check on the Lorena Bobbitt roleplay, though, Lydia. "Cut the crap." I lean closer, catching sunbeams on my sword. "Working with us was never your plan."
"Michael," Cornelius says with a scowl so sharp I almost want to check my face for fresh blood, "do you know this woman?"
I refocus on Lydia as I answer. "It's a long story. She belongs to the gang who captured Emmeryn."
Cornelius's scathing judgment rakes over her, wrath crystallized in a curled lip. Fast as he's able, he bears down on Lydia. "Is that so?" The calm voice Cornelius uses does not match his face. "Then she's responsible. She's the reason I'm… that they're all…" His taut, clenched jaw consumes whatever else is meant to follow.
At the bandit camp, he told an abridged version of Emmeryn's kidnapping, narration clipped and inviting little discussion. But the message had been devastatingly plain—an indiscriminate slaughter that's sole objective was taking Emmeryn. Everyone else was immaterial. Cornelius did not describe the specifics of his survival, and we knew better than to grill him for more.
Not when, just as in this moment, undisguised malice corrupted his otherwise polished features.
"Hey, don't ignore me, you assholes!" Lydia musters another valiant but doomed effort to extract her trapped arm. "We had a deal!"
Gesturing in a wide swathe to encompass the result of our arrangement, I shake my head. "Yeah, you really held up your end of the bargain, too, huh? Were you going to stab me in the back yourself or let a Risen do it?"
There's a confounded lapse of Lydia's snarling indignation, her brows melting into her grubby bangs. She looks behind me, finally, at the violent scenery. Despite our losses, there are still far more dead bandits than refugees. Lydia twists to examine the man atop her, cheeks bleached in sallow recognition.
"I-I don't know what a 'Risen' is," she splutters. "And I don't disrespect a handshake. Never heard of honor among thieves?"
Her nostrils flare, her eyes dampen, and the irksome truth of it all worms inside me. Whatever Lydia might be, right now she's nothing more than a scared woman who woke up to a gallery of corpses and two particularly unfriendly dudes.
I sheathe my sword. Cornelius snatches a chipped spear from the slack grip of a disemboweled brigand, smashing the iron-capped butt so close to Lydia's face it just about slices her temple.
"What are you doing?" he asks before I can say the same. "Are you letting her live?"
Executing a defenseless, albeit not innocent, person never really seemed like an option. Intimidating tactics are one thing; cold-blooded murder—no trial, no jury—is another. I want those two men to pay. I want justice for Phila, for every life they stole. But Lydia isn't the mastermind, and killing her only adds another body to the pile.
"She's got stuff to answer for, definitely," I say, standing. "We're not animals, though. And she can help us search for Emmeryn." With some… coercing.
The scorn Cornelius fires down at Lydia has her shrinking impossibly low. "Animals?" he echoes. "They're the animals."
Fear-stricken sweat beads along Lydia's forehead, her dinner plate gaze a pendulum between Cornelius and me. The only rabid things about Lydia are swift and shallow breaths, heartbeat-paced, feral gasps. Everyone's an animal when cornered.
"Whatever you think I know," Lydia says, wetting her lips and trained on Cornelius's lance, "I really don't. The boss is dead. Over there. Look." She points with her chin towards a bisected man clad in patchwork furs, maybe an outlaw's idea of regal.
Realistically, Lydia isn't absolved just because her shithead meter happens to be a bit less damning than previously thought. Our entire plan hinged on her lack of scruples, after all. And yet she has a name. She's not faceless. She wants to live—has lived a life beyond the margins and snapshots I've seen. Lydia is human.
So, as Cornelius rears back to drive the spear through her back, I catch his arm at its apex and stay the blow. He twists from my grasp, off-balance and sluggish. I'm not sure I could have stopped him if he'd been at 100 percent. Lydia flinches, bracing for a death that does not come. Her eyes screw shut, then peek open just a crack as she realizes it's not happening.
"Get out of my way," Cornelius says, and I sense he's not gonna ask twice.
Oh well. I've done stupider things than protect a lowlife bandit. "I can't. This isn't what we do."
He eyes my posture, the stance Freya's drilled into me. It's a calculating observation. One of soldiers and battlefield acumen.
"And what about justice?" he asks. "Is that something we do?"
"You're angry. I understand—"
"You understand nothing!" Cornelius bellows. "How dare you preach at me, pretending you are noble for sparing such a pathetic excuse for a person. All while our people suffer. While our nation burns and opportunists like her lick up the scraps!"
Not untrue. But not quite the full reality of it either. If things were always so black and white, I'd have let him run Lydia through. She's a criminal. She's probably committed all sorts of unsavory acts. Nothing she's done changes what's right, though; who are we once we start killing people because we can, because we're starved for revenge? Not Shepherds, that much I know.
We lock eyes, neither budging. I won't answer him. Not with words. Nothing I say can make Cornelius miraculously see Lydia as anything more than an enemy to be put down. I won't fight him either. I'll just straighten my spine and dare him to try.
"Please." Lydia's trembling whisper, a fragile little sound, all her bravado cast aside. "Please don't kill me."
Cornelius turns slightly to regard her. There's no pity in that bottomless, black-as-tar stare, no flicker of mercy or swell of regret. He faces me again and drops the broken lance shaft.
"Have it your way," he says. I finally breathe. "I hope you're prepared for the consequences."
He limps away towards Fury, radiating a bitterness that does not dim the further he goes. I'm under no illusions about Lydia's motivations. I trust her as much as I trust Vaiva not to inflict irreparable damage to the concept of etiquette itself. Lydia is a person who's taken part in terrible things.
But I am unsure if she is terrible as well. I won't know the truth if she's dead.
When I stoop beside her again, Lydia shifts, her chin hollowing a well in the dirt. "I didn't think you'd let me live," she mumbles.
"You're more useful alive," I tell her, mostly because it's easier than confessing I'm tired of all the senseless death.
Lydia merely nods. I notice the light spattering of freckles across her nose. That's the problem with people; there's always something you didn't see before. Something that adds another layer to remember.
"So," she ventures. "Mind helping me free?"
"I'll need to tie you up," I say. "You know that, right?"
She makes what I interpret as an arm flap of confirmation. The fear hasn't disappeared from her features yet, but her outright hostility seems to have waned. "That's what I'd do. Better than a blade in my heart at least."
"My pegasus can't carry all three of us and stay airborne." A flicker of protest crosses her face and fades just as quickly. "We'll come get you later. You have my word."
"Like I had your word about our deal." Now that she's less concerned about Cornelius turning her into a human kebab, Lydia must feel bold enough to allow some snark into her tone. She wilts a bit at my crinkled, unamused brows. "Fine. Sorry. I… yeah. Grateful to not to be a pincushion and all that."
It takes a few shoves and grunts, but I deposit the dead man's body a couple feet to the side. Only afterwards do I really catch a glimpse of his face and the limp way his jaw hangs. I can hear his dying gasp, a distant imaginary noise.
Lydia watches me. "Finley," she says, flat and low. "His name was Finley."
Us or them. The basic equation of a battle. My stomach twists as I fasten Lydia's hands around a modest tree trunk.
The twist intensifies, and I can't identify it. Nothing quite fits. In the absence of a definition, I keep wishing Lydia hadn't given that man one.
Freya scowls.
It's fucking beautiful.
She's scowling when I return the pebbles, scowling when I embrace her, and all at once not as I tell her I'm sorry I couldn't bring back Emmeryn.
"No. You did well," Freya says, her whisper warm. She's thoughtful, smothering the disappointment against my shoulder where I won't witness it.
All I care about is that Freya is here to do so. That she and Chrom and Robin and everyone escaped the Risen. Our private moment eclipses the situation—Chrom's anger at the news Cornelius brings, the mounting disquiet that Lydia may not know who the Risen summoners are, Robin's horror and unnecessary apologies, even the brightness in Liston's eyes upon learning Marius is alive and waiting for their reunion.
"We need to begin preparations." Chestnut rivers flow between my fingers, Freya stepping aside to affix her signature gaze. I agree, of course. There's no time for this. The refugees aren't safe here. Emmeryn needs our immediate attention.
But I clasp my hand around her fingers. "I can't lose you." Impulsive words. Real, though. I say them and understand how real they are.
No scowl, not now. Freya studies my hand, hers answering in turn, a gradual squeeze. "Michael." Thudding hearts. "That is not fair." Closer. She tugs me closer. "Making it seem as if only you have someone to lose."
Freya's admonishment drifts into the crook of my neck, heat and lips hovering shy of the skin. "Please do not forget how greatly I… how…" She kisses my collar. "You matter to me. You matter, Michael."
The sincerity of it has my mouth drying. I guide her face with a touch, ensnared, seeking out the greenish flecks among earthen irises. She sees me. Sees exactly the way my feelings are broadcasted. Freya flushes, not deeply, not an embarrassed coloring. Mirrored desire.
She nuzzles into my palm, and her lips tickle when she speaks. "We really should…" Freya raises her head.
"Get back to the others," I finish, lamenting how cold my hand feels without her.
Preparations, yes. The rest of the universe does, in fact, exist. We separate, reality brute-forcing itself into our nook. A cramped alley dividing two wagons is a piss poor mood for romance, anyways. So is the middle of a war and an impending save-the-kidnapped-Exalt mission, but I can't be picky.
Austerity, her default—a retainer's disposition—replaces intimacy. Freya rests her hand flat above my heart as she exits. I doubt we've been gone so long as to generate any questions, but I wait a couple minutes before leaving. Why fuel the rumor mill if we can avoid it? As far as I know, Liston hasn't told Chrom, and Robin's preoccupied for obvious reasons. Priorities, Mike.
Outside the shaded alcove, present circumstances declare themselves in bustling refugees packing camp essentials. In the plastered not-quite-smiles mothers and fathers maintain to assuage their children. Chrom and Robin discuss the wisest course of action near the main supply wagon. Freya's joined them, arms folded, asking the occasional clarification of Cornelius.
Chrom nods at my arrival, a terse motion. I slot next to Freya and listen. That we're investigating the Robin double and retrieving Emmeryn isn't a subject of debate; it's the method. Risen Bros are surely involved somehow. We haven't seen any more of their Risen since the battle, but they didn't seem the types to just kindly fuck off and let us go. The refugees need to reach Regna Ferox as soon as possible. Who we send to deal with faux-Robin and meet Gaia, Marius, and Ricken affects much more than just the plan itself; we can't afford not to defend the caravan as well.
Predictably, Chrom insists she be among them.
"Emm is my sister," she says. "I am not leaving this to anyone else. Not again."
Robin forms a fist balled at her hip. Un-forms it. "These people need leadership. You are that leadership, Chrom. You have to stay."
They bicker. They argue circular tracks. No headway. No compromise. Around us the beleaguered citizens of Ylisstol gather their things and themselves, nervous eyes watching the hilltops for violet mist.
"Milady," Freya interjects, both Chrom and Robin turning in unison. "I must insist you and milord carry onwards to Regna Ferox."
Everyone falls silent. Chrom matches Freya's candid stare, something unspoken in her eyes that I doubt anyone but Freya could translate. Freya does not yield, an unblinking pillar, until the princess becomes a kinetic collage of twitches and drumming fingers. It's not a competition Chrom stood a chance of winning.
Resignation rather than rebuttal. "Dammit," Chrom mutters. "I hate how reasonable you lot are."
"None of this is fair, I know," Robin says, hand on Chrom's shoulder. "If there was a better way, trust that I'd find it."
Chrom scoffs and bows her head. "Some princess, huh? Running to Regna Ferox with my tail between my legs."
"Wrong." Freya's voice commands attention. "Leading the people to the Khans is the most important thing you can do for Ylisse, milady. For our future."
I don't think Freya is trying to convince Chrom so much as she's reminding her of something she already knows. Maybe something we all have a tendency to forget. Chrom is royalty, after all. Liston too. The rest of us are frankly more expendable once that's put into perspective. I sure as shit couldn't imagine Ylisse raising its banner for a scruffy nobody like me. These refugees need the hope that comes with having Chrom and Liston nearby. Especially now that Emmeryn isn't here to provide the same sense of resilience.
A sobering weight descends upon our group, all shuffled feet and gaunt cheeks. I swear we've aged fifteen years in the last fifteen hours. Chrom has never looked so world-weary, far removed from the woman I met in Southtown. I'm not sure I'll ever see that version of her again. Of course, I have to live that long first.
Chrom measures her breaths a moment and speaks. "I suppose it is settled, then. Liston and I will lead the people to Regna Ferox."
Freya and Robin both nod, though I can't detect any satisfaction. "You are doing the right thing, milady," Freya says. "We must now decide who shall accompany you and who will search for Her Grace."
"I've some thoughts regarding that." Robin steps forward, entering the center of our lopsided circle. "A small, specialized force is our best chance. Pegasi for rescue and recon. Horses as well. We don't know what to expect, so a fast retreat is essential."
"Then," Chrom begins, gesturing my direction. "Michael and Sumner. Freya, as I would trust no one more to save my sister. I assume you want to go as well, Robin?"
Robin gathers the cuffs of her sleeves within her hands. "If you permit me, yes."
"Eager to join forces with your twin?"
Cornelius has mainly listened up to this point, impassive. Or if not impassive, quietly enraged. It's an almost identical tone to the one he used on Lydia. I get that he doesn't know Robin. Suspicion is natural. Even so, I kinda enjoy the way he crumples under Chrom's glare.
"Whoever it was that took Emm, I'm positive Robin played no part." Cornelius averts his eyes, offering no further objection. "We are all friends and allies. Do not vent your anger on Robin, Cornelius."
He fidgets, not fully allowing himself to address Chrom, rather an innocuous space beside her. "I… Yes, milady. I apologize."
"It's OK, Cornelius," Robin says. She slips sideways to catch his eye. "I want to know who they are more than anyone. But if they put my friends in danger, I'll do everything in power to stop them."
Cornelius draws up to his full height, a head taller than Robin. Thanks to his freshly mended leg, curtesy of Liston, he's beginning to project a confident aura he lacked when I flew him here. I'm about 110% sure now Lydia would be dead if this was the guy I had to physically restrain.
He traces a couple fingers along his jawline, glowering. "An entire platoon of Ylisse's finest pegasus knights are dead. Those bandits… they weren't normal." Cornelius chews his lip. "And your twin killed every single one of them at the camp as if it was no more challenging than pruning weeds."
It's the most Cornelius has said about how the Robin clone tore through the bandits since I met him. If that's how it went down, like they were just on some garden stroll, we aren't ready for that level of strength.
"Even so," Robin says, firm and assured, "we'll win. We must. Cornelius… Phila and the Air Corps won't have died in vain. I swear."
Pain splashes across his face. "You do not—"
"Cornelius. Enough." Chrom doesn't yell, doesn't raise her voice at all, but there's no questioning the authority contained within.
Burgundy floods his cheeks, the color a flourishing contrast. Cornelius can only flick Chrom the scantest look. "As you wish," he mumbles. "Excuse me. If I am not to join the mission, then I'll take my leave."
Chrom massages one of her temples. "You're still recovering, so no, you'll stay." He's walking away as soon as she speaks, and Chrom grimaces. "Cornelius! Get some sleep. That's an order."
For a moment it seems like he might whirl around, defiant. Then his shoulders lower, Cornelius keeps marching, and he's disappeared into the clusters of wagon wheels and refugees.
"Don't think poorly of him," Chrom says, rapping her knuckles against Robin's arm. "He's upset with himself, not you."
"Is that was that was?" Robin asks dryly, mouth quirked.
"He went through hell. Cornelius is… well, he's always been his own worst enemy. I'll talk to him later."
They exchange nods, the matter settled and shelved in light of all the harsher, more unforgiving uncertainties ahead.
With Cornelius left to sulk and stew, Robin and Chrom hash out the lineup. I feel very nearly at ease watching them, the now familiar scene of our tactician and commander formulating strategies a somehow comforting sight. Normal, perhaps. Not that I claim to know what the fuck 'normal' means anymore.
They finalize the team quickly, urgency overriding brief disagreements of opinion. It's small, like Robin suggested. Freya, Sumner, Lon'ri, Robin, and myself. Plus Gaia, Richelle, and Marius once we reach the outlaw camp. We'll have five total mounts at our disposal for the search party—Lon'ri can apparently ride decent enough on a borrowed horse, and Marius still has the thoroughbred he 'repatriated' with Richelle. Makes me wonder why not just add Sullivan or Stana instead, but Robin sells the idea on the basis Lon'ri's flexible skillset prepares for more unforeseen possibilities.
Here's hoping saving Emmeryn doesn't involve infiltrating a women's locker room.
Chrom dismisses us to gather what supplies we can, asking Freya to remain for a private discussion. I don't linger.
We're tackling the unknown. Risen summoners and evil twins, topped off with a bunch of Plegians who very much want us dead—it could be some time before we return. And not empty-handed. Not again. As long as it takes to make this right.
That said, I pack relatively sparing on provisions. A sweeping look at the caravan reveals kids stifling sobs and clutching their bellies. Elderly folks who wince just walking in tattered boots. It's easier passing over a second bundle of jerky when three wagons to the left is a family trying to stretch a meager day's rations into three.
I inspect Fury's saddlebags once everything's squared away. Got the basics covered. Canteen, some food, bedroll, few knives, rope. She can handle the extra load, even factoring in needing to ferry Robin if she rides with me. Knowing her, she'll prefer the bird's-eye view Sumner or I can provide.
Fury whinnies, feathers bustling. I pat her flank and glance behind her haunches, glimpsing a mess of disheveled brown on the other side.
"That's a good way to get kicked in the head," I say, circling Fury.
The culprit tugs on what were once her braids and may now be generously called pigtails at a squint. Agatha, haggard and a marginal improvement compared to the sorry state she was in at the palace. I picture the impish grin she wore ages ago as Yuri's inn assistant. A stranger would think this sullen girl before me has never smiled or laughed her whole life.
She cringes, blinks and blinks and blinks. "I didn't mean to startle you." Agatha rubs her wrists, sways on the spot. "It's been… a while, Mike."
Yeah. Yeah, it has. "Hey." A weak offering, too shallow, too aloof. She waits. "Agatha… I wish we'd gotten to you and your friend sooner." I shove the memory's foulest images into a box, the kind not designed to be reopened.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like it's your fault," she says, stern, resembling, well, herself. "I'm alive, aren't I?"
"But—"
Agatha stomps forward. "No buts. You've saved me twice."
Dozens of denials automatically rush up my throat. I hold them down, trying not to listen. She doesn't blame me, so why should I? Freya and I did rescue her. Salvaged a sliver of good from all that bad.
"Maybe one and a half," I assent, earning a weak smile and a brief, not uncomfortable pause. "I'm glad you're safe."
She pokes my chest, leaving her finger in place. "And I'm glad you haven't gotten yourself killed."
"So far."
I smirk because I can't feign something more pleasant.
Unamused. That's the charitable description of Agatha's expression. "I'm serious." Her hand falls.
Me too. Tomorrow is hardly guaranteed these days. Even our elite soldiers, the most experienced and skilled among us, like Phila, aren't exempt. Not Freya. Not Chrom or Robin. Definitely not me.
But what else can we do? Stop fighting? Roll over for whatever asshole comes along next? No. I have people I care about. People who care about me.
"We really aren't much alike, are we?" The lull lasts longer than I intend, and Agatha fills the void. She studies me, Fury, the combination of scrappy rider and prideful steed—her eyes follow a path that highlights all the landmarks, from my rowdy beard to the litany of scrapes and weathered calluses dotting my knuckles. Her gaze isn't invasive or an indictment. It just… is. Like I'm built into the mountainside, a scatter plot of crags telling a story to those who look closely.
I've changed. I know that. "I'm a Shepherd," I say. Have I ever said it? Stated it as a fact and not an aspiration?
Her head tilts. "So you are."
So I am.
We depart without ceremony. Chrom's speech has two lines—bring Emmeryn home and don't die in the process. She doesn't need to say much else, not when the desperation pulsing visibly along her neck conveys everything that matters.
Her eyes are clear as she dismisses us, the caravan's stark outline awaiting its princess not far behind.
"See you in Regna Ferox," I call to her half-turned silhouette.
Lasting a saturated second or minute or previously unnamed division of time, Chrom wavers on the ridge. Like anywhere she goes might as well be a minefield. Finally, she moves, exhales, strides toward the opposite sky.
Shadows from the sun mask her profile. "You damn well better!" Chrom shouts, top of her head just peaking above the hill. "Get moving!"
Then she's gone, and we have a job to do.
I fly ahead of Sumner, Esther not as mobile supporting Robin. Which is fine. Fury doesn't really like passengers. That she tolerates Freya is about as ringing an endorsement as I think she's capable. Might even approve after a while. One day we could glide around for no reason at all, enjoying the rush of air because we can.
Envisioning that simple, cozy future mitigates some of my unrest as we approach the ambush site. I wave an arm for Sumner, hand flat and swooping down in the Air Corps sign for going to ground. The tree I tied Lydia to comes into view, and her neck cranes tracking my landing.
No Risen or bandits, so that's a plus. The summoners and their friendly zombie horde don't have a lot to gain dawdling here, but nothing says "Hi, welcome to Fuck You City" like a bunch of murder-corpses lying in wait. If Naga gives half a shit, she'll make sure they aren't able to catch Chrom. Though recent events have raised some concerns about her divine competence.
Lydia's bleating rings in my ears before Fury's hooves hit the ground. "Took your godsdamned time, didn't you? Fuckin' prick."
A pleasure, as always. I bite down a response until I'm close enough not to need to holler and alert every douchebag in a five mile radius. "Yeah, well, at least you're alive."
"Just untie me, asshole," she says, shimmying under the ropes. Lydia gnaws the inside of her cheek. "Please."
I kneel beside the tree. "Got your charm back, it seems."
She only clicks her tongue and performs a dramatic eye-roll that could impress the most seasoned of high school teachers. Briefly, so briefly, I wonder why I stopped Cornelius.
The rest of our group gathers as I'm sawing through the last stubborn rope fiber binding Lydia to the tree. I don't expect everyone to give her the grandest of welcomes—or really any welcome—but the reception of death-glares has Lydia skirting halfway behind the tree trunk.
With an extended palm and a 'trust me because you have no choice' look, I coax Lydia more into view. Her narrowed eyes alternate between Freya and Robin, the ones wearing the frostiest expressions. Having ample experience on the receiving end of those two stares, I don't envy her.
"We aren't going to kill you," Robin says, though one might question how well her face supports the assurance.
"Yet." Freya, blunt to a fault.
I motion for Lydia to come forward, sighing. "She's kidding."
"Really," Lydia grouses, eyebrows bunched nearly together. "'Cause she seems pretty pissed to me."
"If she wanted you dead, you'd be dead."
Freya crosses her arms, gauntlets scraping in well-punctuated menace. "Michael speaks true," she says. "You would most certainly be dead."
Lydia swallows, gulps, not unlike a cartoon character. I'd laugh if I had the energy. Instead, I just walk past her, shrugging. We're not wrong.
"Like I said, no one is killing you," Robin cuts in, defusing some of the tension before Lydia has a stroke. "But obviously we can't set you free either."
The issue of Lydia complicates our mission; honestly, things would be a lot more straightforward with her dead. That's the path of least resistance. Shepherds aren't really known for taking shortcuts, though. More like the opposite.
After all, none of them judged my decision to keep Lydia safe instead of washing my hands of her. Never even asked why. They didn't need to. It's simply what we do. Maybe Cornelius can't understand at the moment, and he's allowed his anger. But I think, want to think, he knows as well as any of us fighting monsters doesn't mean anything if at the end you're the only monster standing.
And Lydia isn't one of the monsters we're fighting.
"So, I'm your prisoner, then?" Lydia says, spitting into the dirt.
"You object?" Freya no longer scowls—her patented fusion of a smile and a snarl is far more intimidating. Poor, poor Lydia. "You've committed crimes against Ylisse, as you're aware. I am sure you are equally aware of the penalty?"
As entertaining as watching Lydia shit a brick may be, she's no good to us too scared to function. "Alright, alright," I say. "I think she gets it. Alive, good. Dead, bad."
"Point is," Robin says, glancing at Freya's self-satisfied hint of a grin, "you're stuck with us, and that means you do what we tell you. Understood?"
Lydia nods, a slow, reluctant thing. The muscles in her jaw flex, but she doesn't argue.
"Good." Robin adjusts her coat. "Now, we don't have much time, so you're going to help us find the Exalt. But first—" she casts a fatigued, watery look at the battlefield—"we tend to this."
Like the Lydia situation, it'd be convenient to avoid all the bodies, Phila and the volunteers we brought along. Simple to make the excuse that we can't spare the effort under the circumstances. Would anyone blame us if we prioritized the living? Something about the 'tough decisions' and the 'realties of war.' I'd rather go to sleep at night knowing we at least fucking tried.
There aren't enough of us or daylight remaining to give them a proper burial. Ylissean funeral rites apparently lean on the complex side, and we can't hope to put on the sort of ceremony someone like Phila deserves. The shimmer in Sumner's eyes suggests that all the money and pomp and formality wouldn't make a difference anyways. Freya won't elaborate much on her death; I don't press. She died so others could live. The gratuitous details matter less than the sacrifice itself.
We pair up to collect our fallen, lining them side-by-side in a row I can't bring myself to count. Lydia, wrists newly rebound, stays nearby under Freya's guard as the latter turns a cache of branches and sticks into an impromptu pyre. It's not grand or even adequate, but it's all the dignity we can offer. Hell of a lot more than letting the vultures and crows have their pick.
I stop, boots squelching in the churned mud. Phila's the last one. I'm not sure if we waited on purpose or unconsciously. Even in death she has presence—the woman died standing for Christ's sake. That presence inundates her surroundings, fills each of us with the gut-wrenching knowledge that no one will ever again see Phila flying at the vanguard. For the second time, the sight of her has seething tremors wracking my body. Why? Just why?
Sumner approaches her, and I blink away the worst of my thoughts. He bows his head, whispers a few words I don't believe anyone but Phila is meant to hear. Gentle, like he's pressing flower petals between the pages of a journal, Sumner wipes clean the gore blotting her face and closes her eyes. The change doesn't make her seem asleep or at peace, miraculously transformed from brutalized corpse to the tasteful viewing arrangement at a funeral. It's only one motion, one small act. A tiny defiance of an otherwise ugly fate.
And that is enough.
I help Sumner lift Phila off the spears, acknowledging each another in silence. He winces at the wet, ripping sound. I try to focus on how light Phila is, how it suits a pegasus rider, and not how broken and unnatural she feels dangling in my arms. We carry her towards the pyre, where Robin and Lon'ri transfer the bodies of the others, the latter evidently able to suppress her phobia for a greater cause. Freya intercepts us, her hand drifting from Sumner's shoulder to mine. I let our fingers brush together beneath Phila before giving Freya my place. She's stoic as ever, but I can sense in that barest touch she needs this more than me.
"What about my people?"
Several feet away, Lydia twists and tugs on her restraints, though not with any real force. She eyes me, singling out the only one of us not at the pyre. Her heels excavate craters in the mud, an outlet for the restless dismay that begins in the harsh contours of her ruddy cheeks.
"You mean the ones who tried to kill us?" I say. "Who did kill a lot of us. Those people?"
"They're not even worth burning, then?" Lydia rasps a chuckle, the hollow sort that follows a just as empty malformed smile.
The gall. "Like you fucking care. You were ready to betray and leave them all for dead. Or did you think the battle was gonna be a pillow fight where no one got hurt?"
Her mirthless grin vanishes. "I…" She fumbles her fingers again, nails scratching the rope. "This wasn't supposed to happen. We aren't… We weren't like this. The boss… he changed."
"Yeah. Sure. A kidnapping murderer with morals."
"I'm not a killer!" Lydia wails, shaking her arms. "We robbed people. We roughed people up, but we didn't… we didn't kill. At least that's how it used to be."
Everyone near the pyre turns. Lon'ri hefts what looks like the last body onto the wooden stacks and hangs back as the rest of them approach Lydia and me.
"What's going on?" Robin asks, cradling her thunder tome.
"Oh, the usual," I say, still looking at Lydia. "Some fucker trying to justify being a piece of shit."
Lydia scoffs. "No. What's going on is you're a hypocrite. Deciding who's worth a funeral and who's not." She thrashes her head side to side. "You think it's so easy, don't you? That you can follow the rules and everything works out. It's a waste of time explaining myself to pricks like you."
"Are you joking?" My pulse quickens, surges deep in my ears, and I don't know if I hear it or feel it or both. "What about the Exalt's escorts? Your gang killed them all. Is that what not following the rules means?"
Robin wades into the middle, shooting me a mediating glance as she faces Lydia. "This isn't accomplishing anything."
"I wasn't there when they caught the Exalt," Lydia says, hurling the words like missiles. "I didn't see any of that. I didn't kill anyone!" She staggers forward. Robin tenses, but Lydia slumps, fire extinguished.
My own fizzles to embers as well. Collapsed in on herself, smudged and smeared, one gust away from toppling—pathetic. Pathetic and miserable. I don't know what to think anymore. Not a damn clue.
"Let's all take a moment, alright?" Robin says. Her coat whips around, flapping against her legs like a silly, strange flag. Doesn't match the mood. I watch the wind blow it in erratic flurries until I'm almost somewhere else. Calmer. Not as many thoughts I can't seem to parse.
Freya enters my peripheral, close enough that her presence soothes but too far to reach out for. I study her hands, the gauntlets she always wears, the cracks and dents like confessional impasto brushstrokes. Everything quiets. The world isn't spinning so fast, and in that frame of seconds that might as well be centuries, I'm able to remember we're here for Emmeryn. She's not the person who'll wage wars or spill blood, but she is the one who will remind us that there is no more apt time than in our darkest to show compassion. Emmeryn would never abandon that principle, especially not now, when every instinct screams at us to separate people into 'us' and 'them.' The enemy exists, yes. We have to fight, yes. Kill, if necessary. We don't have to be cruel. Cruelty is a choice.
If I can choose to trust, choose mercy, choose to care—even when it hurts—then I can choose to be kind.
I don't want to wake up one day and realize I've forgotten something more precious than information and memories.
That decency, that knowing I did what's right, is worth it.
It's still so quiet. I glance at Freya. She glances back. We trade expressions too faint to be called frowns. Freya spent most of her life serving Emmeryn and the Exalted family. Underneath the armor and professionalism, there must be hatred for all those involved in Emmeryn's abduction. I've seen her angry. Furious. Seen her lose composure. Cry. Freya invests all of herself in all the things she loves. She'll hunt these people as long as it takes to save the Exalt.
But Freya understands Emmeryn best. She understands why it matters so much to do the right thing. All the Shepherds do. That's why they're Shepherds.
"Lydia's right." Robin beats me to it. "Gods preserve me, but she is. They were people. Despite what they did."
People. Same reason I protected Lydia from Cornelius. We're all people. Good. Bad. The grey shit in-between. Kinda pedantic laid out in the open. Nothing profound. Obvious. I suspect it's the mundane truth that clings to us, why the temptation of ignoring it feels safer. 'They were just criminals; who cares?' Whole lot easier to digest when there's a neat and tidy label to assign them.
Trouble is, people are generally more than one thing.
I'm not surprised Robin reaches the same conclusion I do. It's not about the moral high ground or self-righteous nonsense. It's about living with yourself once the storm passes and you're left duct-taping your life back together.
I'm not surprised it's a conclusion shared by us all.
Lydia, however, is surprised.
She gawks, and we start adding the bodies of dead bandits to the pyre. Half-syllables begin as pitchy breaths on her lips, O-shapes and consonant stammers. Like she has stage fright or forgot how to say the alphabet without the song.
"You're… you're actually doing it?" Lydia eventually asks, enunciating one word at a time, as if speaking to herself. "I thought… I mean… What?"
"Problem?" Robin bends at the knee to lift a man under the arms whose clothes might be classified as a tarp on anyone smaller than himself.
"Yes! Wait, no, that's not…" Lydia clamps her mouth shut, eyes too, breathes once. "I figured you'd refuse."
To be completely fair, the bandits Lydia ran with probably wouldn't have done the same for us. Regardless of whether Lydia's telling the truth about them not killing the people they robbed, I can't imagine they'd expend the effort. And to be even more fair, people who don't make their livings terrorizing the countryside might not bother either. Not in these times.
Dragging the man an impressive distance before pausing to wipe her brow, Robin sighs. "Who else is there to do it?" she says and beckons Sumner over to take the man's legs.
Lydia leers down at the ground, eyes shadowed by a faraway fogginess. I hate to admit it, just inside my own head no less, but reverse Stockholm Syndrome is setting in. She's Lydia now, fully. The sarcastic, not-actually-that-tough, weasel-y asshat who I really, really want to turn out to be kinda, sorta not that bad. Fucking hell.
"I'll help," Lydia says, head snapping up. Undeterred by the wrist bindings, she scurries towards Sumner and grabs one of the man's ankles.
She strains, face red with effort, while bemusement passes between Robin and Sumner. "Well, er… We move on three, then," Robin says, eyes a fraction wider than normal.
On Robin's count they hoist the man higher. Soon, he's on the pyre, and Lydia's already struggling for a grip on the next body, tip of her tongue poking out her mouth.
"We cannot trust her, Michael."
Freya's arm against mine, a nudge.
"I know that."
Her brow arches in cinematic skepticism. "She and her ilk committed treason. I will not overlook such transgressions."
"I know that, too, Freya."
"The law is the law," she says, and I try very hard not to scowl.
I don't succeed. "What is that face?" she asks. "That woman must be punished. Commander Phila is…" Freya bottles the surge of emotion, exhaling. "Michael, you did not see what I saw here."
Nothing Freya's said is wrong. I agree with her and yet—I can't explain it. Not well, anyways. "I'm assuming the punishment is death," I say.
"The law is clear, yes."
"We told her we weren't killing her."
"Yet," Freya repeats herself from earlier. "I meant that."
Searching for the right response, I glare past her. Robin and Lydia are at another body, one I recognize. The man Lydia called 'Finley.' Again, the knot, the twist I can't articulate. Lydia hunkers low, the murmur on her lips unreadable. Who was he? And who is Lydia? Who is she beyond the muck and the filth?
God, I think I get it. "Freya," I say, gingerly reaching for but not quite touching the scar along her neck. "You gave me a second chance."
"This is not the same." She lowers my hand, our fingers loosely laced.
"It's not, that's true." My palm grazes hers. "Maybe I'm an idiot. No, I absolutely am. But Lydia didn't seem to know about the Risen. We don't have all the facts. She's guilty of a lot, no denying it. I just can't stop thinking about who I'd be if I hadn't met you. Met the Shepherds."
Her frown is more chiding than outright disapproving. "Are you saying you'd have turned to banditry? Become a highwayman? Do not be ridiculous."
"I'm saying I don't know. That's the point."
Freya disentangles our hands. "I know you. Michael, I know you would never."
"Maybe," I say, hooking a lone finger around her index, preserving the connection, "we don't know Lydia."
We stand there, suspended, stubborn. I might be wrong about Lydia. Might wish I'd listened to my first impression, to Freya. It's foolish, this vague hunch. Lydia's not trustworthy. Her rap sheet isn't doing her any favors either. What if, though? I'd rather be proven wrong than presume the worst simply because it's convenient.
The scent of minerals and polishing oils engulfs me as Freya leans forward, hands sliding to cup my elbows. "First, we must find Her Grace," Freya says. "This is a conversation for afterwards."
"Alright." I pull away, somewhat reluctant. "After we save Emmeryn."
And maybe by then we'll know who Lydia really is.
Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I feel like I do the same song and dance after every hiatus, so I'll skip that part. It's been some months, I started a new, very busy job, and I really, really do hope I can find a more manageable way to write.
Anyways, I'm here now, delivering the goods. This chapter was kind of a pain to write, as it's one of those important segments that develops characters and introduces some new dynamics but doesn't provide a lot of answers. I love reading chapters like this. Writing them is a bit more taxing. You could kind of call this chapter the beginning of Part II, so to speak. The party is splitting for the foreseeable future, and while I will write chapters from differing POVs as I have before, we are entering the stage of the story where things I've alluded to for a long, long time will start coming into play. I'm pretty excited, y'all.
Also, since this chapters is longer than most, I'll be skipping review responses to avoid bloating the word count. I will respond to all reviews as usual next time. They're actually one of my favorite parts of releasing a chapter, so I'm a bit sad! You guys and your support encourages me to keep writing. I would never have come this far without the people who've given their time and kindness along the way.
Which is why I feel so proud to tell you all that AOA has broken the 100K view barrier! To think this story has been clicked on 100,000 times blows my mind. Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck around for the ride. I fucking love you guys.