Author's Note: Once upon a time, Tumblr's jackjerippher and roesart had a really cool headcanon about Lon'qu and Owain that explains the latter's myrmi-outfit and mixed style, and I fell in love with it and stole it to write a story about. Anything you don't like about this fic is something I changed and not something they came up with.

Chapter One: Prologue With a Good Hook

The last three days had passed very slowly. Mother slept a lot. Owain stayed locked in his room, ignoring when Inigo and Brady pounded on the door to his and Mothers' chambers, pretending that he was in an impenetrable fortress. All Great Heroes needed their trying times of solitude. Especially after their failures.

It was hard for him to go to bed, even though he snuggled up with Mother each night, despite his protests of the last few weeks that Great Heroes did not need embarrassing things like hugs from their mother. That was wrong, now. He was no Great Hero. He and Father had just gone out to learn about the plants of the forest, since Father said his boy ought to know something practical after being raised in a fancy castle.

They had no idea the enemy had gotten so close to Ylisstol's borders. Owain wore a kitchen pot on his head that day, ever eager to take after Father, even though Father supposedly stopped wearing pots ages ago. It had probably saved his life, judging by the arrow tip that had whacked it and dazed him. But he'd managed to run, like Father shouted for him to. Now every time Owain closed his eyes, he saw the arrows sprouting from his broad back.

He spent the endless days pouring through the thick, leather-bound storybooks he had stacked in his room, searching for scenarios where fathers had sacrificed themselves for sons. What had the sons done to avenge them? To reclaim their honour? To cleanse their guilt?

For the first time in his life, he couldn't find a tale that covered this. He was on his own.

After three days, Owain figured that his eyes were finally dry.

He wished he could be more like Mother. Mother never cried. When they brought home Frederick's dented shield, which the living soldiers had nonetheless polished to a mirror-like shine, she just skimmed its bright surface with her fingertips and murmured that he was finally resting. (Owain had cried a little, then. Sir Frederick had promised to teach him to saddle and ride a horse, when he returned, and what did it say about the strength of fate's chains when a man like Frederick couldn't keep his word?) And when Uncle Chrom set off to lead the troops, Mother just kissed the Exalt's cheek and told him to be smart about things. (Owain had cried a little then, too. His uncle looked so noble in his white regalia, with Falchion girded loosely at his hip. It was too easy to imagine him as the king from one of his favourite tales, off to make the purest of sacrifices and bring peace to the kingdom at the cost of his life. But he mostly cried because Lucina cried, and he'd never seen that in his life, not even when she fell out of that tree a year ago and broke her wrist.)

Father made things no different. The pain was there, of course: he saw it strike Mother in the face like she'd been slapped. Her arms felt rigid when he wept into her shoulder, shuddering with his efforts to stop, torn between stories of heroes manfully crying out their grief in tempests and heroes bottling everything up to be strong for the people around them. In the end, he couldn't do either. He sobbed like a useless boy and Mother held things together.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts on the fourth day, while he had his nose in a tome about dragons and slaying them. Irritated, he stomped out of his room and into the receiving chamber, where he shouted at the door,

"Begone, foul Inigo!"

"Young man," a voice barked back that was certainly not his boon companion, "you will let me in this instant!"

Guiltily, he opened the door. "Aunt Maribelle?"

As always, she was impeccably dressed, with perfectly set curls and polished boots. The way she looked him over made him self-conscious.

"Gods, when was the last time you had a bath? And even if you can't draw the water, you're old enough to brush your own hair and change your clothes, Owain! Shame on you, wallowing! Shame on both of you!"

"The Fearless Owain would never wallow!" he protested as Maribelle brushed right by him. "I am in fact in disguise, hoping to mask my natural soapy-clean smell so that I might—hey, don't go in there! Mother is sleeping!"

"Don't argue," a voice whispered, and he peeked out into the hallway to see Brady leaning shyly against the stone corridor wall. "She's on a mission."

He turned back to see Maribelle enter Lissa's chamber without even knocking and shut the door behind her. He and Brady exchanged a glance before they hurried after and pressed their ears to the thick wood.

"Yikes, Owain, you do reek."

"Silence! I seek the voice of my beloved mother!"

"Pathetic, I say!" Maribelle was saying. There was the harsh zing of the golden rings that held up the curtains zipping over the line. A ray of sunlight gleamed under the door.

"Maribelle, please! We've been eating our meals and sleeping at night. I haven't been myself, but I haven't neglected anything."

"You should see the state of your boy's hair."

"You've always been too concerned with hair and how it looks!"

"This is the situation: your brother is gone, the throne is empty, and you must seat your delicate self there today. What do you think Donnel would say if he could see you in bed past noon! Your smile is what he fell in love with, darling, so where is it?"

Lissa was silent. Owain squirmed against the door, but a long time passed before he heard a high sob that Maribelle shushed into submission with odd gentleness. The scene was so perfect in his head that it had to be true: Lissa weeping in Maribelle's arms, as quietly as she could.

"Mother can cry," he whispered, feeling numb. He chanced a glance at Brady to see that his old friend was tearing up, too. But this time, Owain was the one dry-eyed. He had used up all his tears. Maribelle was right; Father wouldn't want him and Mother lying awake together, staring at the ceiling and missing him so badly that they couldn't speak or move or breathe. He'd want them to move right along—It's the order o' things, he'd say.

The door opened so fast that the boys nearly fell through and into the razor-sharp spotlight of Maribelle's glare. Mother was in the back of the room in one of her old dresses, a clean buttercup hue that matched her hair. Her corset was tight and her hair was in a neat coil on the top of her head. Owain realized his scenario wasn't right: Mother hadn't cried in her best friend's arms, she cried while her best friend dragged her out of bed and pinched her ribs until she stood upright and dressed her for the day.

Or had she actually wept at all? Her eyes were pink but her face was dry. Owain still had no proof that Mother the Invincible was capable of breaking, and that came as a relief. But was it all right for him to keep relying on her during these troubling times? Should he, as the one who loved her most, not be the stronger of the two?

How did one become strong? How did one slay a dragon?

"You really should think about asking some old friends to stay," Maribelle said. "Since Chrom is gone and so many have…departed." Her fingers clenched each other primly, as if she'd taught herself to hold her own hand. "There's still Miriel. Perhaps she would like to visit. Or you could send a letter inquiring about Lon'qu."

"Lon'qu can't come here."

"Why ever not?"

"You know why."

Maribelle only raised her eyebrows. "That is his concern, darling, not yours. You never owed him anything."

"You—"

She cut herself off and looked to Owain. He just stared back.

"How are you feeling, Mother?"

"Just fine, my love." The way she smiled made him believe it.

"Leave the boys to me," said Maribelle. "You find Lucina and the seneschal and see what needs to be done about this drafty old place."

"I will," she said, and gave Owain another smile. "You be good for Aunt Maribelle, all right?"

He saluted. "Yes, Mother! I will be ferociously well-behaved!"

"That doesn't sound promising," Maribelle sighed, but she led him and Brady away.

"So…now what?" Brady whispered as they trailed behind her blooming skirts.

For once, Owain wasn't sure what to say. A desire had planted its seed deep within him when he'd begun the book on dragon-slaying that morning, and now it was taking root, twisting itself between his ribs and anchoring against his spine.

He would learn the sword. He would become strong that way. He would become a true hero, a scion of legend, worthy of his father and his sacrifice. A man who could slice arrows out of the air before people felt the need to push him away and take them on his behalf. He would become a man who could protect his mother easily—not just with a blade, but with his bare hands! With his hands tied behind his back, using only cleverness and sheer force of will! He would make them all proud!

…But first, he needed a weapon. And someone to teach him how to use it.

xxx

"Lucina!" He pounded hard on her door the next day. "Exalted Cousin! I beseech thee for aid!"

He was met with no response.

"I do not fear the Trial of the Closéd Door!" he proclaimed. "I shall wait here all night, if need be! On my knees, awake and vigilant in the moonlight, like a holy knight preparing for his most righteous combat against the forces of evil! I—!"

"Owain?" Lucina's voice said, and he spotted her coming around the corner of the corridor. She carried no practice sword, but her hands and face were dirty and the hair at her temples was damp with sweat. "Do you need something?"

"Lucina! I beg of thee, teach me the sword!"

"Owain," she repeated, as if to buy time, brushing past him to unlatch her door, "you are still young."

His hands clenched into fists. "And still weak. I have to become stronger."

She gave him a hard look of complete understanding over her shoulder. The space of a long breath passed.

"Very well," she said. "But all I know how to teach is the royal style; Father's been the one training me."

"I'll learn it. Whatever it takes."

Her lips quirked upward. "You've convinced me. Meet me at dawn tomorrow, out in the courtyard."

"I'll be warmed up before you even get there!" he promised. "You won't regret this, Lucina!"

xxx

Mother was not pleased when he showed up to breakfast with bruises.

"There's no reason to learn the sword, Owain!" she said with a heavy sigh. "I never wanted a child of mine to have to deal with such senseless violence. Why can't you just stay with your books? Become a scholar?"

"I can't be of any use as a scholar! Lofty though the perch of the mind may be, justice needs an arm to deal it!"

"If it's use you're so concerned about, I'll teach you to heal. Maybe you have the gift."

Owain put down his fork and looked her right in the eye. "Even if I'd had a staff that day, I could not have saved Father. And if something like that should happen again, I will not be able to save myself or you. I won't allow that."

"When did you grow up?" she asked him with a faint smile. "Stop that. Go back to playing with stuffed animals."

He grinned and scarfed down his meal so he could find an off-duty knight or two to help him reinforce what Lucina taught him that morning.

xxx

Three months passed, and he and Mother still hadn't been outside the castle walls. It was too frightening for both of them to face. Lightning never struck twice, or so the saying went, but it would be impossible to leave their haven and catch sight of the forest without remembering anew what had happened. A day after the fact, knights had come to the door to their chambers and promised them that those responsible had been done away with, but Owain knew it wasn't that simple.

Untold enemies swarmed the world in impossible numbers; Uncle wouldn't have left if it weren't so. Tragedy wasn't like lightning. It could strike wherever it wanted and as many times as it pleased.

But did that mean he was to live in fear his entire life? No sir!

"Mother!" he declared one morning. "We must take a walk! It is imperative!"

She ruffled his hair. "You know what? I think you're right."

An hour later they were outside again with three knights, just in case. It was a beautiful summer day. The sky was cloudless and Mother hadn't stopped smiling the entire time. Even though it was painful to look at the forest, Owain tried to remember to see it the way Father wanted him to see it: not as the site of a slaughter, but a collection of life-giving trees and healing plants and delicious nuts and berries.

They finally came upon a meadow to the north, on the grounds behind the castle, and Mother did something he hadn't heard in months: giggle.

"Look at these wildflowers, Owain! Pretty things always find a way to happen, don't they?"

His response was to run ahead so he could pick her an armful, but he spotted something that made him pause.

"Mother, do you spy that mysterious figure?"

A man was coming toward them, striding with calm purpose through the tall grass. He wore a long coat and sash like Owain had only seen on paper in books about Valm, and a curved sword very unlike Falchion. His hair was black and messy and his face and forearms were sunburned.

"Halt!" Owain cried bravely to practice his booming Hero Voice, while the knights behind him slowly drew their own swords. "Who goes there?"

"Sheathe those," Mother whispered to their retinue.

He looked back over her shoulder at her. "What?"

He had to whip his head to follow her as she broke out into a run, right past him and over the field. He was sprinting after before he knew it.

"Mother? Mother! You said not to approach strangers! Woe to those who don't follow their own advice!"

His feet and mouth both stopped when Mother did. They were still several meters from the mysterious man, and he fixed her with the strangest, longest stare Owain had ever seen. The three of them stood through a moment of thick silence as if stuck in it.

"I came as soon as I heard," the man said finally. "Khan Basilio sends his condolences."

"Lon'qu." Mother's voice trembled. "What are you doing here?"

He looked extremely uncomfortable—so much so that Owain fidgeted from the look of it alone. Was it from being so sunburned?

"I know I'm...overstepping myself," the man said finally, in a soft voice. "But I know that in Ylisse, a widow and her child can go to her brother for support. But you...your brother is on the front lines now, and Frederick is dead, and I...I worried...so I thought...i-if you needed..."

Mother's light eyebrows slanted up. "A brother?"

"Yes."

"You?"

"I know I would not be a particularly good one. But I had to at least ask—to find out if there was anything you or the boy needed."

"You walked from Regna Ferox to ask me a question? Lon'qu, we haven't spoken in a decade!"

"You seem displeased."

"Of course I'm displeased! You promised we'd..." She trailed off and gave him a shrewd look. "This makes it look like nothing at all has changed in all this time."

"Nothing has," he said quietly. "Not for me."

"Ooh, of all the nerve! I can take care of myself just fine, you know! I haven't forgotten the weight of an axe!"

"An axe?" Owain asked incredulously—surely not Mother?—but he was soundly ignored as she ploughed on:

"Donnel dead hardly three months, and you march in like—"

"I'm not here for you!" the man said hotly, and gave a nod toward Owain, who was more confused than he'd ever been in his life. "I'm here for him."

"What?" Owain asked, but he was ignored again when Lon'qu gave the answer to his question to Mother:

"I know what he needs. And there is no one around who can properly give it to him...is there."

Mother fell silent, and Owain found himself under the stranger's surprisingly intense gaze.

"You need power, don't you, boy. You need to learn how to protect the people you care for."

"How did you know that?" he asked, edging toward the safety of Mother's skirts. There was a sudden rush of pain through the man's eyes, so fast that Owain wondered if he'd just imagined it.

"You came all this way to be his teacher?" Lissa asked. Her voice was quavering again. "That's it?"

"That's it. If he feels like learning. No one is blind to how this war is going; we will need to train everyone strong enough to lift a weapon. At first I was sure one of the old Shepherds would be teaching him, but...they're nearly all gone, aren't they."

Mother nodded.

"Then he can learn from a Feroxi Champion, if he wants. It might be his best chance at surviving…whatever comes."

"A what?" Owain cried.

A Champion, Chosen One of the Feroxi Khans themselves? Impossible! Indescribable! Intrepid adventurousness by now outweighed any fear. He approached Lon'qu slowly before reaching out to touch the simple but well cared-for sheath at his side.

"I have a teacher already," he said. "My Exalted cousin, Lucina. But if I have two teachers, and learn two styles, and spend twice as much time fighting...won't I become stronger twice as fast?" He looked up at Lon'qu and tugged on the sheath. "You're really a Champion? You really know how to use this?"

It was too good to be true. Lon'qu just stared down impassively.

"Anyone who has ever asked me that has ended up dead."

"Ooh." Owain shivered. "That was such a good line. Mother, he's witty! May he stay? I promise to practice every day!"

He wasn't sure why Lon'qu and Mother were so tense, but the idea of learning from a Champion was too good to pass up. It was for Mother's own good, if Owain learned well!

"Lon'qu," she said. "What if I do need something from you?"

"Then I will give it, of course." Owain saw Lon'qu's weight shift backward, as if preparing a retreat, before he frowned and added, "If it's within my power."

Does Mother scare him? he had to wonder then, but she started to speak and it broke his thoughts.

"You promised we would be friends, even after we parted ways. But I haven't heard from you in all this time."

"I figured you didn't need to," he muttered. "You had Donnel, Chrom, Maribelle, Frederick—all the Shepherds."

"But now I don't. Only Maribelle is left, and she already speaks of leaving to help."

Owain filed that one away to tell Brady, later. It was news to him.

"I'm here now, Lissa," Lon'qu said softly. "I assumed you didn't want my friendship any longer, but you may certainly have it. Without complications."

"You mean it?"

Lon'qu just glowered at her as if offended she'd even question his words. A wavering smile broke across her face and she opened her arms to him.

"Lon'qu, may I—"

Hug you, Owain thought she was going to say, based on the body language, so the end of her sentence surprised her:

"—hold your hand?"

He hesitated, but finally gave a nod and extended it. She reached out and clasped his fingers between hers without coming any closer.

"Let's go back to the castle," she said.

They began to walk back, Owain placing himself between Lon'qu and Mother, which his new teacher seemed to appreciate, for some reason, for his shoulders finally relaxed. They still bantered over his head like whatever time they held between them hadn't passed at all:

"I can't believe you thought I'd come here for something like that, Lissa. Of all the nerve, and with my phobia—"

"In my defence, it's always been impossible to tell what you're thinking with all that grump on your face!"

Suddenly, in the sunlight, between his newest acquaintance and the person he'd known the longest, between the woman who gave him life and the man who would teach him death, Owain had the strangest feeling wash over him. It was light and sparkling, like inspiration, but it rocked his heart in a stormy sea at the same time.

A premonition? he wondered as he looked up at the castle looming steadily closer. Am I to take this as a sign? And if so, of what?

But the emotion was gone as quickly as it had come.