The beach ringing the lake that lay tucked between the hills was rough and stony. It crunched beneath his feet; the smaller stones tumbling and yielding beneath him, the larger ones proud, attempting to turn his heel.

He picked his way amongst them as the sun sank behind the hills across the lake, stretching its flaming fingers across the sky, staining the world varied tints of yellow, orange and red. The wind sauntered across the valley, tickling the brush dotting the hills on its way down and teasing his hair as it passed, whispering in his ear before going on its way again.

He drank in the sights, long and longingly, like a man dying of thirst; but always he returned to his task.

He bent down to examine one stone that had caught his eye, and then another. One was flat and oval, with a gooseflesh texture throughout that he felt with his thumb. One was white marbled with grey, radiating in a pattern that he traced with a fingernail. One was black, smooth and mirrored like glass, reflecting the sky upon its surface. One was as light as a piece of bread, with holes throughout it like a sponge; but he cast this one aside after hefting it in his hand, instead favoring one that was round and of two colors, nearly perfectly bisected.

And so he made his way about the shore of the lake, stooping now and then to claim and pocket another prize, sometimes shifting the stones underfoot with his toe the better to find them. And always, stealing long looks at the sight of the lake reflecting the sun like rippling glass, smelling the scent of the briny water and the grasses sighing besides it, feeling the wind play with his cloak.

When his ears told him that he was not alone, he did not need to look up to know who it was. It was not until he heard the shifting of stones under boots that he acknowledged her presence.

"Hello Lucina," he spoke.

"Good evening," she answered, curtly. He looked upon her. Her mouth was thin, her shoulders straight, both her hands clenching the hilt of her holy sword. The setting sun glinted off of her crown and bathed her solemn face in its dying light.

He waited for her to continue, but only a silence followed. He bent for another stone. This one was roughly triangular, dark, and very smooth. He stroked its surface in his hands. He allowed himself to ponder the untold years of wear it had undergone to achieve this polish.

"About my father," Lucina began, haltingly. He looked back at her, and she had difficulty returning the eye contact.

"Yes?" He pocketed the stone.

Lucina hesitated, then began again. "I have some memories of him, you know. From when I was little." She was speaking in a rush. He could tell she had rehearsed this. "He was courageous, and kind, and everyone spoke fondly of him. They said he was brave up to, up to the very end..."

She faltered. She paused a moment, swallowed, then continued, now speaking to her feet. "I, now that I know him better, I can't— I can't let him— I..."

She seemed unable to make any other words come out. She fidgeted with the grip of Falchion, staring determinedly at her feet rather than him. Silence fell. Her brows knitted together; she bit her lip.

"I know why you're here, Lucina," he said quietly.

She glanced up at him quickly, then away again, towards a point on the horizon to his left. "No you don't," she snapped, looking almost angry now.

He turned and picked his way over to a fresh spot on the beach, turning the stones with his foot. Lucina followed him, maintaining their distance of a handful of paces.

"Why do you think I'm here?" she asked at last.

A pink stone marbled with brown lines caught his fancy. He could feel Lucina's gaze upon him as he picked it up. He turned it over in his gnarled, time-worn hands; hands that had been weathered by long years he had forgotten.

"To kill me, of course," he said to the stone.

Lucina took in her breath sharply; he could hear her step back, battle ready, in case he was about to turn about and strike. He smiled sadly at his find and added it to the collection in his pockets.

"Don't worry, Lucina," he told her, walking along the shore once more, looking to the stones below rather than at her; "I do not wish to fight you. However, I cannot let you kill me."

"You don't understand!" Lucina croaked, a mixture of determined anger and sorrow. "I must stop you! You are my father's murderer!"

He stopped dead, the last words piercing him like a blade. A memory stirred within him— his only memory— a memory that had haunted him for all his short life, a memory that had only begun to taste of reality rather than nightmare for the past few weeks...

A memory of murder.

"I know," was all he could say.

He heard Falchion whisper sorrowfully as it was drawn from its sheath. "Then you know why I must do this," said Lucina in a quaking voice.

The sun was in its death throes. A few scattered clouds that flitted about nearby were drenched red in its blood. The dome of the sky was darkening to purple, and the first of the stars were beginning to awaken. A gust of wind passed them on its way through the valley, brushing across their faces and pulling at their clothes before going to ripple across the lake.

"I cannot allow it," he said. Still he did not look at her; this time he looked at the lake instead. It was gradually growing black, like a great maw in the earth, with the sun's dying rays scattered across its surface.

"If you hold any love for my father, then...!"

"I do love your father," he conceded; "more than he knows. But..."

He walked down the shore some more. He heard Lucina shadowing him. He stooped for a new find; small, black, jagged, almost sharp.

"I have one more move still to play."

He turned to face her. Her face studying his, uncertain; legs spread in a steadying pose, Falchion gripped before her, but unable to stop her shaking hands. The last rays of the sun shone upon the armor worn upon proud shoulders, reflected in the eyes that were so like her father's.

"I cannot allow you to become a murderer for my sake, Lucina," he told that brave young woman standing before him, looking into those eyes that had seen so much. Those eyes he would not allow to witness this ghastly thing.

"So please... Go."

He put the jagged black stone into his pocket; stooped for another, this one white with grooves worn into it as though with a chisel. The lake behind them swirled gently beneath the caress of the wind; dark and deep, a hole waiting to swallow him.

Lucina was staring at him; staring at how his cloak was hanging heavy about him, how his pockets swelled with the lumps of all the stones he had collected; how many pockets there were, each laden heavy—

Her eyes were wide with realization, Falchion hanging loose in her grasp. He could not bear to look at her anymore. He walked on, looking for more stones.

"Go," he begged of her, his voice breaking.

He heard her turn on her heel and run. The sun was gone. The sky was growing dark, the stars showing their faces one by one. He looked upon the sight hungrily. A wind came down through the valley, caressing him as it went by, whispering nothings into his ear before sailing across the yawning black lake. He wanted to reach out and hold onto the wind, speak to it like a friend, but it was fickle. His work was to be completed alone.

He continued on with his task, this sick chore he had allowed himself to stretch out far too long already. Weathered hands gathered equally weathered stones, limbs weighed down by the instruments of Chrom's salvation.

He must not tarry any longer with this last move he was to play.