Edited 5/4/16 and WOWZA is it so much better.

He dreams about her, sometimes. It happens in the dead of night when he is alone, pondering the throbbing burn of failure pulsing through his veins. Or when he can feel that creeping sensation of blood—their blood—oozing from his fingertips staining everything he touches in red. It is when he is most vulnerable; wondering after the dark regrets that plague his subconscious, torturing his soul into submission and he cannot help but chuckle at the irony of it all. Ah, how the mighty have fallen.

It is always the same. Her golden hair is a halo around her head, the Mark of the Exalt shining like a beacon. She stands at the tip of the rock, green robes billowing behind her in the wind. She holds something out toward him—a bouquet of flowers (perfect white lilies and bright golden roses)—and the serene smile on her face tells him to take it.

And then she is falling through a greying sky and from her back sprouts wings of a blinding white. They envelop him, wrap around him, strangle him, and he cannot breathe. It is warm inside her embrace, but he struggles anyway.

Two years ago, he often forgot she existed. Back then, he believed she was the forgotten third sibling, the insignificant presence behind his two greatest enemies. She had neither the political guile nor the military prowess to be a threat. She was to be a footnote in the history of Ylisse and Plegia; the princess destined to remain in the shadows of her siblings' glory.

Now, she is sitting across the barracks from him and it strikes him how similar she is to that hated woman. From her golden hair to the green Sage garb she dons, the resemblance is uncanny. As he looks at her, he wonders what it would be like if that Exalt hadn't died. Then, all of his choices, all of his decisions, would have never happened; they would all be just a horrific story, a tragic fable. There would be no mockery in the stars, no contempt staring back at him in the mirror.

No regrets. No dreams.

But the illusion is gone when the girl in question catches his eye and her face—her face!—twists into an ugly scowl. Her eyes darken and her whole body tenses.

Such hatred, Gangrel thinks. His whole body reacts toward her darkness and he almost laughs at the way it moves him. It has been such a long time since someone has gazed at him with so much emotion, so much pain. It is liberating, as it is disgusting. It is beautiful and it is horrible. He revels in it.

He smirks, leaning back in glorious cruelty. Let me see you squirm, maggot. Let me see your pain. He spits a single word at her, "Princess."

You are a Princess, and never an Exalt. You will never be like her, you poor, forgettable, little girl.

She stands up and opens her mouth, trembling with rage, "You—!" But she stops herself.

In her eyes is a murderous intent that rivals that of Aversa and a sickening rush of glee travels from his gut and throughout the rest of his body. He can see the unspoken words and the repressed emotion build up in her throat. Tears threaten to spill out of her dark, onyx eyes, but before they do, she promptly turns on her heel and marches out the door.

Gangrel cackles after her retreating figure, but it sounds empty, hollow.

Contact with her is minimal. The blue-haired Ylissean brat is his general, after all, and she, his precious little sister. Of course he would be kept at a distance. After all, they are the Shepherds; the army that dethroned him. They cannot trust him. He can hardly trust himself.

Robin has tried talking to him, Chrom has often yelled at him. And the rest of the Shepherds continue to give him sidelong, accusatory glances as if he can help the way he was born, as if he can escape the fate the gods had trapped him in.

Redemption, Robin says. Vindication, Chrom cries.

Gangrel wants to scoff at the very thought. There is no redemption for the weak.

He is put to work setting up tents for camp. In the Shepherds, everyone does everything. Whether it's cooking, taking inventory, shopping for supplies, caring for the weapons, no one is exempt from the day-to-day chores they are assigned to. Gangrel once saw Chrom himself attempt to make a meal, although with disastrous results. He was banned from the kitchen ever since. The thought dumbfounds Gangrel. How can a king be banned from anywhere if it is within his domain of reign? But such it is when you are part of the Shepherds. As strange as the policies are, Gangrel has to wonder if maybe this level of egalitarianism is why they work so well together. Why they are able to overthrow conquerors, defeat kings, and now, kill gods.

Gangrel finishes the last tent with a wipe of his brow and a satisfied huff before leaving to wash himself off. Two years ago, he would never be tasked with menial labor. Such was the job of the poor, the commoner. Bathtubs would be filled to the brim, warm and ready for him. Food fit for an emperor would be served to him on the daily while the scraps were given to the rest of the army. During his reign, it was clear who was the monarch, the sovereign, the king. Here, in the Shepherds, it is different and drastically so.

He is most alive in battle.

He laughs uproariously into the greying skies as he cuts down his enemies one by one. He taunts them, insults their mother, their country, their god, and cackles as they drop like the worthless corpses they are. The adrenaline pumps through his veins and though the blood tastes metallic in his mouth, there is nothing better than knowing that there is a clear path of carnage leading right up to his feet. The body count increases in number and so does his glee. On the battlefield, he is the frenzied glory that silences the enemy and his subjects are the carcasses lying unmoving beneath him.

At the end of the battle, the thrill dies away and so does his triumph and he is just a corpse once more.

She stares at the skies above her head and Gangrel wonders if there is something else she is seeing other than wispy clouds. Maybe a silhouette against a backdrop of grey. Maybe eyes that used to smile at her, sickly sweet, after feverish dreams.

He moves as if to turn away from her, but her gaze drops and their eyes lock. The cleric's expression changes into a disgusted scowl. Gangrel wants to laugh at the sight of it. It is so ugly, so toxic, so perfect. She is about to turn away, but Gangrel can't help himself. He smiles smugly at her, internally wondering why he so enjoys watching her squirm. "Why, good day, Princess."

She immediately whirls upon him. "Don't call me princess," she says through gritted teeth, fists clenched.

"Oh? So full of poison. It becomes you." He spits out the next word, reveling in its taste, "Princess."

There she goes again, Gangrel thinks, wearing her heart on her sleeve. It's something Chrom always does, something Emmeryn never did. Her eyes tell him everything he needs to know: that his words, his expression, his very attitude is destroying her from the inside out.

"How dare you," she says, her voice trembling and dangerously soft.

"Are you angry? Do you hate me?" he asks, mockingly. He does not know why he wishes to provoke her so; only that he does, and with an intensity that can rival the heat of the Plegian desert.

She takes one step forward and looks straight into his eyes before saying with all the conviction in the universe, "Yes, I do. I hate you."

There is something in the way she says it, a particular way her expression sets upon her face. He can't pinpoint what it is, but as those words fall from her lips he feels a void in his conscience, emptiness he cannot shake. Gangrel remembers all the times this little girl has laughed with the other Shepherds. All the times she has greeted her brother with a bright grin and a cheerful kiss. The way she so easily diffuses tension, the way she so naturally spreads joy; a trait unworthy of battle fields or history books or legends. A trait her saint sister did not have and a trait her warrior brother would never have. And Gangrel knows—in the same way he knows that you kill a man by stabbing his heart, that you change a country by destroying her king—he deserves her hatred.

"Good," he says simply. He walks away and does not look back.

The emptiness stays with him for a long time.

In the dead of night, after a victorious battle against the Risen, Gangrel thinks of thousands of people spread before him, hanging on to his every word. He thinks of soldiers atop Wyverns and sorcerers wrapped in darkness. He thinks of power running through his veins and the absolute obedience of all who approach him.

He thinks of Emmeryn in his dream. Of haloes and flowers. Of wings of a blinding white that wrap everyone in her gentleness, including him. He thinks of a country fighting for peace and an Exalt embodying that peace.

He thinks of siblings who lost their sister and a girl who looks almost exactly like her.

Every single one of those siblings is foolish. Emmeryn once took a plunge to her death. Chrom continuously flings himself into the front lines, right in the way of enemy swords.

And Lissa is a healer; a healer who should be protected, who should be behind the front lines, working her magic on those who are brought to her.

But she doesn't do that. She runs right into enemy lines—covered by Lon'qu, maybe casting a spell or two to ward off a stray arrow—to kneel at the side of an injured Shepherd and heal him.

Gangrel yells in shock when she completely disregards the trajectory of Lon'qu's sword and changes directions, making a beeline toward a red-haired mage on her knees, bleeding on the ground. Barely ten paces away, Gangrel sees an enemy swordsman move to cut her down. Lissa is so focused on getting to the injured soldier that she doesn't notice the danger. Immediately, Gangrel dashes toward her. Right before the blade has a chance to bury itself into her flesh, he manages to push the healer aside and block it.

With a surprised yelp, Lissa tumbles to the ground. She looks upon her savior with wide eyes and an unreadable expression as Lon'qu comes to kneel by her side, calling her name. Gangrel quickly dispatches the enemy.

Her voice is barely audible over the sounds of war, but he hears it just as he turns away. "Thanks."

Gangrel lets out a sharp guffaw but does not reply. A moment later, he jumps back into the fray.

Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like if he hadn't been so consumed by hatred of the Ylisseans, if he hadn't been so drunk on power. Valm was too huge and Walhart too much of a threat. Gangrel wonders what if he had taken the flowers from Emmeryn instead of spitting on her face every time she tried.

Would he have met the other siblings over tea rather than across a battlefield? Would he have come to know them as noblemen worthy of alliance? Would the wounds of centuries of animosity between their countries finally be able to heal?

Maybe Chrom and he would have had friendly bouts instead of battles to the death. Maybe he and Emmeryn could have rebuilt their countries from the ground up and established a friendship that would last for centuries to come. Maybe he and Lissa would have pulled pranks on each other and her smile would have been reserved for him, as well.

Sometimes, these what-ifs and maybes and ponderings swirl through his head to the point that tears gather in his eyes. It could have been possible. It could have been, but it wasn't.

And now all he has left are the mockery of former glory and the blood of innocent people on his hands.

He is alone as per usual. He does not bother with making friendships because what's the use? Being in this army is only temporary. After they slay Grima, he will disappear. He doesn't know where, but he knows that he will.

He contemplates the soft summer sky and the looming cloud of darkness in the distance. From his vantage point, it's so far away. Almost like it wasn't an ill omen. Almost like it didn't contain the evil of a dark god.

Footsteps approach him from behind and a voice, small like daisies, says, "Thank you for saving me the other day."

He doesn't dare turn around. "Don't mention it, Princess."

Silence.

He scoffs, "You should go back to your lord brother's side. He might throw a fit if he saw you interacting with me," he added.

"Well, I don't care. He can deal with it," she says simply and Gangrel barks in laughter.

"You know, I always did appreciate your snark, Princess. You're not nearly as boring as your brother."

She doesn't say anything in response. Gangrel can feel the awkwardness emanating from her, but he does not face her. Instead, he tries to focus on the dark cloud in the horizon. He watches it churn.

The distraction doesn't work and he grows impatient. "If you have nothing else to say, Princess"—he makes sure to spit on her name, the same way he would spit on his own if he could only gather the courage—"then I would appreciate it if you would take your leave."

She doesn't leave. "I hate you," is all she says, in a voice quiet and soft.

Suddenly, Gangrel just feels tired. So very tired. "Yes. I'm quite aware."

"I don't want to hate you."

"I'm sure you're the only one," he snaps back. It's better, he thinks. It's better to be angry and caustic. To push her away rather than to face her. Anything else is better.

"Maybe." And he hears the rustle of her clothing and the footsteps in the grass. She plops down beside him. From the corner of his eyes, he sees her healer's staff laid carefully on her lap. Her legs are splayed out in front of her and her brown combat boots stick out from beneath her yellow cleric's dress.

Her presence is suffocating and Gangrel wants to run away. He would, too, if only his bones didn't feel so heavy. If only his muscles didn't feel so tired. "Princess," he starts, exasperated. "Why are you here?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "I'm just sitting next to a fellow Shepherd."

At that, he whirls toward her. "I am not a Shepherd." He enunciates every syllable to make sure she knows.

To his surprise, she's not looking at him. She is looking across the sky, to the dark cloud looming in the distance. Does it look far away to her? Or is it too close?

Her reply comes to him, as calm as the field they sit in. "You're here, aren't you?" Her onyx eyes seem to glow in the twilight. "So, yeah. I'd say you're a Shepherd."

Anger flares in his abdomen. There's so much he wants to say. Things like, just go away, or do not be kind to me or kill me already, but he doesn't. Instead, he grits his teeth. "I am Mad King Gangrel," he proclaims, feeling the words burn his throat. "I started a war with your country. I killed your sister."

If his words pained her, she doesn't show. Instead, her far away gaze makes her look sad. "You're no king. Not anymore. So, Ylisse has no issues with you. And my sister…" she pauses just briefly. "She'd want me to forgive you."

He feels his heart beat in his chest. It's painful. Like a barrage of rocks.

"And do you?" He hates how hopeful he sounds.

"No."

He scoffs, trying to ignore the sting her blunt confession causes. "As if anyone would."

"But one day, I hope to," she says suddenly. She turns her bright onyx eyes toward him. Her gaze pierces through him. "Because I'm sure I'm not the only one suffering. I think you are too. And us, both…we can be better than that."

He doesn't have anything to say. So he keeps quiet. After a while, he thinks things are starting to look a little misty, so he ducks his head, blinking hard.

Her lips twitch upward, a little playful. Just a little. "I won't even ask for an apology."

Gangrel lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He bares his teeth in what he wants to be a shit-eating grin, but probably looks more like a grimace. He's not at the top of his game, after all. "I wouldn't even dream of giving one to you."

At that, she bursts out in laughter and it sounds like bells.

It's the first time, Gangrel thinks with bated breath as he listens to her. It's the first time.

That night, he dreams of Emmeryn atop her rock and Gangrel finds that she is beautiful in the way a growing tree is beautiful, in the way mysteries and stories and impossibilities are beautiful. She smiles serenely at him and it strikes Gangrel that the grace he had always scoffed at made her as majestic as the stars in the sky, illuminating the darkness with her light.

She holds out her bouquet of flowers—white lilies and yellow roses—and silently implores him to take it. Gangrel reaches out his hands to receive them. When he does, he looks back at her face, but it is not Emmeryn's smile staring at him, but rather Lissa's grin blinding him in its brilliance. The wings upon her back are not white; rather, they are deep golden, stunning and rich and overwhelmingly warm. When they wrap around him, he does not struggle.

"Princess," he whispers.

When he opens his eyes, he is back in his tiny canvas tent. But the image of her splendor is burned into his mind and the pervading feeling of warmth from the softness of her wings permeates throughout his whole body.

He sleeps well for the rest of the night.

Gangrel does not often go to the barracks. When he does, it is only for meals, and he never stays long. But she is always there when he is, smiling and laughing with the Shepherds she loves so much. Sometimes, there's a hot plate beside her when he arrives. Sometimes, she takes her seat next to him. Sometimes, after a long day battling Risen or marching long distances, she smiles at him.

And sometimes, Gangrel, former king of Plegia, smiles back.