Chapter XXII: Family

When Freya and I return to the rendezvous point, Robin has turned it into a refugee camp.

That's an exaggeration, but there is a collection of battered citizens receiving treatment from Liston. The fact the Exalt's younger brother is the one doing the healing isn't lost on the people of Ylisstol. Even with their homes destroyed, family members missing or dead, the gratitude shines on their faces under the muck and desperation. A wan smile stretches my lips, a small joy among barren fields, the same hope these people feel, cling to in the absence of anything else.

But the smile fades quickly. Marius is captured, and none of Ylisstol's inhabitants are safe until we escort them far from the city.

Freya dismounts Fury before me, sliding stiffly onto the ground. Robin and Chrom greet us just as my feet hit the earth.

"Thank the gods," Robin says, the relief in her eyes a stark contrast with her bedraggled person. "When Agatha explained the situation, I feared neither of you would ever read my message."

Chrom dispenses with her station to embrace Freya. "I forbid you to worry me like that again, my friend."

"I shall endeavor not to do so, milady," Freya says, her palm somewhat awkward against her liege's back.

They part, and Chrom moves toward me. She spreads her arms as if to hug me as well before faltering, limbs dangling undecided. "Michael… I am so glad you're safe," she says, at once genuine and reticent.

I suppose this is to be expected. Chrom no doubt replays the same images I do whenever we see one another. "Me too." My smile is wooden, if it can even be called a smile. "Right, though. Robin. The Plegians have Marius?"

Robin's posture straightens, all momentary levity dissipating as the reunion shifts somber. "Yes. One of the civilians we rescued claims to be from Themis. According to her testimony, she witnessed Marius being taken by the Plegian army."

Maybe it's just the influence of Freya, but skepticism has me frowning. What are the odds of finding the one person who happens to know where Marius is? "You believe her? Does she have any proof?"

Freya glances my direction. From the side it almost looks like approval. "I must concur with Michael," she agrees. "We cannot rule out the possibility of a trap. Furthermore, where is the Exalt?"

"A few of Phila's Air Corps took her to a more secure location further from the city," Chrom says in reassurance. "Cornelius is with her. She's safe, Freya. As for Marius and Themis, it's best you talk to the witness directly."

The Shepherds linked up with Phila then? Probably wise. Those pegasus knights will be more useful helping the populace than dying in vain fighting a losing battle. Freya nods, mollified. Knowing Freya, she would rather be watching Emmeryn herself, but at least the Exalt isn't in immediate danger.

I let my gaze wander around the camp as Freya asks a couple more questions—what is Phila doing now (organizing rescue parties), do she and Emmeryn know about Marius (yes), logistical things. Robin and Chrom did a hell of a job while Freya and I were at the palace. There must be a few dozen citizens here, and seeing as that some of the Shepherds, like Sullivan and Stana, are gone, they're still retrieving people from the city. No, we can't possibly save everyone, but Ylisstol would definitely be worse off without the Shepherds.

However, when do we stop? What's the limit? How many people is too many for us to feasibly protect? At some point we have to leave Ylisstol and put some distance between ourselves and the Plegian army. My stomach twists entertaining the thought. What kind of country doesn't maintain a standing army with a neighbor like Plegia constantly hankering for war? I don't want to blame Emmeryn. I don't. It just feels so negligent to fanatically value peace to the detriment of her subjects. Would those servants have been slaughtered if Ylisstol had more than just a handful of soldiers defending it?

"Michael." Freya's voice. Weary. I blink and respond with an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Freya. I was lost in thought."

She wears dour pursed lips. "A marvel that you have enough thoughts to be lost in." Freya sighs, inclining her head towards a group of refugees. "If you'd like to cease your daydreaming, we are speaking to the witness from Themis."

I'll forgive Freya the acerbic wit. I'm about 75% sure she only means it a little. She wouldn't be Freya if she didn't mask affection with barbed comments. So, I grin toothily. When she narrows her eyes and turns away, tossing her hair, 75 becomes 95.

We follow Robin and Chrom to the gaggle of civilians. Liston doesn't notice our arrival, absorbed in his work and face taut in a way that suggests he's older than he is. Robin clears her throat, and Liston jumps. His eyes alight as he sees Freya and me, the harsh lines around his jaw and cheeks softening.

"You're back!" He bustles over prone patients, hopping gracelessly. Liston envelops us both. "Gods, I was so scared!"

His arms drag our faces together, Freya's brushing my own. My eyes never stray from Liston. After an excruciating and unknowable length of time, he relents. I compose myself with a shuffle. This fucking kid.

Freya smooths her hair and steps to the side. "I am pleased to see you as well, milord."

I echo the sentiment, Liston's beaming, unfettered expression impossible to ignore. He dulls a bit when Chrom mentions Marius and the survivor who saw him captured. Today is a joyless day for everyone, but Liston perhaps has the worst of it. That he can smile at all is a testament to his bubbly optimism. If my best friend was held prisoner by the very faction destroying my home… well, I wouldn't be as functional. Nearly losing Freya just about drove me into a blind panic.

Delicate sensibilities or not, Liston has strength.

He fetches the woman at Chrom's request, a waif of a thing with sunken eyes and ragged clothes. She reminds me of Beth. They have the same hollowness, the same fear in their irises. Whether or not she truly knows anything important about Marius remains to be seen, but I'm convinced this girl has been through vile things.

"Susan, this is Freya and Michael," Chrom says gently, like whispering to a spooked horse. "They're friends of Marius. Can you tell them what you told me?"

Susan regards us with caution, her body angled toward Chrom. Might have been a good idea to wipe away some of this blood and grime before meeting her. Chrom prompts her again. Swallowing, Susan begins.

"I worked for the duke, Lord Marius's father, as a chambermaid," she mumbles. There's a hoarse quality to her voice, as if disused. "In Themis, Plegian bandits often raid villages near the border. Lord Marius left with some of the Duke's men to stop a large group that had already attacked several towns. But… But…."

A sob wracks her, choking her words. Neither Freya or I press her to continue. This kind of thing can't be rushed. When Susan levels, sucking in a few deep, shuddering breaths, she murmurs an apology.

"Please excuse me… The memory is fresh and… difficult." Her eyes close and open, longer than a blink. "The bandits were not bandits. Plegia was invading, sending smaller parties to raze and loot. Lord Marius barely made it back to the estate alive. The Duke tried to prepare a defense, but the army was too fast. They… they killed almost everyone. Even the Duke. Lord Marius was taken away in chains. And I… I ran. I ran away, and I deserve whatever punishment I get."

I understand self-loathing. It's pervasive. Cloying, a thick sludge that fills your mind. After that Risen stabbed Freya, all I did was hate myself. It achieved nothing. And that incident was actually my fault. Susan isn't responsible for Themis. The only people who should be punished are the ones who murdered Marius's father and all those innocent townsfolk.

My hand finds Susan's shoulder. She starts, seeming to shrink into herself. "I don't know what you saw or what it was like to be there," I say. Susan looks to me, trembling. "But I know it wasn't your fault. That line of thinking, it only leads to more pain."

"On the contrary, I am most perturbed by the fact you apparently fled Themis and yet did not inform a single soul of the Plegian invasion."

Goddammit, Freya. Callous and prudent are two different things. Susan is not acting. She is not lying. I had my doubts at first, thought it was a tad too convenient. Then I saw her. Saw the haunted specters of tragedy on her face, the gaunt divots beneath her cheeks that were once dimples. Either Susan is the Meryl Streep of Ylisse, or she's who she says she is.

Susan recoils, eyes watery. "I'd never been outside Themis. I tried to tell people, but by the time I got here they already knew. Plegia marched so quickly that it didn't matter. We didn't stand a chance."

A blitzkrieg. Against a nation like Ylisse, that kind of assault overruns last minute preparations easily. If only we'd secured Feroxi support earlier. Or if Ylisse had any kind of contingency for a war like this. My fists curl, shaking at my sides from the restraint it takes not to scream. So many people are dead. Lives shattered. No, I do blame Emmeryn. I blame her for those servants. And I blame her for the human-shaped husk Susan is forced to live as because of this war.

"This could have all been avoided if Ylisse had an army. A real army." The words slip from my lips unbidden, seething and bitter.

Freya turns and stares. No hostility or scorn. Just surprise. Everyone stares—Chrom and Robin and Liston. Susan, like a skittish deer. I can't retract what I've said. I wouldn't want to. Lifting my chin, I forge ahead.

"You all heard me," I say, declarative. "We can hate Plegia for this, but it won't change that Ylisstol is on fire because Ylisse has no army. The Air Corps? The guard? Us, the Shepherds? That's not enough. What was Emmeryn thinking? Peace is great. When you have nice neighbors. Emmeryn—"

I'm interrupted by Freya's face inches from mine. Her lips quake, jaw set sharp. "Do not dare speak her name so casually," Freya hisses, and I want to pretend there isn't disbelief simmering in her glare. "Her Grace has worked tirelessly to rebuild this country. I have supported her vision all my life. You have no right to criticize her."

Heat flares up my throat, stinging, livid, not the pleasant kind I've felt near Freya lately. "Don't I? Agatha, my friend, almost died. You almost died! What good is peace if we're all too fucking dead to enjoy it?"

"Michael, tread carefully. I am warning you." Freya's serious. More serious than I've ever seen her. But I'm angry. I'm so angry.

"Maybe," I say, chewing the words, "Someone whose policies end up getting her people killed shouldn't be in charge."

I expect a punch, to taste blood in my mouth. What I don't expect, what rends my heart, is the devastation etched into Freya's features. She stands there, lips parted, slack, her eyes locked onto me. I am used to scathing, to exasperated, to irritated. To Freya's many reactions. I am not used to betrayal. She steps backwards, and that brief quaver of hurt fossilizes. A cold disappointment lingers.

Robin raises her palms, mediating. "Let's just calm down, OK?" She addresses Freya and I equally. "We're all stressed. Let's focus on fighting the enemy, not each other."

"No." Chrom palms Falchion's pommel, looking down at the grass. When she faces us, her gaze is piercing and fraught. "No, this needs to be said. Michael went perhaps too far. However, he isn't wrong. Ylisse is suffering because we didn't protect the people. I love my sister, but the consequences are all around us."

I feel no satisfaction or pride in Chrom's admission. No desire to chime 'I told you so' like a spoiled child. If anything, I wish I was wrong. I'd be wrong a thousand times about a thousand things to change how Freya looks right now. A woman shaken to her core, a lifetime of conviction sagging under the terrible weight of reality.

Freya pivots, mechanical, and trudges across the clearing.

She leaves profound silence in her wake, a silence no noise can erase. It's a silence of the heart, felt in beats and pulses and the flow of blood in one's ears. In the crunch of leaves under boots, the instinctive and involuntary motion to chase. To grasp her arm and spin her around to see the only tears I've ever seen her shed. No sounds, just Freya's silence.

My fingers slide away, limp. Freya doesn't bother wiping her eyes. It's her and me, alone, no other Shepherds or refugees. Crisp darkness cut by flame and ash. Does she hate me? Does she want me to disappear forever? I won't insult her intelligence with fumbled backpedaling. But I need Freya. I need everything about her.

I untie the pouch from my belt, and upend the contents into her hand. The lone pebble spills forth, pale as the moon. She studies it, cradling the stone in her palm.

"This pebble is from when we talked before convincing Robin not to use the fire mine," I whisper, husky, earnest, afraid. "It was knocking against your shoe. To me… it represents you. How far we've come. I know I'm an idiot. I know I piss you off. I know that I… that I hurt you. I also know I'd be completely lost without you."

Her fingers glide over the pebble, rolling it. For a moment, I think she's going to toss it into the night. Instead, her hand tightens around the polished rock. "Why?" Freya asks quietly.

"Why what?"

"Why is it always, always, always you?"

Freya's eyes bore into me. Even right beside her, I feel like a voyeur to forbidden truths. "I don't understand what you mean."

A tear meanders down her cheek, and I track it rather look at the source. "Every time I am wrong. Every time something changes that I do not want to change. Every moment where I feel things I am loath to feel. I do not recognize my life anymore. And you're there. You're always there, Michael."

"Do you want me to go?" I ask the unseen pebble clutched in her grip.

"No. No, I don't," she breathes.

I struggle to process this Freya, a Freya both new and the same. "Then I don't know what you want. I care about Ylisse. I care about you. I care about Lady Emmeryn. Everything I do and say is because I care. More than anything, I just want you to know that I'm trying. I'm fighting." My lungs burn with unsaid words, a fervor and furious passion. A belonging. An inferno igniting every cell from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. "I believe in the Shepherds and Ylisse and you. I believe that these Plegian bastards have to pay for what they've done! I believe that we should never ever give up, no matter how hard it gets. And I want you, Freya, next to me, inspiring me to keep going. Because… I've changed thanks to you. I'm better because of you!"

The deluge ends, my mouth dry. Freya listened to the whole speech, to each rambling sentence. Her eyes roam across my face, flitting and red-rimmed. And then she sighs, hands tugging me close, forehead resting on my shoulder.

"Her Grace and I spent our adolescence together," she says, muffled by my gambeson. "As you know, my house serves the Exalted Family. I've been with milady in some capacity since childhood. She ascended the throne very young, too young, tasked with governing a nation crippled by her father's crusade against Plegia. So, Her Grace sought peace. Prosperity. She accomplished that goal."

It is my turn to listen. Just listen. Unsure what else to do, I hold her. It feels… right.

Freya fingers the fabric on my collar. "Lady Emmeryn is a great leader. She brought us back into the light. But… But I have always known, deep inside, that Her Grace is not suited for war. She is too kind, too eager to accept that there is good in all people. They are all three like that, true siblings. Yet, Lady Emmeryn more so. You and Lady Chrom were correct. Peace will no longer save Ylisse."

The words hang in the air, cruel and unfair. Emmeryn's legacy cannot be this. The sins of the past cannot define future. I press Freya closer. "The Exalt has you. She has the Shepherds. She has an alliance with Regna Ferox. Plegia will not win. And Freya… I know I'm not much, but you can trust me."

She leans back slightly, fingers still bundled within the gambeson's linen. This proximity is… intimate. All the comfortable pauses when we're together, the warmth, the banter—there's a name for that. Freya and I, we changed. I've been calling it friendship. It is friendship. It's also more. I really am a moron. And I kissed the wrong girl.

"Michael, I would not share what I have shared with a person I do not trust." Freya frowns, and it is a beautiful frown. "Tis beyond me how you earned such a thing."

Is it OK to feel this way? Will it ruin what we have? Chrom rejected me, and I finally understand I projected everything onto her because I was too scared to acknowledge the deeper, more organic connection I already had. Why is it always you? It's always Freya. I might not be worthy, but I sure as hell want to be.

Fuck it. Ylisstol's on fire.

I cup Freya's cheek, the one bearing the slice those assassins at the palace inflicted. My thumb traces the cut, barely grazing the healing flesh. Freya inhales, not quite a gasp and not quite a normal breath. She's not pushing me away. Leaning in, I see the scar that Risen's lance left on her neck. Hesitation. Shame. Our lips about to brush, an agonizing gap.

Freya closes it. Her kiss is rough, clumsy. Honest. I return it slowly, easing into her pace. Drifting from her cheek, my fingers weave within chestnut tresses. Freya's mouth opens against mine. I feel the sound she makes as well as hear it. A pleased sigh, something yearning and emotional and so unbelievably tender. The kiss tapers away at its peak. We breathe rapidly, air mingling in the torrid space between us.

A blissful moment passes. Thoughts are half-formed and vague. Freya disentangles herself from my arms. The tunnel vision clears, and I remember where we are and that Freya isn't the only person in the world. Her hair shields her face, a veiled silhouette.

"Twas most improper, our behavior." Freya's pebble filled fist lies atop her breastplate. "I am unsure what came over me."

These next words matter. For Freya and me, for whatever this is. Right now isn't the time to sit down and talk about it, but I can't just babble some asinine nonsense. "I don't regret it, Freya."

She takes my wrist, placing the pebble into my hand, a mirror of my earlier action. "I believe this is yours," she says. "Let us return to the others and to our duties."

"Please. Keep it." I wrap her fingers around the stone, feeling her coarse knuckles. "As a promise that we'll talk later."

"Michael, I… Matters of the heart are not my area of expertise."

"Same here."

Freya scowls her signature scowl. Usually, it is a smile that doesn't reach the eyes. In Freya's case, it is her assortment of frowns. "Alright. You have my word. Now, if that is all, Ylisse beckons."

That'll do. We're trekking through uncharted territory. With the chaos embroiling Ylisse, quantifying… 'us' adds complexity to something I can't even define. It's nonstandard, to be generous. The kiss occupies a private nook, secluded heat, delineated by the phantom touch still sinking into my lips rather than any fuddled words. Intuitive. Raw. I smile. I smile at Freya's elegant, unbothered stride.

At the sleek slip of her hand into the velvet satchel on her hip, a speckled alabaster stone settling among the rest.

The plan to free Marius is twofold. First, good old fashioned recon. Susan's account only confirmed that Marius was captured alive. Nothing else. Where he's being held, his condition, the degree of security—all unknown factors. He might not be with the army attacking Ylisstol at all. We can't do much until we have more information.

Second, if he is here and we do find him, we bust in and then get the fuck out of Dodge.

Few more steps than that, but a plan's a plan. Unfortunately, there's a small window of opportunity. Only a handful of Shepherds can be spared to partake in the operation. The number of refugees in need of safe passage away from the city keeps growing, and their chances get slimmer as dawn approaches. Practically speaking, diverting our full attention to Marius will endanger the people relying on the Shepherds. Robin knows it. Chrom knows it. We all know it.

Which is why I'm flying high above the Plegian encampment while everyone except Robin, Phila, Freya and Liston escorts the civilians toward the Regna Ferox border. Phila sails alongside me, a more austere partner than Sumner. Who I'm positive she would prefer to have up here instead of me. But Liston refused to join the other group, adamant about saving his childhood friend. Thus, Freya. And thus, me. Chrom almost participated as well, though Robin dissuaded her. The Shepherds without their tactician and captain? No, not a good idea. The chain of volunteers would have probably continued on forever if Robin hadn't stood firm.

My role is simple; scout with Phila and do whatever she says. Not gonna argue with that. Plus, making a good impression with the commander of the Air Corps can't hurt.

Phila signals to bank left. Thankful for Sumner's lessons on nonverbal flight communication, I steer Fury into a sloping turn. The angle puts us parallel with a caravan parked furthest from Ylisstol's walls. Supply wagons? At this altitude it's just an educated guess. If Phila and I descend any lower, we'll risk being spotted by sentries. Or worse, wyvern riders.

Flying several passes, the Plegian camp's layout solidifies. Siege equipment, barracks, cavalry regiments, reserve troops. Their army is a greased machine. Palisades divide it into a grid of sorts, channels for swift movement. The bandits in those ruins outside Donna's village hardly register compared to the scale here. Thousands of soldiers. It isn't just an army; it's an occupation force.

Unnerving speculations plague me as Phila leads us back to the forested hill where Robin and the others wait. What does Plegia intend to do with Ylisse? Conquer it entirely? Enslave the population? The winner of a war does what they please. This world has no Geneva Conventions. No United Nations sanctioning Plegia for an unprovoked invasion. Defeat means subjugation. Ylisse does not deserve that fate.

We touch ground to the sight of Robin pacing zigzags around Freya and Liston. I've not yet unhooked myself from Fury's harness when she meets us. "What are we dealing with?" Robin asks, leg bouncing as she stands. "Were you able to confirm Marius is there?"

Phila eyes Robin neutrally before dismounting. "As expected, the Plegians are well fortified," she explains, removing her winged helmet. "If Sir Marius is indeed within the complex, reaching him will be almost impossible."

Well, Phila sure does nail that uplifting, motivational speech. Robin curses at the nearest tree. "So we don't know anything, that's what you're telling me?"

"What I'll tell you is that you need to calm yourself." The admonishment has Robin blinking sheepishly. If our grand tactician has a weakness, it's an abundance of zeal.

"I'm sorry, Phila," Robin says. She falls to the grass, sitting. "It's just that we have very little time."

To my surprise, Phila kneels beside her. "At the camp's rear, there are several wagons. They are likely mobile storage. I believe Sir Marius may be there. Nearly impossible does not mean impossible."

Right. The supply caravan. Makes sense. And I didn't see a better location to confine a prisoner.

Robin perks, brows high. "What is your reasoning?"

"Sir Marius is a valuable hostage." Phila's crimson gaze sweeps the four of us. "He would be kept in an area already guarded as to not draw attention. A wagon also allows for quick transport should they wish to move him. It is not a guarantee, but it is all we have."

"Then what are we waiting for?!" Liston swings his staff in a looping arc, aiming it at the Plegians. "Let's go!"

Lowering the staff with her index finger, Freya blocks Liston's path. "Milord, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we cannot be reckless."

"Freya's right." Robin rises, swatting bits of earth and dried leaves from her trousers. "Stealth is the answer. Sneak in, search for Marius. It's our one shot."

Somber agreement. From all of us. There are no second chances. No leeway. We fuck up, and it's over. With that in mind, Robin outlines a rudimentary strategy. As the fastest, strongest, and coolest under pressure, Freya and Phila spearhead. Robin provides support and another pair of eyes. Liston heals any injuries. Me, I watch the pegasi and Freya's horse. For once I don't feel like my job is 'you're useless, stand over there.' Fury and the others are our getaway vehicles. If they aren't exactly where the team expects them to be, the plan goes to shit. I'm doing something important, not glamorous, but important.

Regardless, it's tough to see my friends, to see Freya, walking into the lions' den where I can't do a damn thing. They set off promptly, no torches or spell light. Freya and I trade stares. When she vanishes into the night, Fury nudges my neck. I pat her snout, glad the pegasus understands.

Time doesn't seem to pass. I glare at the Plegian camp until it blurs, the pockets of firelight flickering as frayed halos. There are no screams or metallic reverberations. Ylisstol smolders silently. The nighttime chill seeps between the stitching of my clothes, reminding me only how badly I want to race across this field. What if they need help? What if the deciding factor could be just one more body on our side? Freya would be dead if I'd left her to fight those assassins alone.

I slap my cheeks, feeling the blood rush hot in misty air. No. I have orders. I can't sprint in like a lunatic without willpower. And most of all, I have to trust my friends and allies to come back alive. Freya promised to talk later; she gave her word. I know Freya, and I know she will never forsake a vow.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. The differences aren't significant in the tormenting dark. It's the lack of control. A separate kind from leaning over the railing during the tournament in Regna Ferox. I feel like I'm hunched with a telephone that won't ring, an achingly close symbol of all the information I don't know. It's the mirror side of one-way glass. The satellite reception that fizzles right before the game's biggest play. Torturous moments that last forever, endless, unbearable, condensed eternity—and then it stops. Release.

Flames engulf the wagons. Freya's horse bucks, whinnying, and I jerk the reins. It was worth it to endure that hellish waiting. I'm here to soothe the horse, prevent him from bolting. Fury and Phila's pegasus don't rile so easily, just ruffling their wings. Good. I hum dulcet tunes to the horse, as much for him as for me. He settles, freeing me to face the blaze.

It spreads indifferently from wagon to wagon, dyeing the sky a crimson orange. Panicked shouts. The hiss and splinter of charred wood. What the hell is happening? I'm torn. Shit hit the fan, obviously. Do I abandon our mounts to assist? I don't see anyone running towards my position. Fuck. It's a gamble I can't take. Freya's horse might spook again. Be smart. Believe in your friends.

Shapes, dark blotches against the fire. Three. No, four. It's them. It has to be. I draw my sword as a precaution. Steady breaths, Mike. The shadows clarify into figures I recognize. My grip loosens, nails dislodging and leaving crescents in the leather handle.

"Michael!" Robin tumbles into a somersault, her momentum carrying her upright again shortly. "We have to go!"

No shit. "The fuck did you do? Where is Marius?"

Phila vaults onto her pegasus, a stunningly acrobatic feat. "Not there!" she yells, beginning to buckle a hasty harness.

Disappointment nestles in my gut. I knew it already, but it stings all the same. "And the huge ass fire?"

"We improvised." Robin claps my shoulder as she barrels past. She clambers onto Phila's pegasus, the knight offering her hand.

Jesus Christ, improvised what? I'll have to ask details at a later date, though. Scores of soldiers materialize in front of the flames, weapons glinting. I guess we wouldn't be the Shepherds without a bunch of people trying to kill us. Freya and Liston mount her horse, and I scramble atop Fury. My takeoffs are a work in progress, but I think the sloppiness of this one is forgivable considering the circumstances.

Phila sails ahead, low to the ground. Fury slots in close behind, benefiting from the slipstream. I'd take credit for that little trick except Fury is indisputably just better at selecting a flying route than I am. Something whizzes past me. Arrows. Lovely. A pegasus rider's best fucking friend.

"You want to explain why the entire Plegian army is chasing us, Robin?" I cry above the wind.

She teeters right, coat billowing. "This trip couldn't be for nothing! The supplies we burned will take them weeks to replace!"

Robin, you madwoman. Not finding Marius is a blow. This rectifies that failure quite emphatically. Assuming we survive. Big assumption.

Bigger now that there are wyverns tailing us.

The screeching roars hit my spine like shards of ice. I've imagined wyverns. Accepted the odds of not encountering them were slim to none. But there is simply no preparing for what is essentially a tyrannosaurus with wings. A squadron of five riders trails our group by maybe a football field. They dwarf Fury, skulls alone half her length. Phila fights these things? Fuck that.

I may not have a choice. Fury is fast, and I'm her only passenger. Phila and Freya both have cargo. The wyverns are gaining on us. At this speed they'll catch up, strike, and we're dead. I glance at Freya below, Liston clinging to her back.

I'm sorry, Freya. I really wanted to keep our promise.

"Come on, girl," I say into Fury's ear. "We've got a job to do."

Death is scary. Lots of people claim they aren't afraid to die. Perhaps some of them aren't. I am not one of those people. My knees are a wreck—I wouldn't be able to stand if I wasn't riding Fury. Death is not noble or glorious. Sacrifice does not make it romantic. Dying so that others can live, it's not a game or a fantasy or some chivalrous exploit. It is a decision, a terrifying and lonely decision.

I hear my name as I guide Fury in an arc. Ignore it. They'll understand why. Four lives vs one? Basic math.

Fury tucks her wings and dives, reducing our drag. I slide the reins into one hand and unsheathe my sword. Should have brought a lance. Doesn't change the objective. I just have to buy time for my friends to escape, disrupt the enemy.

The wyvern riders appear temporarily alarmed, formation breaking. Fury unfurls on my command, averting a direct impact with the middle wyvern. Its rider ducks to avoid a collision that never comes. Seeing their isolated comrade, his fellow riders begin converging. More nimble than the wyvern, Fury drops onto its flank, putting me astride my opponent. His axe meets my thrust, a clean parry. The counterattack misses, Fury bobbing erratically. I can't beat this guy. I know that.

So I won't.

I flick Fury's reins, and she darts forward. Sword pointed aloft, I stab the wyvern's wing membrane. The blade sunders the vulnerable skin as Fury soars past. His wyvern wails and thrashes, blood raining in ruby droplets that stain Fury's white fur. Unable to fly, the wyvern plummets. I allow myself a small, accomplished grin. With four more riders and their wyverns about to slaughter me, I'm not sure I actually smile.

At least my friends will live. I look over my shoulder to check how far they've gotten.

My heart hammers. Phila and Robin are a bullet of feathers and hooves headed this way. No! Why?! You were supposed to run! On the ground Freya and Liston have done a one-eighty as well. No, no, no! I did this for you!

A javelin encased in crackling lightning streaks across the sky. It pierces one of the wyverns' hides, scoring a deep gouge and magic spidering around the wound. A singed odor wafts on the breeze. The wyvern drops, limp and leaden. One hell of a throw, Phila.

The three remaining riders shift course and regroup, flying in a V. Phila corners in a wide u-turn to glide flush with me. "Are you suicidal?!" Robin brandishes her tome, sparks rustling the pages. "It's a miracle you aren't dead!"

"Are you suicidal?" I fire back. "Why are you still here?! Why do you think I flew into five fucking dragons?!"

Robin's hair flows behind her, strands electrifying as she summons a spell. "The Shepherds are a family, Michael! We will never leave family to die!"

Her words surge through my veins, recalling the night after the Longfort, the arena, Dergus, Sullivan's fist slamming into my jaw. Memories of the Shepherds. My Shepherds. My family. Robin won't let me throw my life away, even when there's cause. None of them will. Just as I could not accept that she and Freya and Liston and Phila would die, she could not accept my death. And for Robin, she's known me as long she can literally remember. Family.

"I suggest we move." Phila's matter-of-fact voice, professional.

Yes, incoming wyverns and all. We climb higher, forcing the Plegians to alter flight. Robin slings lighting at them in a hail of static rage. They evade most, the ones they don't merely grazing. We've lost the element of surprise. Things are not quite as dire, but that's like being trapped in the wilderness with only no food rather than no food and water. These three soldiers are more than capable of finishing what they started.

"Phila, let them catch us!"

Excuse me, Robin, what? Phila turns, brows cocked, lips thin. "Just do it!" Robin urges, one hand plunging into her coat.

I slow as they do, a needling fear entering my chest. Whatever this is, it's insane. The wyvern riders accelerate, sensing victory. Robin produces a flat disk from the depths of her cloak. The fire mine.

Definitely insane.

She palms the explosive, her upper body twisted backwards. The wyverns reach us, jaws snapping, riders hefting their axes. Robin tosses the mine into the air, a tidy underhand throw. It drifts, sways, hangs just above the lead rider.

Robin extends her arm, yellow tendrils lacing and radiating. One eye closes. She fires.

The pillar of light impales the mine, disk glowing brighter and brighter, like forged steel.

It detonates.

Scorching gusts buffet Fury and me, rocking us sideways. The blast consumes all three wyverns in disintegrating heat. Particles of bone and metal crumble to dust as they spew from the center. Fury regains her balance, and I see Phila and Robin nearby, the former smothering an ignited portion of her shirt. Alive. Gradually, the remnants of the explosion fade, carpeting the sky in ink once more. No Plegians. No wyverns.

We made it.

I wearily signal to Phila that I am going to land. Fury hits the ground at a gallop. Exhausted, I undo my harness and nearly collapse spread-eagle onto the earth as the pegasus stops.

Every sound feels distant. Pounding of horseshoes. Hurried footsteps. Freya's voice.

God, Freya's voice. I didn't think I would ever hear it again.

I prop myself on my elbows. Freya leers down, swirling, unnamed emotions in her eyes. Her breathing is ragged, mouth slightly agape.

"Get up," she orders.

A protest bubbles, but I ascent, dredging my battered body off the dirt. Freya clenches her fist in my collar. "Michael," Freya says, pulling me. "You imbecile. You utter fool. I… Do you even… Gods, why?"

Honestly, I don't care that Liston is about two yards away. "Because I wanted you to live. More than anything, that's what I wanted."

Her hand travels up my throat, fingers splaying just behind my ear. "You do not have my permission to die, Michael. You… You never have my permission to die."

This time, I kiss Freya.

I kiss her and I savor her and I feel so alive.

Author's Note: Well! The ship has sailed! Left the port and into the open sea! There will of course be more things for Freya and Mike to overcome, more challenges and struggles, but I am so happy after all this tension and buildup to give you this chapter. Nearly two and a half years in the making. Hope you all liked it! Also, if you've made it this far and still enjoy the story, consider following if you haven't! I really appreciate every single one of my followers. My readers make this all worth it.

Shoutout to ThreeDollarBratwurst and MixedValence for their support and eyes. TDB is so much better at catching typos than I am. If you haven't read these guys' fics, you definitely should! Especially MV's brand new Three Houses SI! It's really interesting and is off to a great start!

We have our own Discord server! There's a permanent invite on my profile page. Check it out if you feel so inclined!

Review Responses:

Lefthra- I do really enjoy writing a good suspense! I'm glad it had you invested. Mike and Agatha is a ship I briefly considered at the very beginning, but it's good to know you've warmed to Mike and Freya : )

Sigmatic- Great that you found it worth the wait! I try to write every chapter so that each payoff feels like we deserve it. Pacing is something I think about a lot when plotting the story. Really happy you think it works!

DestructionDragon360- Please continue shipping Mike and Freya until the end of time. Turns out Freya did know what she wanted.

Rileva- Freya best gorl indeed! Good to know you enjoy my writing enough to go back and read the past chapters again! AOA is a special story to me, and I fully intend to see it through. Might take a while, but we'll get there!

Bionic608- Well, we have a different kiss in this chapter haha. I understand finding the genderswap strange to get used to, but I'm glad you read the story and enjoyed it!

Clutchvm- Happy to see you aboard the SS Frike. Tis an excellent ship to be aboard. The genderbend was something I wanted to explore for a long time, and I'm pretty satisfied with how people have responded to it!

Shizu23- So happy you've stuck around this long! I apologize for my long hiatuses! I'm trying to get a more consistent schedule now. But the story is alive and well!

Izunama- I believe I gave you a shoutout on the Discord server for pointing out Phoebe's name, but I'll do it again! Good detective work!

Call Brig On Over- Agatha survived because she and Beth hid inside the trunk while the assassins were killing the other servants. A pretty gruesome way to live, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

AzaiNagamasa- Seems like a lot of people shifted from Chrom to Freya over the course of the story, which was basically my plan hehe. Awesome that you're a fan of it!