AN: So, has anyone ever written a story where you start typing, and typing, and typing, and like two hours later about thirty minutes before New Year's (THANKS A LOT FOR KEEPING ME IN, SNOW) you have the Crow fic that you never knew you wanted to write until a few days ago almost ready to go? Because I have.

Anyway, this is more of an experimental piece, to A: work with second person again, and B: explore Crow a little bit. He's a polarizing one, and rightfully so, and those types are always fun to examine.

Word of warning; this is very different than what I normally write, so if you read the summary and came in expecting fluff for some reason... uh, sorry.

Burn

When your eyes close at night, it's the image of a smiling old man in front of playing cards that haunts your dreams.

Your grandfather taught you rules, how to play percentages, how to know when to fake a big play and bluff everyone else and when to charge in and trust in the fickle hands of Lady Luck.

(But not fold. You never quite learned how to fold, in spite of his best efforts. It was a lesson that might have made you happier, but it was a lesson you didn't want to learn).

It wasn't him that you how to cheat, it wasn't him that taught you how to lie, and it certainly wasn't him that taught you how to hate.

No, it was life that did that, in the form of a railway bearing the crime called progress that bore down mercilessly on those who would have dared to stand against it, and when you find your beloved grandfather's body you know something inside you has been irrevocably twisted and changed.

A match is struck.

It was in your grandfather's life that you learned about laughter and virtue, and it was somehow fitting that it was only in his death you learned about scapegoats and sin.

As the deep void begins to shift and stir, coalescing into something that's darker and more familiar than you care to realize, you whisper the name that keeps you marching down your personal road to hell.

"Osborne."

Like your first sip of liquor for the long road ahead, it burns now as it burned then, stoking the fire that was lit that fateful day.

Painfully bitter as it is, you wouldn't have it any other way.

You understand the second you meet Cayenne that this man should not be trusted. His words are clever, his arguments are sound, and he will discard you in a heartbeat if he feels that this would further his plans. This is a man that has Goals and Priorities instead of friends and allies, and he will step on anyone he has to if it means he gets what he wants.

In other words, he is exactly like Osborne in so many of the ways that make your cocky smirk a necessary evil, a cloak for your sound and fury, but he is similar to you in one respect that proves to be the difference maker.

He hates Osborne too. You don't know why, nor do you particularly care, but for that you think you can forgive anything.

You extend your hand, your tone light and breezy.

"All right, old man," you say, your grin a vicious slash of ivory that distracts from the roaring inferno. "You've got yourself a partner."

It's no surprise you see G(ideon), S(carlet), and V(ulcan) as kindred spirits the moment you meet them.

They are tremendously different individuals, these three. G looks like he would be at home in front of a desk droning on and on about eras long lost while everyone falls asleep around him (and you can't help but burst out laughing when you find out that you weren't all that far off), V is the walking picture of the hard-edged jaeger that's willing to do anything for a price, and S… well, what you think she looks like at first glance isn't remotely suitable for polite company but when she pulls out a Temple Sword all jokes you have fall by the wayside.

And then there's you, a child playing at a man's game but playing it so well it hardly matters anymore, and when the four key members of what will eventually become the Imperial Liberation Front finally come together the bond that links you is far greater than any mere kinship.

"Ideology."

"My comrades."

"Father."

"My grandfather."

Revenge.

You smile grimly behind your helmet, instinctively knowing that despite your differences you all speak the same native tongue, and somewhere deep inside you the fire blazes ever hotter.

Nothing changes when you meet Vita. Not at first.

You don't know very much about her, of course; you're aware that she meets with Cayenne regularly but despite the off-color jokes you make on occasion – out of earshot, naturally – you soon grasp that there's nothing untoward about the matter.

For one thing, you had the feeling that if he tried anything you would have to take the reins of the whole operation, because the duke would almost certainly be dead or at least be in no shape to pursue his own ambitions.

When all is said and done, you don't ask. She has goals of her own to achieve. If nothing else, you can understand that.

It's only when she calls you by name one day and bids you to follow her that your world changes and shifts again, but by then your world has been turned topsy-turvy so often that it takes the most majestic sight you've ever seen for you to truly understand the significance.

"Behold," she intones, her voice as melodic and soulful as ever as you stand underneath Ordis, "Ordine, the Azure Knight."

You run your hands reverently along the blue metal, memorizing its magnificence under your fingertips, and blasphemous to Aidios as it is you can't help but wonder if Ordine is a long forgotten name for god.

"Is this mine?" you ask hesitantly, somewhat foolishly, for once the reckless arrogance of youth banished from your tone; the smile she gives you in return nearly makes your knees buckle and it is only because you grab hold of the Knight again that you do not fall to your knees in something like adoration.

"If your will is strong enough," she assures you, "it will be."

For once, the fire is calm.

Even with the aid of the Azure Abyss, the trials are by far the hardest tasks you have had to endure in your short life.

The pulse of her power is always washing over you like water, making you stronger, faster, better than you have ever been before – but ultimately the trials are to be your own, and the relics of the past responsible for judging your worth will brook no exception to this rule.

She stands impassively, watching as you run, jump, slash, and howl – sometimes in triumph, sometimes in agony – with every bit of effort dedicated to making Ordine accept you as an Awakener.

At the very last step, you almost falter.

You had a feeling that the final trial would be the most difficult one, but there is an infinitely wide gulf between feeling and knowing, and despite her assistance you find yourself on your knees before a behemoth that no words would ever do justice to.

The blood is flowing freely from your many wounds, every breath sears your lungs with the fury of the sun, and it is only the knowledge that the hell you've put the titan through was every bit equal to your own that keeps you going.

Horrible as it sounds, you can only hope that it's sentient. If nothing else, you want him/her/it to feel exactly how you do right now.

There is no glory in this fight, no honor or grace that would cloak the violence in an aura of civility. This is two opponents striving to murder one another in a struggle void of ideals or reason, and you can't help but let out a bark of laughter in spite of the situation; you really had no other choice, given your terror and exhilaration.

Such is the truth of battle.

Desperation seizing you now, you push to one knee and raise your weapon, determined to end this – and you know that one way or another, it *will* end when the Magic Knight's body rises in your field of vision, seemingly having had the same thought run through what passed for its brain.

Gritting your teeth, you pool all your power for one final strike, because you haven't come this far by going down easily. Holding your weapon aloft as the very air around you crackles and shimmers with power, you narrow your eyes and see –

- an old man, lying motionless in a bed, looking tired, drawn, and thankful that the end had come -

- the giant launch its final blow a split second too late, a savage scream tearing itself free from your throat as you unleash the Deadly Cross, and when your opponent crumples before fading away into nothing you know that you've won, your vision fading to black before you can savor the triumph.

When you come to, you feel the gentle touch of Vita's hand brushing across your brow tenderly, her voice whispering to you as gently as the rain that comes with spring.

"I look forward to working with you, my knight."

You whisper back words of gratitude for her invaluable assistance, but in the back of your mind you think you know what the deciding factor of the battle truly was.

The journey you are on was spurred by the confusion of a child, the grief of a child, and the rage of a child, and you are infinitely glad that in spite of your headstrong rush for adulthood you had seen fit not to discard these childish things.

Because of them, you are the Azure Awakener. You are Vita Clotilde's knight. You are the one who will be the instrument of the Blood and Iron Chancellor's defeat, the hero of your own story.

(All the while forgetting, of course, as the fire flickers quietly, that the most memorable heroes were simply great men and women made legend by tragic flaws).

You don't know what to expect when you enroll at Thors. You've never disliked school per se, but after so long with only G, V, S, and Vita as company you've almost forgotten what it was like to interact with people your own age.

Effort is something that you dislike if it's not critical, and in this case it's really not. Your goal is to eventually take the Chancellor's head by any means necessary, and making friends wasn't part of that deal.

Still, it takes you by surprised when someone calls your name one day, the single syllable soaked in irritation, and you turn around with an annoyed grunt on your lips only to have a fist slam directly into your jaw and send you flying.

(Holy crap, did that ever hurt).

"A-Angie…!"

"Wow. You didn't hold back even a little, huh?"

"Nope," and when your vision clears you see a purple haired force of nature standing above you, hand outstretched and wearing a smile that was five percent manners and ninety five percent 'I will fuck you up *so* hard if I don't like what you do next'.

"Okay, let's try this again!" she says brightly, looking down at your stunned expression. "Hey, I'm Angelica Rogner. Nice to meet you."

"George Nome," the husky boy behind her says, eyes glinting with amusement. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but from your end I'm pretty sure that'd be a lie."

"Towa Herschel, and I'm so sorry!" the tiny one wails, and you feel the sudden urge to apologize right back for some reason.

A snort is barely repressed.

You shouldn't like these three as much as you suddenly do, but it is what it is, and when you reach up to grab Angelica's extended hand the smile you give them is a genuine one, the warmth in the smile matching the warmth of the fire.

"Crow Armbrust. You hit like a girl, by the way."

If you had known who he was – who he would eventually become – you probably wouldn't have done it.

But you can't help it; the firstie just screamed 'earnest' (the way he was staring at the Student Union was a dead giveaway), and the swanky red jacket only served to pique your attention even more. You knew what it meant, of course, even if the rest of Thors didn't, but actually seeing a member of the long-discussed Class VII up and walking around… well, how could you resist?

Slowing your stride into a casual stroll and slinging your bag over one shoulder, you school your expression into the mask of cool nonchalance you had perfected over the years.

"Hey there, first year."

(Besides, you're getting hungry and you're 50 mira short. Shame's never exactly been a friend of yours, so why start now?)

You see Class VII grow in two ways. You see them grow secondhand, from the reports of the people they've helped and amazed, from the results of their field studies and practical exams, from the pride in the faculty's collective voice that this group of kids came from Thors Military Academy, and you can't help but note that almost two years in you *still* can't feel the reverence that seems to possess Instructor Heinrich whenever he says the school's full name.

You also see them grow firsthand, from them interfering in the ILF's plans (crimes, your conscience and what remains of your idealism conspire never to let you forget) at every turn to finally crossing blades with them in the vast catacombs under Heimdallr, and fifteen seconds into the fight you find yourself sighing with disappointment under your helmet, because while they might have been ready for G, they certainly weren't ready for you.

The years of training you had before this encounter made it patently unfair, no matter Fie's experience, Laura's pedigree, Elliot's arts, Machias' support, or Rean's will, and when you and G retreat from the battlefield it's clear that they understood just how outclassed they were.

"Heh. Who knows? They might make it more interesting next time," you say casually as you depart, a little amused at the annoyed look on G's face.

At Sachsen, they make you pay for your hubris.

While your victory or defeat in the battle is more or less meaningless, you have to fight with far more intensity than you did at Heimdallr, and when the curtain finally closes on your performance there's nothing false about your pained stance or heavy breathing.

It takes all your willpower to make your reappearance looking no worse for wear, with the paltry curative items you had on you doing the best they could to mask the damage, but in the end none of them are the wiser.

The end is coming soon. You feel it in your bones, but as you sleep that night the fire roars and flares – not with hate, as it so often did, but with the glow of pride.

At the moment, you don't particularly care that they were trying to stop you. Class VII was a remarkable group, and there was nothing wrong with acknowledging that.

History always remembered magnanimous victors more fondly, after all.

Vita comes to see you a little while before everything comes to a conclusion.

Truth be told, you're not sure what to expect; the plan had been gone over so thoroughly that there was nothing left to discuss. She stays silent for so long that you begin to grow antsy, and when you finally tell her to spit it out she can only look at you steadily, her gaze guileless for the first time you can remember.

"Are you ready?"

For what, you find yourself asking, more than a little confused.

She shrugs gracefully.

"For what comes after."

You almost want to laugh if not for the solemnity and weight in her tone, and her words draw an incredulous stare from you seconds after she utters them.

"Aw, c'mon. What do you mean, 'what comes after'?" you finally chuckle, waving a hand at her in dismissal. "After Osborne gets what's coming to him – well, I've still got stuff to do because hey, I helped cause this and I need to help finish it, but that's really going to be it. That self-righteous son of a bitch gets put in the ground, and all the people he's crushed to get to where he is finally get to breathe easy."

Too many forgot, with the banner of expansion flying proudly above the lands of those that had been trampled on ruthlessly, that not everyone was so enamored with the policies of the Blood and Iron Chancellor. Why did they matter so much less than everyone else, and why were they so quick to be forgotten? Goddess only knew.

"Don't worry so much!" you tell her, the familiar grin back on your face. "What comes after, Vita? Nothing, because we're finally gonna be done. Nothing's gonna come after."

Time passes – maybe a few seconds, maybe forever, you're not sure – and you swear her eyes are shining for a moment or two before she turns away, her lips moving for a few heartbeats as she slowly nods with the dignified gravitas of someone who's told another that they're about to die.

But you don't hear her make a sound, even as the furnace inside you keeps blazing away.

When you try to remember your moment of triumph in the frenzied aftermath, all you can picture are images flashing by at lightspeed, a jumble of controlled chaos that you can never get a fix on bar for one moment.

Giliath Osborne, caught squarely in the crosshairs of your orbal rifle. All you have worked for, bled for –

- sinned for -

- has finally come to this one instant, this perfect snapshot in time, and you take a deep breath to calm the molten blood roaring through your veins.

It would be appropriate to say something clever. For once, your wit fails you.

"Go finish your speech in hell."

You pull the trigger, the split-second flash of fire from the barrel matching the one in your soul, and you finally learn what it means to win.

Victory smelled like smoke and metal. Who knew?

The blue giant is blazing across the sky, the Azure Knight on a collision course with his counterpart; Rean had finally awakened Valimar, and with all the players finally on the stage it was time for the main event.

Ordine vs Valimar. Azure vs Ashen. Awakener vs Awakener in a battle for the summit.

It's not actually going to be a fight, of course, but Rean doesn't know that and even if he did it wasn't as if that was going to stop him.

Rean was stubborn that way.

As you prepare for the inevitable conflict, your mind flashes back to the sight of Osborne finally falling in Heimdallr, and you wait for the rush to materialize, for the thrill to consume you as you know that it will. You await the vindication that should come from the man responsible for your grandfather's death (because if not him, then who?) lying dead in the capital's streets.

You wait, and wait, and wait, and when nothing comes you're not sure if you want to laugh or cry.

But then again, you said it yourself, didn't you? You have no right to be surprised.

"Crow… Crow! Are you really in there?!"

"Sure am. Long time no see, Rean…"

The arrogance in your words is calculated and put on, designed to make your friend (and no matter what you say, Class VII are your friends in spite of everything) hate you with very syllable, and you've prepared for this for so long your brain's virtually on autopilot, responding to every one of Rean's pleas with near disdain.

There's still so much left for you to do, you reflect, tossing Valimar the sword from the fallen Soldat. Defeat Rean here, settle the remaining conflicts using Ordine, and try to make up for everything you've done for the past six years.

You ready your stance and bite your lip, and the blood you draw tastes like 'almost enough'.

It'll be easier said than done, of course, because you're not an idiot. Somewhere out there, there are people that see you as their Osborne and hate you accordingly. How could there not be, with all the sins you now bear?

Nevertheless, it's a task that you'll face with every bit of your will and steel, because you don't have a choice anymore.

With your fire now gone, they're all that remains.

If you had stepped even a little bit closer to Vita, you might have heard something faint before she teleported away to Goddess knows where without even a perfunctory farewell.

"… I already know that. I'm just not convinced that you do."

(She cries for you. You'll never know).