Prologue

The End of the Beginning

…And through it all,

there are only three things we can depend on:

Blood, Oil, and Steel

…Sanguis, Oleum, et Ferrum

Terentius Aquilius Aurelius after hearing the news of Exalt Chrom's death

Mount Prism is a massive mountain. The largest in Ylisse, in fact. Located in the nation's east, Mount Prism is not only a place of great natural beauty and contains ancient history but is also a place of great strategic importance. This is the only place where Eastern Falchion, made from Naga's left fang, may be imbued with Naga's divine power and awaken to its true strength with enough power to seal a hundred thousand dragons.

What nobody bothered to mention to the second generation of shepherds is just how tall the mountain is.

Even caked with ash and with the sun blotted out by a thick blanket of purple and black clouds, it is possible to see just how massive the mountain is. A pillar clawing its way to the skies, it is no wonder the Dragons chose this as their home.

The flora here fared better than the rotting and dying plants below. Instead of black and browning leaves on trees that died a decade ago, there are towering oaks that are, if barely, still alive, their leaves a defiant yellow, providing a modicum of natural beauty to a place long since scarred by Grima's return. There are shrubs that have a sickly green tone yet are still able to live on the soil of the mountain. Mosses and ferns stick to any surface they can, the simple yet incredibly resilient plant life able to endure even the end of the world. Once in a while, a large animal such as a bird or a vole can be seen scurrying its way through the shrubbery, starving but still alive.

Life, if miserable, can still exist here. That's already an improvement to the rest of the world.

Perhaps Naga's divine power has been able to protect life here? It would make sense.

This theory seems to gain more ground as the remaining shepherds make their way up the mountain. At the midpoint, they stop at a stream, untainted by the poison that Grima infected the world with, and rejoice at the chance to drink and rest.

This could be the last time for them to do so.

"Gods, we look terrible," Severa half laughs in painful irony as she stares at her visage in the clear stream water.

Noire can't help but shake her head as she takes out a waterskin and refills it.

Sure, the redhead has seen better days, but she doesn't look too bad. Her hair is certainly a mess. There are strands of crimson hair flowing in every which direction with no rhythm or rhyme. Even after washing her face, her skin still has a foundation of caked ash and dried mud, and her eyes have more in common with a dead fish than a human's eyes have any right to be.

But she's avoided any major wounds during the past couple of years, and that nasty cut across her back had healed up to the point where it would take an extremely trained eye to notice it.

Compare this to the last few days of the group's parents: covered in mud, sweat, blood, and other bodily fluids that only Miriel and Robin's husband could tell while screaming in pain. Their bloodshot eyes as they pleaded with their remaining friends to keep their children safe, the teary-eyed response of their comrades as they slipped into the dark sleep that accompanied death.

Compared to them…they were doing well.

Compared to those who they had left to rot in the mud…

They were doing a lot better.

"Everyone! Make sure you get as much water as you can!" Lucina's voice, while quiet so as to not attract attention, is a roaring bell that sets a fire in the back of everyone's mind. They were still on the run, after all, and their journeys were not going to get any easier. "We might not be able to find any more supplies after our journey!"

Everyone takes some time to refill their water provisions. The stream is plentiful and flows in a quietly mesmerising pattern for the children born into this hellhole of a world. For the older children, namely Lucina, Mark, Morgan, Laurent, and Yarne, the stream is a reminder of the world that they had lost.

Lucina takes some time to refill her own waterskins when a cracking sound immediately sends the shepherds into fight or flight mode. Falchion is unsheathed and the faint golden glow beats back the darkness ever-so-slightly. The clanking of armour, the tensioning of a bowstring, the sound of a sword upon scabbard, the pages of a tome turning, and the crackling of a spell matrix springing into existence further accents the bristling tension that has suddenly grasped the group.

"Good going, everyone," A relatively high-pitched male voice chuckles from the dark as a figure enters into an identifiable position with their hands up. "Nice to see that everyone is still ready for anything."

A face that could once be considered handsome or desirable is able to be seen. It's caked in ash and mud, even more so than the younger shepherds, to the point that one cannot tell what colour of skin the man has. A pair of sharp silver eyes, the eyes of an eagle, are tired but restless, fluttering around and never sticking to one spot. A head of what once was a head of short golden hair that would sparkle when the light was shone on it is now dirty and unkept, though is still short.

Oddly enough, he's wearing a relatively normal outfit: A pair of thick black pants and what once was a pristine white coat with gold embroidery and highlights help to keep out the cold that Grima's awakening had created. An Ushanka made from blue-grey fur helps keep the man's head warm. At his belt are multiple pouches of tools. Wrenches, drills, screwdrivers, wirecutters, and many other tools that should not exist in this time period adorn his waist along with a massive bag with a green cross on it.

The outfit itself, save for the odd-looking tools, are not what's out of place. No, the cleanness of the outfit is. Unlike the younger shepherds, this man's clothes have not been torn to shred and repaired haphazardly. The clothes are (relatively) clean and the dyes are untarnished by blood and the environment. While they have seen wear and tear, it is not to the same degree that the other shepherds have.

Rather, all the other younger shepherds other than Lucina, Severa, Laurent, Gerome, Mark, and Morgan have their clothes damaged and their weapons worn. Those six have relatively intact weapons, even if there were a couple more dents, chips, and scrapes than they would like, (except for Lucina; Falchion shins as brilliantly as it did for Marth) and clothing that while dirty hasn't gone through a similar amount of wear.

After the man steps into the open and speaks, the younger generation of shepherds visibly deflate. Lucina lowers Falchion and sighs deeply, Noire lets the arrow on her bow fall to the ground as she drops to her butt, strength leaving her body. The others have similar reactions, except for Gerome's Wyvern Minerva, who growls happily at the man's arrival.

"Uncle…" Lucina sighs. "Please, don't scare us like that…"

"Didn't expect to scare you," He shrugs with a slight smile that doesn't seem genuine. "I thought all these years of being on the run would have beaten the fright out of all of you. Naga knows it has for me."

"Yeah, but Uncle, nothing used to phase you either!" Cynthia complains. "You can't say that Grima made you not afraid of anything when you weren't afraid of anything, to begin with!"

"Ah, well I'll agree to disagree," He chuckles, turning towards the Pegasus Knight and patting her on the head. "I'm quite scared of some things, you know?"

"Like what?" Lucina tilts her head while Cynthia flushes a bit, being patted on the head.

"For example, dying," He shrugs. "I am very afraid of dying. Now, if I had to die for you all, that would be fine, but dying without accomplishing anything? That's something I am very afraid of."

"That's…a very mature answer, Uncle," Lucina frowns a bit.

"Are you saying that I'm not mature?" The man raises an eyebrow at the cobalt-haired girl, prompting her to giggle slightly.

"Of course not, Uncle," She responds. "It's just that…usually, you would have a more…upbeat answer. Is…Is something wrong?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Luci," He chuckles.

"Uncle, are you trying to prepare us for something?" Lucina doesn't stand down. Her gaze is sharp and unrelenting, boring a hole straight through the man's chest.

His face changes. One second it's light, smiling, and pleasant, the next it's a harsh scowl hiding a bitter, tired, and sapped man.

"I don't know. Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Everything is coming to a head, and we need to be prepared for anything, and that includes my death," The man sighs after his statement. "Sorry, Luci, but it has to be this way. I'm sorry if this makes the situation worse. It's…just how the cookie crumbles, unfortunately."

Lucina bites back a retort. She knows that he's right, that anyone can die at any time, but she wants to refute that notion.

Thinking back, however, she realises that he's never acted so…well, distraught. So tired. He was always happy and peppy, always ready to crack a joke, always ready to diffuse a situation, and always ready to say all the right things that made everyone warm and fuzzy inside.

Even when he was preparing them for something, he didn't make it seem like he was doing it on purpose.

"Come on, Chrom! Let them be kids for once! You only have one childhood, and with what's coming in their lives, it's a chance that they should not lose!"

At the time, it had seemed like an excuse for Lucina and her friends to continue to play, but…

Well, considering that he knew what was coming, it's not too much of a stretch to think that he was preparing both the children and the parents for the catastrophe that was awaiting them. And it worked: those who still remember their childhoods before the end of the world remembered it fondly and warmly, even Noire.

The conversation dies out after that. Talking about the imminent and unpreventable death of one's friends and family usually did that.

Before long, the group gets moving again, each step taking them closer to peak, closer to their goal.

"This wasn't the best plan you've had, Farseer," Naga notes with a hint of humour.

"Yeah, I've noticed," He sighs, getting some of his golden locks out of his face before continuing. "But what else can I do? I've known this world—er, the timeline was screwed the minute I realised that Marth wouldn't be showing up. I just…I just hope I've done enough for the children…"

"You can follow them if you wish," The green-haired divine manakete frowns and tilts her head. "Nothing is stopping you."

"Nothing but the script, my own doubts, and the fact that Grima's rocking up to stop this party before it even begins," The Farseers shakes his head. "No, I'll stick by my decision. Plus, I don't think I can handle the two of us running around. One of me is already a pain to deal with, two would make Maribelle tear out her hair in frustration."

Naga shakes her head and chuckles. She never understood how man worked, and this representative of their species was an enigma within an enigma. Perhaps it is his future sight that causes his behaviour to be even more erratic and unpredictable. She can only hope that his younger counterpart, considering the fact that he knew his timeline to be saveable, will be kinder to that version of her mind.

"But how will you tell them," Naga shakes her head and gestures to the sleeping forms of the youngest generation of shepherds, quietly resting on the ground of the hallowed chambers atop Mount Prism. The journey up had taken much of the day (not that one could really tell considering the sun was blocked out), and he had ordered them to all rest before doing the awakening ritual.

He did not tell them that communing with Naga didn't require the Awakening, at least not for him.

"In the clearest and most concise way possible," The Farseer shrugs. "The road has come to an end, and they will leave without me, whether they want to or not."

"So you truly do not want to leave with them?" Naga raises an eyebrow inquisitively. "I did not expect you to be a person who did not fear death."

"Me? Not fear death?" The Farseer laughs. "I'm sorry Naga, but that's the complete opposite of who I am. Everything is driven by the fact I don't want to die."

He takes a moment to recentre himself as he sighs and shakes his head.

"But…some things are bigger than what we want, yeah?" A thin smile appears on his face. "I need, no, I must delay Grima for as long as possible, sell my life so others may live. Plus, have I truly died? The moment the children step through your portal there will be another version of me, a version who will know that their world will be saved, a version without the weight of a dying time on their shoulders. And also…I want to face her."

"You truly believe that the vessel may be saved?"

"Of course not," He shakes his head. "That was never in the cards. But…damn, I'm getting a bit more emotional than I want to be. But…I want closure in this life so that my next one will be fuller."

He smiles slightly as a few tears trace silver paths down his cheek.

"Hmmm…?" A sound from below suddenly causes the Farseer to snap his attention to the teenagers and young adults currently laying on the floor in woollen sleeping bags. As he does so, he realises that not only is Lucina awake, but is presently blinking at him with her sleepy eyes.

"Lucy…you're up early…"

"Ah! O—Of course, I don't want to dally any longer," She nods quickly. Her uncle had always harped on her to stop waking up so early. It's one of the only things (other than sleeping late) that seemed to break his standard of simply letting things go when it came to the children. "The Awakening is something that needs to be completed—why are you crying?"

The Farseer blinks as he realises he hasn't wiped his tears away. Well, it's now or never.

"Lucina…I think we need to have a talk. Like right now," He sighs, shaking his head for no reason in particular.

"Er—Uncle, I promise that I won't be waking—"

"It's not able that. It's about something far more serious, unfortunately," The Farseer walks over to where Lucina is sitting in her sleeping bag. "I would love it if the worst thing to happen to us are you waking up too early and not getting enough rest."

"T—Then, what is it?" A bit of fear and a lot of trepidation seeps into Lucina's voice.

"Well," He takes a big breath and lets it out slowly as he sits down on the cold stone floor of the ancient building. "You probably know that the Awakening will be incomplete."

Lucina nods.

"We're missing Sable…gods, is it not going to work? P—Please, Uncle, tell me that all of this was—"

"Don't worry, Naga will still answer your calls. What is more important, however, is the fact that Naga cannot awaken Falchion without all five stones,"

"Then—"

"Let me finish, please, Lucina," The Farseer shakes his head. "What will happen then is I will ask Naga to send you thirteen back in time. She will agree, and she will do so."

"W—Wait!"

"Lucina," He sighs. "Please, let me finish. I will not be going with you."

"Why—?"

"Because Grima will attempt to stop the ritual, and I have to stop him," He finishes, not letting Lucina finish her question. "It's the only way to move forward and not get bogged down in Risen. Someone will die today, and I'll be a groaning body puppetted by Grima before I let it be one of you."

The sudden steel in the Farseer's voice stuns Lucina to silence.

It takes a moment before she finds her voice to speak.

"T—Then…what do I do? Uncle, please tell me, what do I do?" Her blue eyes fill up with tears quicker than the Farseer expects. He shakes away the feeling that he's made a mistake; it's too late for that now.

"You still have the note, right? When you find a chance to read it, then it'll tell you what to do. Before then…I trust you'll know what to do," He nods.

Lucina takes a deep breath and fights back the tears.

"And plus, it's not like I'm going to be completely gone, right?" The Farseer smiles. "You're going back in time! I'm still alive back then!"

"I…I suppose you're right…" Lucina allows herself to smile slightly.

She hated it. She hated it! Why did everything have to go wrong? Her father died on the day that the world turned upside-down alongside Aunt Robin. Her mother died trying to save Ylisstol. And then one by one, her Aunts and Uncles died protecting them from the risen until he was left! And now he had to die as well? Why? Why must this happen?

"I trust you'll be strong, Luci," The Farseer sighs. "You make me proud already. Hang in there, ok? It'll be over before you know it."

Lucina nods.

"Oh, one more thing," He frowns. "Don't tell anyone. Not a word, alright?"

Lucina nods, though this time less vigorously.

Laurent said the Risen would come in forty-five minutes.

Naga said that she needed an hour.

The Farseer said he could hold out for twenty minutes.

Only the Farseer lied. He held out for an hour and twenty minutes.

Roaring once again as a thunder spell left his fingertips and burns a hole through another Risen, reducing it to purple mist, the Farseer pants a couple of times and clutches his left arm. There were too many, too many now.

It wouldn't be long before she came down to see him either. A deadlord had already relieved him of one of his arms, and in its place came a magical prosthetic that the Farseer had packed just for this occasion. He was throwing out Thunders because he was already out of spells and his two Thorons, four Arcthunders, and Eight Elthunders were already out. Before then, he had used up all twenty of his fire tomes and kept his wind tomes on standby just in case Grima decided to throw some Wyvern Riders or Pegasus Knights at him.

"We really got the short end of the stick, yeah Randy?" He chuckles.

Instead of a human voice replying, however, a couple of thumps and mechanical groans can be heard from beside him.

A massive disc of bronze and silver is held up by four legs each the width of an old oak tree, shimmering and glowing with runes and arcane inscriptions lighting up the musky darkness of this ruined land. Perch atop this self-moving machine is a giant cannon, lifted straight from a war film, with an autoloading mechanism at the rear shoving large calibre shells into the breech at high speeds. Four sets of three eyes glow scarlet as the entire machine turns to face its creator.

A couple of unhappy grunts can be heard as the machine, Randy, makes his displeasure known.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Not much I can do about that, unfortunately. How many shells do you have left before you have to rely on spells as well?"

A mechanical groan causes the Farseer to wince.

"Six? That's…not good,"

The machine grunts in agreement. Their short conversation is cut even shorter as another swarm of risen appears on the horizon. The Farseer groans and pulls out a sword glowing with arcane light. These Risen are too weak to merit spells. Randy agrees with the assessment and doesn't even bother firing; his weight and his tough armour are enough to simply crush even the most armoured Risen underfoot.

By the end of it all, the Farseer has acquired a few more scratches and lost his Ushanka while not expending a single page of his tomes, while Randy is as peppy as usual.

"Damn it…that hurts," The Farseer hisses as he applies some ointment to one of the more dangerous wounds. There's no point in closing any of his wounds with magic; Grima would come soon and he would not be able to stop Expiration with any tools at his disposal. "Really wish for Phoebe's shielding abilities right about now…and Cassandra's fire wouldn't hurt either."

Randy makes a mechanical sound that only the Farseer is seemingly able to understand.

"Yeah, but realistically they're not going to make too much of a difference. I would have sent you with the others if you could fit, but I'm pretty sure you'd either crush some helpless villager on the way down or get stuck in a mountain for the next five hundred years," The Farseer rolls his eyes.

Randy makes a disapproving noise.

"I know all three of you want to stay and die with me, but that's not going to happen," The Farseer bites. "The amount of time the two of them can buy is inconsequential compared to their ability for them to save lives in the future. Or rather, the past, in our very specific and honestly confusing case."

Randy voices his displeasure at his two sisters being sent to the past again, this time accented with the stopping of a foot.

"Yeah yeah, but you have to agree with me that they'll do better in the twins' hands. Plus, I'll still be alive back then, and they won't need to see me die," The Farseer rolls his eyes. "I want to spare as many people the pain that they would have otherwise. If Cassandra and Phoebe can keep the twins from missing their mother, I'll say that it's a win. Plus, Cassandra and Phoebe aren't mine anymore. Morgan and Mark are Cassandra and Phoebe's owners. They can do whatever they wish."

Randy stomps his disapproval once again.

"Yeah, I know you guys all disliked that decision, but it's saved their lives more times than I can count. You guys also like the two, so why are you complaining?" The Farseer rolls his eyes.

Randy goes quiet for a while and doesn't speak again.

The Farseer smiles at this, seeing that Randy concedes the point.

"Don't be like that…" He chuckles. "I don't want to do this as much as you do. But…this is how the cookie crumbles, unfortunately. And well it crumbles in a way that forces us to give up our lives so that others may live. I've…well, I think I've accepted that now…I certainly don't see a way out of this at the current moment…"

Randy shakes his chassis, the massive machine shuddering like a dog drying itself. It shakes with such vigour that the Farseer's a bit concerned that he might throw a screw or something similar, but thankfully, nothing of the sort happens.

"Whoa there, what happened?" The Farseer frowns, his gaze slowly turning skyward as he traces Randy's line of sight…

"Hello there," The Farseer snaps his gaze to the location of the sound. Before him stands a humanoid engulfed in a purple-black aura, two pairs of flame-red eyes ignite the air as two more pairs hang on his—no, her cheek. She's wearing a black and purple coat, the hood up to hide her silver hair, though strands still descend down her shoulders to around her chest. She's floating inches above the ground, half-taunting and half-condescending. "Still talking to machines, Farseer? Not much they can help you now, can they?"

The woman, no, she is no longer mortal any more. Grima spits the word 'Farseer' with enough spite and malice that the magic around her shudders with power for a moment.

"General Kenobi, you are a bold one," The Farseer rolls his eyes, seemingly not impressed by the Fell Dragon's visage. "Come to claim me at long last?"

"I still cannot comprehend your thought process, Farseer," He snorts. "You could have left with them, and yet you are still here…why? What for?"

"In a way…closure, finality, fate, and most of all…" The Farseer gestures to Randy…

As the earth shudders with the force of the machine firing six…no, seven shots in quick succession, clouds of dust kicked up by the power of a weapon of mechanised war coat all three sentients present. It doesn't take much time for all seven shells to be fired and all seven to find their mark.

Grima manages to grunt before a magical shield flares up as three shots slam relatively harmlessly against it, the third causing it to shudder dangerously before collapsing, the fourth and fifth shots slam into Grima's body and only cause some light blackening of his already dark coat. The sixth, however, forces him to block with his arm and a loud crack can be heard as the seventh shell slams into his left leg and detonates, blowing the fell dragon's avatar back down the hill that they had been standing on.

"…spite. I am a stubborn bitch," The Farseer sniffs. His face then frowns and he turns to Randy. "Hey, you said you had six shells left. I heard seven shots!"

Randy groans in a mechanical fashion in response. The Farseer rolls his eyes.

"You found a ninety-millimetre APCBC shell just lying around? In a world where gunpowder hasn't been invented?" The Farseer rolls his eyes. "What's more likely is that you lied to me just so you could blast Grima before he tore you to shreds."

Randy looks away. The Farseer shakes his head in amusement.

"What, did you think I wouldn't let you blast the bastard?"

Randy groans in reply. If he could, one would believe that he was blushing.

"You don't have to hide things from me, remember?" The Farseer chuckles. "Plus, we don't have much longer to hide…"

He gestures down the hill where Grima has finally stood back up, crimson eyes brimming with fury, as he floats back up the hill.

"You BASTARD!" He roars, the air shimmering with his anger. "I will tear you piece by piece, machine! I will destroy you, desecrate your master's corpse and force you to watch every moment of it!"

"Wow, angry much?" The Farseer folds his arms across his chest, the silver-gold prosthetic glimmering under the crimson glow of the fell dragon's eyes. "And plus it's not like you weren't going to do that in the first place, you sadistic bastard."

"Oh? Not scared are we now?" Grima spits. "Oh, I'll love to see that face split into painful gasps as I tear into it with magic…GHahahahahahha! Perhaps this vessel will finally stop resisting after I kill you!"

He raises a hand as the Farseer sighs and raises his hands in surrender. Randy moves in between the Farseer and Grima as a bright purple light emanates from Grima's hands, and the left plants left in the area curl up and dissipate into grey ash. A circle of menacing purple light forms on the ground, capped by two rings of arcane symbols, as misty tendrils start to appear from the violet glow.

A pike of pure energy slams into Randy's undercarriage as the machine groans in pain, vermillion eyes going dark as a sizzling noise can be heard from within his chassis. He shudders as the pike reaches further and further into his body, burning through wax-coated wires and melting delicate circuitry, blocking the logic circuits to prevent self-destruction, and snuffing the flame of his reactor core.

The Farseer grimaces as his favourite creation gasps his last, mechanical breath, as one last spell of ice cast in eternal defiance of fate is launched from his chassis, but is easily swatted aside by the fell dragon.

"What?" Grima frowns angrily as he sees the relatively unaffected Farseer, who only smiled sadly as he watched his friend be destroyed. "Did you not care for your machine?"

"I did…" He sighs in response. "But I will not give you the satisfaction of seeing me break. Both of us knew this would be what would happen, and we had both prepared ourselves for our deaths. The moment I stepped outside that door—"

The Farseer gestures to the large marble pillars that mark the entrance to the temple where Naga resided.

"—I was but a dead man walking. Killing either of us would not matter in the end, because we had already died. Why feel grief for a man who had already died? They would neither care nor feel their death, and their funeral had already been held prior to their second death," The Farseer explains as he shrugs.

"You…ARGH! YOU ARE SO INFURIATING. DIE ALREADY!" Grima roars as he attempts to do the same thing to the golden-haired man. Rings of purple light swirl around the Farseer but dissipate after a few moments without scratching him.

"Come on! I'm right here!" The Farseer grins as he stands up and opens his arms wide, his chest exposed for all to see, for he had cast aside his half-plate armour nearly a decade ago. "Or are you too afraid to kill me? I'll admit, I'm very tough to kill; Gangrel and Walhardt found that out the hard way."

"Grah! Insolent insect!" Grima tries once again to manifest the spell that left Randy the machine as a pile of scraps and flickering sparks, but it doesn't seem to work. The spell simply fizzles out every time Grima attempts to cast it.

Seeing his magic not working, Grim instead takes the physical route, throwing a fast and armoured fist at the Farseer, who doesn't even attempt to block it. He takes it on the cheek, still smiling, as the crack of bones snapping can be heard. Crimson fluid flies forth in an arc as white ebony flies in every direction. Even Grima feels a modicum of pain in his fist after smashing it at the Farseer's jaw. He would not be surprised if the man's jaw is broken in two by the blow.

And yet, when he stands up, simply putting his hand to the ruined bone and muttering something is able to have it snap back together.

"Saving one last spell for that, you know?" The Farseer smiles a red mark on his cheek, the only remaining reminder that he had just been hit with a bone-breaking haymaker. "Just to piss you off."

"YOU! LITTLE! ARGH!" Grima attempts to do the same thing again, but suddenly, his arm jerks back with some force, leaving his face confused momentarily.

Only for a moment, however, as it quickly morphs into a mask of rage and fury.

"WHY DO YOU STILL RESIST? I HAVE KILLED YOUR EXALT! GIVE IN TO ME ALREADY!" He rages at himself as the Farseer smiles brightly. "STOP RESISTING!"

Grima's eyes flicker from crimson to amber for a few moments before returning to a flaming red.

"YOU! WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?"

"Nothing?" The Farseer shrugs. "I'm not doing anything to you. Your vessel, however, well, Robin never liked you anyway…so I suppose it's only natural that she would try and stop you, especially after you killed Chrom."

"She let me in after I killed her beloved Exalt," Grima sneers. "You're the only one of her friends left, even if you are perhaps even more important to her than the Exalt was."

"Well, then how do you explain the fact that your right hand has completely stopped listening to you?" The Farseer raises an eyebrow.

"W—What! NO! YOU WILL NOT—" Grima's voice cracks suddenly as a much more feminine voice breaks through for a moment.

"I will—"

"YOU WILL NOT DO ANYTHING, INSECT! LET ME—ARGH!" Grima suddenly lunches forwards, his crimson eyes flickering out completely as he slammed into a stoic Farseer.

"Well…Is this Robin I'm speaking to or has Grima regained control already?" The Farseer raises an eyebrow as the body of the former grandmaster of Ylisse shudders once more, a deep sigh escaping her mouth.

"I—It's me—e, Robin," She smiles slightly. "I—I'm in control…p—please…go! Go join…Gah! Go join the others…in the past….please!"

The Farseer wraps his hands around Robin's shoulders before leaning to whisper in her ear. Robin shivers and squirms slightly. This was not the time for this!

"Kill me,"

The two words nearly shatter Robin's hold on her body as Grima surges forwards once again.

"W—Why? Why?"

"Because I would rather die by your hands. I had not expected Grima's hold on you so weak, but it is a pleasant surprise nonetheless," He smiles.

"But…You could live! You could be happy again!"

"I will never be happy without you and the rest of our friends, and that is impossible to achieve without the Robin of the past killing Grima," The Farseer whispers into her ear and orbs of shining liquid start to pool in the corners of her eyes. "So please, end my existence in this time. I want to go out by your hand rather than Grima's to deny him the pleasure of killing me. Come on, if not for me, then at least do it for past me; having two of me running around would make his life super confusing."

Robin can't help but giggle at the Farseer's jokes. Even now, she felt calm standing next to him. Even now…she felt safe.

"Come on, Robin, I know you can do it!" The Farseer smiles brighter as he grips Robin's right hand in his own. Robin gasps as he places her hand over his heart. "Do it and do it quickly."

"I—I can't!" Robin gasps, her breaths coming in hard and heavy, struggling to hold back Grima within her and her own emotions took a lot out of her. "Even if you—"

"Do I have to do everything?" The Farseer smirks. "You still owe me after Stieger, you know?"

"T—That's…irrelevant!" Robin groans. "That has…nothing to d—do with—"

"Come on…Robin… this is how the tragedy ends. Just…promise me that you won't blame yourself for this," The Farseer rolls his eyes.

Robin's eyes go wide as power suddenly hums through her right hand as the Farseer casts a spell using her as the conduit, blasting a smouldering, blackening hole through his chest. He doesn't even flinch. He simply gives her a sad smile. The man is still breathing despite the massive hole in his chest, the breaths are long and shaking, each one requiring a herculean effort to accomplish. He is swaying on his legs, his arms clutching Robin's shoulder with enough force that it sends violent spasms through his entire arm due to the effort.

The Farseer moves his head onto Robin's shoulder, his raspy, bubbling breath sending shudders down the grandmaster's spine. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Venare sol ortum, quoniam cado. Plus vitae est quam me."

He gasps one last time and mutters words that Robin cannot understand into her ears. After that, he stumbles back with a cheeky smile on his face and falls over with a crunch onto the ashy ground. The light has left his silver eyes, and they stare up at the cloudy, polluted sky.

"Idiot…" Robin bites her lip and tries her best to not cry. It doesn't take long before she's on her knees and orbs of bright light descends in shining trails down her face. "You never…taught me how…to speak your language…damn it…what does that…even mean?"

Robin stays on her knees for a few more moments, letting the sight of the last of her friend's body lie there. Other than the black hole in his chest, he looks the same as the man that she had met when he appeared with Lon'qu during the fight in the Feroxi Arena. Well, Robin thinks as she looks at his messy golden locks, perhaps a bit more dishevelled and dirtied than before. But other than that…

He looked the same. The same smile, the same stare, the same face…

She stays there…for how long she doesn't know. But when Grima regains control of her body, the Farseer's blood had already dried upon the holy mountain of Naga.

Seeing the body, Grima flies into a rage.

"EVEN IN DEATH, YOU DENY ME!" He roars. "I WILL REND YOUR NAME FROM THE ANNALS OF TIME ITSELF!"

AN: Hello there! Acardia here!

Man, 4 reviews in a week? I'm...shocked, humbled, and excited. I didn't know that so many people would want to even read this thing, much less review it!

Anyhow, this is going to be the last of the 'teasing' chapters, next week will be the actual start of the story. Do you like Terentius, the character?

And now to my favourite part, the review replies! The fact that there are four is exciting and fun!

Scoolio: Thanks! Do keep reading and reviewing, you don't know how much it helps!

Turt19: Thanks! I try my best to make the beginning as interesting as possible. A hook, you know? Anyhow, don't expect too much D&D in it. It's...more of seasoning, rather than an actual blend of Fire Emblem and Dungeons and Dragons. You'll be fine. It's basically stereotypical fantasy anyway.

Guest(1): Well, you have a good point. If enough people insist, I might do so. However, I would ask you to read at least chapter 10 before making these kinds of judgements. I'm trying to keep D&D mechanics as far away from this fic as physically possible, and I'm not going to add any D&D lore into it (I don't know much anyway). It's more of just using the D20 system and classes than anything. We play with an absolutely butchered version of D&D at my home table anyway.

Louie Yang: Why do I feel like you've reviewed my other fic before? Anyhow, thank you! While it would make sense that way, D&D is a bit weird with its damage scaling. See, Artificers scale off of INT, not STR or DEX, so yes, magic will be used a lot, and yes, magic cannons will be used accurately. Not that Terentius has bad STR or DEX stats, mind you, I rolled ridiculously good for him, but it's something to take into account.

Anyhow, that's enough for this week. I got slapped by a rather bad case of Laryngitis so my writing schedule's been fucked up. For those of you who read White Clouds, Lavender Storms, that fic's going to be delayed for another couple of weeks. This one...probably won't, considering I've finished nearly 90k words of it. But I digress, that will be all. Ciao!

Acardia out!