Archive of Our Own

The early morning sunlight barely peeks over the looming manor before him, but Felix still winces when it catches his gaze and stays there. It’s rare that he finds himself in Nuvelle’s corner of the map; the sun is particularly fond of shining here at an uncomfortable angle. Two decades in the southern piece of things and Felix still hasn’t defrosted entirely. He fishes out the letter he received a week prior from his pocket to ensure he’s arrived at the correct place. Two attendants and a guard flock out of the manor to greet him.

“Fraldarius,” an attendant starts, “Baron Blackthorne is pleased to know you’ve accepted his request. This way, please.”

Felix’s brow twitches at the title mention, Baron leaving a funny taste in his mouth. So uncommon these days to run into nobles still hanging onto small titles like this, but it’s really none of his business whether or not this guy wants to leave the last dregs of a deteriorating era at the bottom of his cup. He lets it go, especially since the guard notices his slight shift in demeanor, and he’s not interested in finding out what sort of threat hides behind her glare.

“Yeah.”

He follows their lead into the manor, the distance between now and the beginning of his journey fading with each step he takes. The hallway walls feel both closer and further away as he continues. It’s like he’s suspended in the middle of a Warp spell, in that moment where everything stretches infinitely in every direction before his feet hit the ground, colors elongating until everything is lines. One of the attendants looks over her shoulder when Felix briefly touches the wall. He blinks at her and crosses his arms until she looks away. He presses the tip of his tongue to his right canine until he tastes metal, and blinks rapidly until everything sorts out and he’s just in a hallway again.

According to the letter, the job is simple. Felix isn’t in the business of tackling things outside of his waning skill set these days. Simple is good. The noble’s daughter is a budding mage experimenting with dark magic. Her inexperience has rendered her too ill to travel back to Nuvelle to receive treatment from one of the only mages capable of reversing the effects. Felix is to escort the mage to his daughter alongside a small group of other hand picked mercenaries. Simple, familiar. He’s completed escort assignments before and he’ll complete them again until he’s six feet in the ground.

The noble’s daughter is currently in Itha, one of the northernmost points of the continent, which means Felix has to traverse territories he hasn’t seen in years. Fear isn’t what defines this enormous catch, he hasn’t been scared into anger in a long time, but it’s something else he’s decided not to look in the eye since the war ended. Too simple, too familiar, but the payout is too good to be stubborn about the finer details. He’ll get there when he gets there.

And then, the lines again, the hallway stretching and tunneling until the very end of it is just a bright circle, a drop of red right in the center like an uneven pupil. But then he blinks and now it’s a fiery tuft, a head of hair.

Felix shakes his head and it’s all sorted once more. There’s an old suit of armor at the end of the hall, a bright red plume sprouting from the top of the helmet. He decides to take in his surroundings, document what’s really there and not what’s threatening to phase in and out like a phantom. The interior of the manor is pretty run of the mill, generations of opulence with no distinct taste. Dark wood, gold accents, a certain neatness that could only be achieved by a large and attentive staff. Family portraits line the walls, and two other mercenaries linger at the end of the hall he’s being led through. All normal stuff, everything solid and real enough that there’d be real consequences if he sliced through it all with his sword.

When the attendant leads him around the corner and into the lounge room, forty years of discipline almost seeps out of his skin entirely. He has to grit his molars together to keep his astonishment at bay when he sees her silhouette looming in front of the enormous window. The sunlight beaming in from behind her obscures most of her features in shadow from where he’s standing, but there’s no denying that familiar, patient posture, those gentle and resilient shoulders, and the way her hair folds over in thick waves even in its neat ponytail.

She steps out of the light, and Felix surveys the whole of her. Lines stretch up and out from Mercedes’ gaze, reminiscent of the marks left after carefully pressing a fork into dough. She’s grown out her sandy hair, and a few strands frame her face, the ends hovering over her faint smile lines. Even still, she holds herself with a grace that is tired at the edges but remains unyielding. The last twenty years have been kind to her, this much Felix can concede.

She acknowledges him with a small bow, and when she stands upright again, her eyes find his and snare him in place. Felix has no choice but to rifle through that powdery blue. He sifts through her stare and finds a handful of things he’s not sure what to do with. Happiness, relief, exhaustion, guilt, anger. Felix briefly recalls their last encounter from two decades ago and can’t say that he blames her. Mercedes pats down a crease in her skirt and takes a step forward.

And she smiles.

“Hello, Felix.”

It's strange how that smile gets lodged in his throat, how it almost has the strength to snag something out his chest and pull it out of his mouth. He fights the urge to turn around and check that the suit of armor is still out in the hall.

“Oh good, you’ve reconnected. Saves me the trouble of reintroducing you two.”

A towering man steps forward, blonde hair slicked back with several strands of gray sticking out in every direction. His glasses are too large for his face, and the sunlight reflecting off the lenses light up the blue buried in his eyes. His robes are disheveled, like he’s been wearing them for a few days. Felix scans the planes of his face and wonders if the man might just be attached to his mage wear and doesn’t have the heart to try something else. The sleeves entomb his arms completely. He is tall and he is earnest, and he reminds Felix of something long buried in the ground. He looks away for a moment to shake off his habit for using his dead friends as a unit of measurement.

“Yes” Mercedes says, stepping forward to fall in line with Felix. “We’ve reacquainted.” Felix doesn’t look at her, doesn’t acknowledge the kindness she’s set down in fibbing just a little for his sake. He’s not even sure she’s done it for his sake, but Mercedes never did anything for her own well-being in the years he knew her, and he doesn’t need confirmation on whether or not she’s still extending her neck out for those who would not return the favor now. It doesn’t matter. Felix is getting paid for this.

“I’m August, the Baron’s assistant. He’s not up for any pleasantries today I’m afraid. He’s worried himself into sickness, you understand. I apologize on his behalf.”

“No apologies necessary.” Mercedes nods and looks over at Felix expectedly, who meets her halfway with a glare.

“Sure,” he huffs.

“Anyway, Fraldarius, I’ve already asked the others to give me an estimation on the travel time, but what do you think?”

Felix mulls it over. He explores his mental map of Fodlan, measuring the distance between each old territory, the exact moment when red bleeds into blue, and how the blue continues north, up and up and up, family names hanging onto the last shred of their tenacity by staying put on a map.

“About a week if we’re careful.”

August grabs his chin and turns it over like Felix has said something profound. A few seconds pass before he nods at him and says, “Very good, you’ll take the lead, then.”

“What, why?”

August shrugs. “You’re the only one who's mentioned anything about being careful, and that was the Baron’s only criteria. It’s all in your hands.”

“Not part of the agreement.” Felix slips the letter out and waves it in the space between them.

“He can easily pay you more.”

“I think it would be alright,” Mercedes chimes in. “You’ve always had good instincts.”

Felix doesn’t know what boils his anger more. This all too familiar man thinking he can persuade him so easily with a fat bag of coins, or Mercedes speaking like the distance between them only stretches a few days. What’s worse and almost makes his irritation bubble over completely is that there’s some truth in August’s assumptions and Mercedes' words. Even when he was younger and had time to pick a fight, he never took the odds once he recognized an imminent defeat.

“Fine.”

“Good. There’s breakfast prepared for the lot of you in the dining room. Please, eat before your travels. I’m sure the others are already halfway through the table by now. Have as much as you’d like.” August bows with a small nod before gliding off into the hall. A door some feet away opens and then closes.

“We should hurry before there’s nothing left,” Mercedes laughs, ushering Felix out of the room from behind.

“Don’t do that.”

She pauses for a moment. This morning has been the most difficult test of Felix’s patience in years because despite building years of steady composure, he still gathers enough annoyance to look over his shoulder at her.

She’s wearing that smile again. Calm, measured, serrated. Felix’s throat itches.

“I know you, and I’ve made a choice,” is what she says. Her words conjure up a scene—a dark sky, an infinite void in the thick of a forest, the only light illuminating the scared determination on a tired face emanating from the waning moon. It slaps Felix in the face like a whip.

“Let’s eat.” She walks past him towards the door, sparing him a final glance before striding down the hall. He taps his fingers against his bicep and spares the suit of armor one final glance. The red plume glides against the metal when a draft sneaks in through an open window. Felix sighs and follows Mercedes out into the hall.

The other mercenaries don’t protest Felix taking the reins of their journey. They’re young, strong, and lethal, but they’re not stupid. Felix’s name and reputation may be fading as time drags on, but it still carries weight among those who fill their pockets with their swords. Whether his reputation sheds a good or bad light on him doesn’t matter. They just need to listen to him.

“How long do you reckon?” Joanna asks, a lithe woman hailing from a small village at the base of Fodlan’s Throat. Felix can feel her sizing him up from the corner of her eye. He spots an expectant smile hiding behind a curtain of black hair.

“A week,” he says, marching forward without sparing her a glance. He’s been better about filing down the edge of his demeanor, but he’s regrettably still off-balance from his reunion with Mercedes, who’s been walking in step with him to his left since they departed. She looks at the sunlight bleeding through the thin canopy of trees like she’s never seen foliage like this in her entire life, which makes Felix clench his hands into fists.

“Isn’t that a little ambitious? You declined the horse offer back there.” The second mercenary, Petyr, looks unsure, all eighteen little years of his life concentrated into that apprehensive gaze. It’s almost funny considering that he towers over all of them, the blade of his axe roughly two times the size of Felix’s head.

“I’d say it’s generous. I want to rush us through the Brionac Plateau, though. The tableland gives us an advantage westward, but we’re open targets to anyone east of us.”

“Think we can’t handle an ambush?” Joanna crosses her arms, the dirks sheathed at her hips shifting with the movement. There’s a faux laxness about her that Felix chooses to ignore. It’s been a long time since someone has tugged on one of his strings to test the flexibility of his patience, and he’s not too keen on reminiscing.

“I think we avoid trouble as much as possible. The job isn’t to add tallies to our kill counts, it’s to get Mercedes safely to Itha.”

“Yes, and thank you very much.” Mercedes nods her head down in a small bow. “I haven’t made a trip like this in years. A week is a good pace, I think.”

Joanna shrugs, letting Mercedes’ gratitude flutter to the ground. Petyr’s eyes dart between all of them before nodding and smiling.

Felix keeps his mouth shut for the first leg of their journey. Joanna and Petyr chat among themselves, having long given up on inviting Felix into any of their murmurings. Mercedes has chimed in a few times, but ultimately decides to walk side by side with Felix, matching his pace and silence. He’s not sure what her angle is, if she’s picking at something at an angle at all, but her proximity has him feeling a little off balance. There’s a collected serenity washed over her expression, like this is regular, like they did this a week ago. He hasn’t bothered to look too closely though. He’s been actively looking forward and around, scanning the terrain surrounding the plateau for signs of danger. Not that there’s much danger these days to keep an eye for, but they’re still a little out in the open, and Felix needs to keep himself busy. He takes a deep breath, the briny air clearing his head despite the fact that he can smell the Albinean berry blend tea in Mercedes’ satchel.

“So much sand even out here. I suppose we’re still a little close to the coast.” Mercedes turns to look at him as she speaks. “It’s been a while since I’ve walked in this direction. I always forget how close the sea is, even here.”

Felix turns to acknowledge her, that serenity hovering over like a veil. She tilts her head as she smiles at him. It’s still too sharp for comfort, but there’s a small peace offering here. Talk of the sea has Felix’s mind wandering towards bodies of water, and an image spawns. Felix, Mercedes, and Annette at the pond back at the academy. Fishing rod in Annette’s hands, concentration laced throughout her face. She’d never tried it before, and Felix was giving her some pointers after ten minutes of her arm-twisting him. It was late in the afternoon, the sun bleeding out in the distance, its hue rivaling Annette’s hair. She caught the tiniest loach Felix had ever seen, its small body dangling at the end of her rod sprinkling pond water across her delighted face as it struggled. Mercedes congratulated her. Felix didn’t. Annette had thanked them both before releasing it back into the pond.

He’d told her then that she should have kept it and taken it to the kitchens. She’d refused profusely, her heart pouring out into the water as she watched the loach swim away while Mercedes rubbed her shoulders. He said something about the training grounds before walking away and running into Sylvain, who looked down at him with a smile so private and knowing, an I-told-you-so smirk like Sylvain was the first to discover Felix’s soft underbelly. Felix shoulder-checked him before storming off flushed and unbalanced.

Felix concentrates on the sound of his boots stepping into the grit.

“I was surprised when I first realized how far the sand stretches,” he says, turning away to keep his eyes ahead. He doesn’t want to see what Mercedes’ face does after he’s given her an inch. He’s seen it already on that small dock at the academy pond and he doesn’t need to see it again.

They’re close to Arundel now, which would be a good opportunity to rest for the evening before traversing into Gaspard. Felix’s hand itches at the thought. He’s been good about steering clear of old Faerghus territories, and he’s grown particularly skilled at avoiding specific pieces of the map. He takes a deep breath and lets it go when he registers the terrain beginning to even out to grass.

“Oh, we must be close to the end of the plateau’s shadow.” Mercedes takes a moment to shake some of the sand out of her skirt. “I haven’t wandered in this direction in so long.”

“Me neither.” He looks at her for a moment, reeling in his disbelief so she can’t pick at it.

Felix hasn’t gone out of his way to keep tabs on her. The last memory of her face he had before now was a hollow expression, like someone had taken a spoon and dug it under her skin just to see if they could pry it off. Weeks after Rhea had fallen, Felix found himself in Enbarr with Mercedes at his heels, as far south as they could go. She stood on the very edge of a cliff, ocean waves crashing into the bedrock, the short strands of her hair flapping in the wind like wispy flags.

What now? She’d asked with a small lilt that carried an unspoken request, which Felix promptly yanked from the air and threw into the sea.

I leave and you don’t follow. He’d looked her square in the face. He wasn’t anticipating a scornful response to make the parting easier, he wasn’t like Sylvain in that regard. He didn’t feel like he deserved it just to underscore a certain flavor of self-loathing; he just deserved it. No, he’d looked her dead in the eye like he did that evening in the forest, when they fled south towards Byleth. He’d wanted to see that shift in her gaze that meant she understood what they might be asked to do next, what they might ask themselves to do next.

I knew you’d say something absolutely frigid, I did. But I hoped you wouldn’t. She smiled at him, her cheeks straining like her muscles had forgotten how to move in that direction. Jeritza’s black hair ribbon was clenched in her white-knuckled fist, the loose ends swaying with her. Felix, what was it all for?

He didn’t allow that to wash over him. There was no point.

Don’t look for me.

Mercedes’ smile grew even wider when she said, Wouldn’t dream of it.

She was never physically in his line of sight, but he couldn’t muffle all the noise around him. People talked, in taverns, on the roads, in the markets. If he caught bits and pieces as he passed by, he couldn't help that. She’d been mentioned to him in passing from the dwindling number of people who knew of him when they crossed paths. To his knowledge, she’s been traveling around as a healer, a rare skirmish medic, sometimes a bedside nurse. Felix has always been good at not taking unnecessary damage, but once he’d learned about what she was up to, he’d become an expert just to minimize the possibility of running into her completely.

And yet, here she is, falling into step with him. Felix doesn’t believe in unseen forces having a hand in their paths crossing, but he’s old enough to understand that it might count for something. She mentioned their choice, and whether or not he’d wanted her to follow along, it’s still something they saw through together. Perhaps there’s something in taking the lingering damage of what they did side by side. Solitude won’t ever get old for Felix, but his anger might.

“How long did it take you to learn how to reverse dark magic?” He’s trying to give both of them some sort of foothold. He’s never cared about being polite, even after all these years, but they’re both on their way towards that forgotten north, and he needs to adjust to the strangeness of craving solidarity, at least temporarily.

“Years. It’s quite the meticulous process, but I’ve had plenty of practice. Learning it was grueling though.” She tightens the old, black ribbon wrapped around her hair. “Linhardt summoned me a long while ago to join him in his new direction of research since he’d already figured out how to remove the crests from Edelgard and Lysithea.” She shakes her head and laughs. “He’d made himself the subject by casting fifty dark magic spells every evening. It was worrying work, but we managed. He’s better at it than I am, but I was able to relieve Hubert of his debilitating pain, so I’ve got a little something to be proud of. It takes months, but I can do it.”

“Why isn’t Linhardt making this trip, then?” Felix scoffs. “I’m guessing Blackthorn contacted you both.”

Mercedes shrugs. “He didn’t want to, you know how he is.”

“And you think you can cure this girl we’re crawling towards?”

Mercedes does something brave and unexpected, and Felix almost stops walking entirely. She gently takes hold of his bicep and squeezes. It’s a soft thing, the same amount of delicate pressure you’d use to pluck a flower from the ground. Felix hasn’t known this sort of familiar delicacy in decades and it almost buckles his knees.

“It’s about time I’ve walked in this direction again. I’m going to heal and she’lll get better. My stamina isn’t what it used to be and my skirt is already so sandy, but if I can restore her, well.”

Mercedes doesn’t finish that last thought, but she doesn’t have to. Felix knows where it’s going as it trails off. It’s not hope for atonement, not quite. They relinquished all their rights to redemption the moment they took off in the forest.

It’s the knowledge that things could be better, that they can take it in their hands and sculpt a future worth leaving everything they’ve known behind. Another image floods his head, this time framed by the flap of a tent barely visible in the lantern light. Red hair spilling out onto a pillow, chest shifting up and down beneath a blanket too unevenly for Sylvain to be asleep. He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge Felix at his tent threshold. Felix stands there, staring, half-wishing this motherfucker will sit up and grab him by the ankles. Nothing.

“Looks like we’re coming up on Arundel. We staying the night?” Joanna flanks Felix on his right and crosses her arms.

Felix’s gaze goes back and forth between Joanna and Petyr so he doesn’t have to look at Mercedes.

“Yeah, let’s see if any of the inns have rooms.”

Embers from the campfire crackle into the evening, flitting out in every direction as everyone gets settled into their sleeping arrangements on the ground. Joanna and Petyr are out in the dark hunting, scratching an itch as they both put it despite having left with more than enough rations for a few days. Felix stares at the knife in his hand as he sharpens the blade, the glow of the fire reflecting off the steel. He sharpened it before arriving at the manor, but Mercedes is currently sitting somewhere to his right, scribbling away in a notebook. He knows the moment he gives her any kind of acknowledgement it’ll open up an opportunity to share what she’s writing, and Felix doesn’t want to know.

He takes his small whetstone and brings it down the spine of his blade. Mercedes murmurs something under her breath as her scribbling speeds up. Felix brings his whetstone down against the steel again, this time harder, and he chews on his bottom lip, annoyed at himself since he knows better. Mercedes pauses, hums to herself, and continues to write. Felix continues to sharpen his blade, the same fluid motion in the same direction. Mercedes giggles into the evening, her laughter cracking with the embers spitting out from the flames until one lands on Felix’s exposed wrist.

“Shit,” he huffs, setting the knife down as he inspects the burn.

“Oh,” Mercedes says. “Is it bad?”

“It’s fine.”

“Maybe you should scoot back a little.” Mercedes shuffles closer to him, patting the empty space next to her.

“I’m good here.”

“I won’t heal any more burns you get from the fire.”

“I’m not asking you to.” He looks over his shoulder at her. She’s sitting with her legs stretched out, one crossed over the other, her notebook in her lap. She’s smiling, again. Felix doesn’t understand how she doesn’t get tired of it. “Besides, your journaling is grating. What are you even writing?” He looks away at his knife on the ground, staring at the orange glow of the fire flickering in its murky reflection.

“Do you actually want to know?”

Felix picks up the knife and turns it over, inspecting it for no other reason than to just do something with his hands.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Hmm.” Felix can hear her flip through the pages of her journal quickly, like she’s trying to memorize all the words before presenting them to him. “I write letters.”

“Letters? In a journal?”

“Yes,” she answers, uncertainty dragging out the syllable. Seems like she’s never told anyone about this before. Felix hates that he’s the first. “I’m writing to Annette and Ingrid.”

A few things happen in the parameters of that sentence. Anger bubbles up in Felix’s stomach and almost erupts out of his mouth like a venomous geyser. It quickly dissipates, however, and the remnants of it gathers into itself and morphs into confusion and disbelief, which then drapes over him like a cape. It weighs down on his shoulders until his thoughts run off in a direction he hasn’t explored in a while, a memory tucked away at the bottom of a drawer.

Sylvain is in this one, towering over him as he stares at a blank piece of parchment gathering dust at his desk, his quill hovering over the surface.

Did you suddenly forget how to write?

Shut up, Sylvain.

Or is it your handwriting? Can’t still be that bad.

If you’re not going to be helpful or be quiet, then get out. Felix slams his quill down, a splinter getting caught in his palm. He angrily tries to pick it out and is unsuccessful at every attempt.

Sorry, Sylvain says it like he means it, and maybe he does, Felix can’t tell. Or rather, he pretends he can’t tell. Years of being able to pick at Sylvain’s bullshit means he’s cursed with bearing the brunt of his sincerity when he wants to whip it out. I know this is an unusual thing for you. Is this your first letter to your father since arriving at the academy?

Felix shuffles his right foot back and tucks it behind the leg of his chair. The blank parchment seems too bright in the candlelight and it’s starting to hurt his eyes. He leans back against the chair and looks up, his view of the ceiling eclipsed by Sylvain.

Does it matter?

It’s Glenn’s birthday. You tell me. Sylvain is not unkind when he says this. In fact, it’s the kindest he’s been in a while. Felix wants to resent him for it. Sylvain knows he hates it when people try to corner him into a choice, but Felix wishes he’d step in the trap anyway. Figures he wouldn’t. Sylvain cares too much, and Felix isn’t accustomed to laying traps down for people anyway. He’d rather be straightforward, it’s far more efficient. Traps are more Sylvain’s style, which is probably why he so easily side stepped it in the first place.

It doesn’t matter. Felix reaches for his quill only for Sylvain to carefully grab his wrist and take a look at his palm. Felix’s anger is a powerful but fleeting thing, gone as soon as it manifests, replaced by a strangeness that makes him feel like he needs to jump in the pond, which must be icy at this hour. Sylvain plucks the splinter right out of his skin and flicks it somewhere in Felix’s room. He rubs his thumb over the dot of blood that spouts from the hole until it’s all gone and gently sets Felix’s hand down.

Start with your training. Tell him all about it, how it’s going, what you’ve learned. Everything else might spill out after that.

Felix looks over his shoulder when he hears Sylvain walk towards the door.

Late night rendezvous? And Felix is so unkind when he says it, like he’s got rocks tucked in his cheeks and he’s making it everyone else’s problem.

Maybe, Sylvain shrugs, his brown gaze sticking onto Felix, tree sap. I don’t have to, though.

Felix turns back to the blank parchment, quill in hand as he starts scribbling about his frequent sparring sessions with Professor Byleth. He revels in Sylvain’s patience for him, how he hasn’t reached for the door knob yet, which is so stupid and ridiculous. He blinks at the thought then quickly bends himself even closer to his desk so that his embarrassment doesn’t catch up to him.

It doesn’t matter. Do what you want.

Sylvain sighs as he walks towards the bed, making himself comfortable as Felix finds the words.

“Does it not feel like a waste of time?” He asks Mercedes now, the fire crackling in front of them. “What’s the use of trying to absolve yourself in that manner? It’s just scribbles no one will read at this point.”

“What right do I have trying to absolve myself of anything?” He hears her snap her journal shut. Her skirts shuffle on the ground as she shifts. “What right do either of us have?”

Felix doesn’t say anything, neither of them do for a while. At some point he puts his knife away when his wrist begins to ache, the passage of time having long found the pinch points of his joints. He peers over at Mercedes over his shoulder and finds her hugging her knees to her chest, a smile aimed at the fire. The shadows cast on her face underscore the wrinkles hugging her gaze. There’s an exhaustion sprawling all over her fact that he recognizes, he feels it in his wrists, his bones. He can barely make out the black ribbon he knows is tied neatly around her hair in a bow.

He thinks about Mercedes and her time with Annette and Ingrid. The tender touches, the lingering stares. He thinks about the time he was on the outskirts of the market searching for an uncharted route into the woods to hunt so he could shake some of the war out of his hands and saw the three of them exchange kisses beneath a tree, cheeks pink and voices elated.

He thinks about Mercedes and her time with Jeritza, with Emille. The relief in her gaze each time they spoke during the war, his form corporeal and right in front of her. He thinks about the guilt hidden behind her everlasting smile when Jertiza would turn around.

“It doesn’t matter,” is what he finally says. “You can do whatever you want. We’re still breathing, our skin curling inward and outward. Doesn’t matter how we treat what’s in the ground now.”

After a long pause, she says, “There were a lot of rumors about you in those early days.”

“So? There were rumors about a lot of us once Edelgard got what she wanted.”

“At first I was glad to still hear your name floating about. You didn’t leave much of a trail at the cliffside all those years ago. I heard you were traveling everywhere except, well, north.”

Felix leans back on his palms, legs stretching towards the flame.

“And it was nice to hear but,” Mercedes readjusts again and crosses her legs, folding her hand neatly in her lap. “Well, you were stumbling all over Fodlan rather than walking in a straight line, or so they say.”

“I was a drunk,” Felix says. He’s putting it mildly. For years after the war Felix had his mouth to a flask like a baby to its mother’s breast. “So what? I pissed myself in the middle of fields I was so drunk. What are you getting at?”

“Have you considered that’s how you might have dealt with what we’ve buried?”

“Right,” Felix snorts. “We didn’t even bury anything. We didn’t bury anyone.”

Mercedes hums and takes a breath as she’s about to say something, but Joanna and Petyr return from their hunt, a few dead birds in their hands.

“I call the legs,” Joanna says as she sets one down on a stump and digs out a knife to properly clean it.

Felix gets comfortable in his sleeping bag, his spine relaxing against the rigid earth. Mercedes is sound asleep to his right, the corner of her journal peeking out from her satchel. Joanna’s snores can be heard over Petyr’s axe swings. He drew the short stick which means he gets the first watch. He doesn’t seem too bothered by it, happy to get in some reps, it seems. Felix resists the urge to get up and correct his posture. The way Petyr drags his axe from his left is taking too long, leaving his right side too open. He’ll mention it to him another time. It’s taken over two decades, but Felix has finally found the merit in a good night’s rest, and he intends to get some hours in before it’s his turn to take over the watch.

His gaze lands on the corner of Mercedes’ journal before he finally closes his eyes.

Snow whips all around them in short, sharp bursts, riding along the breeze as it comes and goes. Felix is trying to keep up with his friends, his short legs sinking deeper into the snow as it piles higher and higher. Dimitri’s blonde hair sways back and forth as he leads, followed by Ingrid’s matching bob and Sylvain’s beacon of red. They’re all dusted in white, like someone had sifted powdered sugar all over their little bodies. The Gautier woods reach for them, the low hanging tree branches framing their path in frosted fingers.

How much farther, Dimitri? Sylvain calls out as he glances over his shoulder to make sure Felix is still only a foot or so behind.

We just need a little more space! I’m sure we’ll find a clearing soon.

I hope it’s soon. Our fathers will wonder where we went. Ingrid adds, shoving a branch out of her way so it doesn’t get snagged in her hair.

We’ll be back in time for supper, trust me. Dimitri looks over at the lot of them, his smile a small but self-assured thing. The confidence in his icy gaze is enough to ignite something deep in Felix’s belly and he breaks out into a sprint, rushing past Sylvain and Ingrid to fall into step with their leader.

What do you think about here? Sylvain reaches for Dimtri’s cloak and gently tugs him into stopping. The four of them look around the clearing. It’s small, but so are they, and it’s more than enough to spend the early afternoon testing their mettle.

I want to go first! Felix declares, seven years old and so determined to prove his worth in that Faerghus way of theirs. With Dimtri!

Sure!

Felix doesn’t allow the prince a single moment to prepare. He simply lunges, tackling Dimitri into the snow, winter sticking to his yellow hair, his light lashes. They wrestle on the ground, all smiles and laughter and grit. Felix has him pinned to the ground for all of two seconds before Dimitri turns the tables and gets Felix on his back. Dimitri looks down at him, cheeks rosied by the chill and his mirth. The sun beams from behind him, so his smile is slightly buried in shadow, but Felix doesn’t care. He can still see it. It’s there right in front of him. His cheeks hurt from laughing. He’s cold but it doesn’t matter. Sylvain and Ingrid are laughing in his periphery. And he looks up.

And he can still see it.

Felix sits up quickly when the bright sunlight digs beneath his eyelids and pries them open. He allows his eyes a few moments to adjust, the warm weather a sharp whip to his chest. Mercedes is sitting next to him, gathering all of her things so they can continue their journey north. She studies his face, searching each inch of it before she offers him a canteen.

“Thanks.” He shakes his head before taking a long pull of water and handing it back to her.

“Of course. I wake up pretty thirsty when a dream tries to chase me into the waking world.”

Felix doesn’t have anything to say to that. He stands and looks to the sky to search for rain clouds. It’s as blue and as clear as he’s ever seen it. It looks back at him in all of its steady serenity, not a shadow in sight.

Arundel is an easy trek. They’re at the Gaspard border before the sun can really settle beyond the horizon. The trees continue to thicken with each step they take. Felix isn’t as dazed as he thought he’d be, but he’s only been in old Faerghus territory for less than an hour. His stomach twists a little when he spots a tree with a blue cloth tied around one of its branches, but it’s so withered and faded that you’d only notice it if that shade of blue was the color of your blood at some point. Mercedes lets out a sigh when she sees it, but otherwise Felix can’t catch any notable differences in her demeanor. It’s still early, and they’re nowhere near true north, but two decades worth of ghosts haven’t reached him yet, and maybe that counts for something.

There’s a village about a quarter mile away according to their map, but they still have to walk through a little bit of forest before they get there. The trees sway above them as an early evening wind flails through the branches, and the setting sun is barely peeking through all the foliage. Felix looks to Mercedes, who is already staring at him, brows furrowed. Felix has never been superstitious, it’s a waste of time and it’s extraordinarily inefficient to lean into it. But once you’ve cut through enough bodies, enough familiar faces, enough of your friends, a bad feeling becomes too easy to recognize.

“How long do you think it’ll take us to get to that village?” Joanna yawns.

“Can’t be long, right?” Petyr struts along ahead, an optimistic pep in his step. “We’re making good time, I think.”

“Petyr,” Mercedes starts, concerned. “Perhaps you should—”

An arrow interrupts her as it whistles through the air and finds Petyr’s shoulder. Felix’s sword is drawn in an instant, and Joanna follows suit with her daggers. Petyr snaps the arrow enough to where a piece of it is still lodged in his skin to prevent himself from bleeding out and picks up his axe.

A mob of bandits rush them from all sides. Felix makes quick work of the nearest one, his steel gliding across the column of his throat, a knife through butter. Blood splashes onto his cheeks, but he doesn’t have time to wipe it off as three more bandits sprint towards him. He dodges each axe swing, sword swipe, gauntleted uppercut. He concentrates on staying fluid, like snowmelt trickling down the side of a mountain, and works his way through all three men in front of him. His sword slices through an abdomen, it digs into a heart buried in a chest, it carves through an achilles heel before getting rammed through a spine. He feels it all in his joints, but it’s not bad. Just age. Everything else? He doesn’t bother blinking at any of it. This is all business to Felix.

He’s awarded with a moment to take stock of the situation. He finds Mercedes first, Cutting Gales flying out of her hands like serrated belts, flaying the skin of several bandits as they try to charge at her. Her wind magic smells familiar, like very sweet apples, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to sever that train of thought before it gets too far. He stays close to her to cover her blind spots since she can only really direct her magic in one direction. Offense is not her strong suit.

More bandits keep sprawling out of the woods, diving headfirst into Petyr’s axe. He’s fending off so many bodies with that enormous axe Felix doesn’t know how his shoulders haven’t popped out of place. Joanna is somewhere off to the side, lithe and lethal, making quick work of quite a few of them with her dirks. The four of them keep up with the assault for a little while, but soon numbers begin to matter as the fight drags on. Felix is surprised the bandits haven’t taken a single glance at all the bodies on the ground and determined that what little valuables they might actually have on hand may not be worth it. But as everything continues, it becomes increasingly clear that most of their ire is aimed at Felix and Mercedes, and Felix doesn’t have to guess why. In all the commotion, he’s made note of one constant as he his sword shreds through all their armor and clothes to reach their bodies.

Blue, withered and faded and flapping in the evening wind.

A good chunk of these bandits are around Felix’s age give or take a few years. He doesn’t have time to linger on this, though, because his age is catching up to him, and the bandits’ tenacity is multiplying as they realize their numbers advantage is working. Arrows keep grazing his skin as he continues to fight, but Mercedes doesn’t really have a moment to spare as she barely keeps up with her side of the assault.

A loud yell booms through the trees, and when Felix whips his head towards the shout, he finds Petyr mid axe swing, the blade dragging near his left foot leaving his entire right side wide open. One of their assailants notices this and heaves his longsword right into Petyr’s stomach. He doesn’t fall immediately. In fact, he finishes his final axe swing, taking three men with him before he falls to one knee, giving the bandit with the long sword the opportunity to swing again. Petyr’s axe falls to the ground before he does, his large body slumping into the dirt.

“Fuck!” Joanna screams as she registers Petyr’s unmoving corpse. All the bandits who were working on Petyr shift their attention to her and charge. Felix takes a step toward her to cover, but he’s almost overwhelmed by the men in front of him and Mercedes. Joanna puts up a good fight, she truly does, her fighting style a dance as she slices through them with her dirks with the precision of a well-seasoned soldier. But the numbers matter, and one of them is able to catch her ankle with the end of their staff. As she trips, there’s a moment where her body is suspended in the air, enough time for three arrows to find her neck, one after another.

An image conjures up in front of Felix, replacing the scene in front of him. It’s still Joanna, dead and falling, arrows sticking out of her skin like early grave markers. Except, it’s not Joanna pummeling into the ground from where she was standing, and it’s not only three arrows lodged into her neck. Felix sees Ingrid falling from the sky, blonde hair whipping in her freefall as several arrows protrude from her neck, her shoulders, her legs until she crashes into the ground in a lifeless heap. Felix shakes his head and is met with all the bandits diverting their attention to him and Mercedes.

There’s not that many left, but they’re still outnumbered. Felix is still able to keep up, but he’s not sure how much longer he has, especially since his wrist started throbbing the moment they began. He can hear Mercedes’ heavy breathing, devastation running her breath ragged. He knows firsthand what it’s like to make the choice between reaching for his ally or ensuring his survival. Mercedes is more intimately familiar with this, but unlike Felix, the choice has always been more impossible for her. It doesn’t matter now. She didn’t get to them in time. Joanna and Petyr have been cold to the world for too long to try.

The remaining bandits close in on them, and Felix readies himself for a brutal onslaught. Mercedes bumps into his shoulder with her own, the point of contact sending lightning through his bones. Figures this is how they’d go out, randomly, in a random forest the moment they stepped foot in their old stomping grounds together. Felix looks around to anticipate an arrow coming for his head, but after a few seconds, he realizes he hasn’t seen an arrow fly in a few minutes.

And then, there is an arrow. Except, it digs into the neck of a bandit rather than his own. More arrows fly out of the trees and lodge themselves into heels and backs and faces. The bandits flounder, giving Felix and Mercedes the chance to go on the offensive, making quick work of their adversaries as the mystery arrows assist from afar.

Felix doesn’t let his guard down yet, stepping in front of Mercedes to get in between her and whomever launched all those arrows with such acute precision. A figure emerges from the brush, and Felix draws blood this time from how hard he bites into his cheek.

He’s still as tall as Felix remembers, which is an easy memory since they’re roughly around the same height. The silver bow in his hand gleams in the waning sunlight, matching his shaggy, silver hair and equally silver beard. His glare is as green as ripe pears, and Felix grips his sword tighter.

“Oh goodness,” Mercedes says, pinching Felix’s elbow. “Ashe.”

Ashe keeps his bow steady. It’s not pointed at either of them, but it sits at a ready angle. Felix is so used to being treated like an easily spooked horse that he’s very cognizant of his limbs, his feet on the ground, his grip on his sword. He’s never been good at twisting his face until it mismatches how he feels, however, and he can tell all of his apprehension and distrust pummels into Ashe’s like a boulder.

Mercedes takes a step forward, but Ashe doesn’t move, just keeps that pear gaze on her as she leans over the bodies before them. She takes Petry’s big hand in her own, folds it over her chest and says a quiet prayer before she moves onto Joanna. She does the same thing, hand in her palm and then to her chest. A whisper over the cooling fingers. Felix can’t really watch her though, can’t really take stock of the bodies, eyes trained on Ashe, who lowers his bow, his beard shifting with his frown as Mercedes gets on her feet again.

“Ashe,” Mercedes says again, patting the dirt off her skirt. “I always wondered when I’d run into you again.”

Ashe stares at her and shakes his head. He takes his time strapping his bow on his back again, slipping the arrow back into his quiver, each movement deliberate and slow. Felix figures Ashe is keeping them there, suspended in all this death before he utters a word. He has a power over them that’s been nonexistent for decades. Felix doesn’t know if Ashe will use it here, and that’s the reason Felix gives himself for keeping his sword in hand. There could be a hundred other things keeping him still, but it’s the faint threat of violence that Felix needs to keep himself anchored here. All those other reasons, those rememberings—no. Felix holds onto what he knows best.

“Well,” Asha starts, his voice a little coarse with age but still rounded at the edges. Felix could always pick it out in a crowded space, that eager enthusiasm flitting towards the rafters and hovering over everything. “No use in wondering.” He looks around at all the death, the open eyes, the open skin blooming in the sun. He looks back up, eyes darting back and forth between Felix and Mercedes. There’s so much anger there Felix swears it could slice through parchment to make it more sheer. He gives them a curt nod before turning around and heading towards the trees.

“Wait,” Mercedes asks, voice hard and decisive enough to get Ashe to pause.

“We’re not doing this. You don’t get to demand anything from me.” Ashe looks over his shoulder, a green eye peeking through a drape of silver bangs. It glows with all the emotion Felix was never privy to after everything. “What do you want to say to me? Do you even have anything to say? You’re lucky I was passing through.”

“No,” Mercedes shakes her head, clearing more dirt off her skirt. “I suppose all I can offer right now is my thanks for your help.”

Ashe shakes his head again. “What are you even doing this way?” He nods at Felix, or rather, his sword. “You can put that away. Or don’t. That’s all you’ve ever wanted to hold in your palm anyway.”

Felix doesn’t say anything. He lets Ashe’s words simmer somewhere out of sight, but he can hear it all bubbling, can still smell it permeating the air. It pisses him off as he licks the blood from the inside of his cheek. He sheathes his sword, leveling Ashe with a glare so fierce he can see the precise moment Ashe bears the brunt of it and shakes it off.

“We’ve been hired by a noble to assist his daughter suffering from the after effects of dark magic.” Mercedes takes a step so she’s side by side with Felix, a faux united front, a wall Ashe has to climb if he really wants to give into his obvious anger. “Felix and a couple others were tasked with escorting me to Itha so I can heal her.”

“Itha?’ Ashe snorts. It fades into amusement, a joke Felix doesn’t understand, which irritates him more. “You’re going to crawl along this side of things, that side of things?”

“Yes, we are.” Mercedes tugs on the strap of her satchel. “She desperately needs help.”

Ashe stares at them, long and hard, turning his body towards them so he can really drink them in.

“Are you going to say something or are you still relying on your ridiculous brooding act?”

“So you mouth off now, is that it?’ Felix finally snaps. He crosses his arms as Ashe takes a step forward. “You’re brave, suddenly?”

“And what measurement for bravery have you ever had or used?” Ashe walks forward until there’s only a few feet separating them.

“You seemed interested in my own measurement of bravery when you would follow me around like one of the castle dogs. When you followed the rest of the lions limping and whining.”

“I may have followed you around like a lost pup, but not when it mattered.” Ashe’s eyes flit to Mercedes before turning back on Felix. “I didn’t run.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” Felix grits.

“Ashe,” Mercedes cuts in, dagger sharp. “Do you think it would be possible for you to join us the rest of the way?”

“What?” Felix and Ashe yell in unison.

“We’ve only just begun, really, and our companions are gone now. I don’t doubt Felix and I can make it all the way on our own, but it would be safer if you agreed to accompany us. Even after so long, we’re not welcome here.”

Felix hasn’t taken a good look at the ground yet and finally takes a moment to acknowledge the wreckage now that it seems Ashe doesn’t want to put them in the ground himself.

Petyr is the furthest away, his body a mountain eclipsing all the others around him. There’s still a little blood dripping out of his stomach. His lifeless expression looks resigned, like he’s done all he can despite his young age, eyes closed. Most of the bodies around him were his doing, so Felix supposes that’s mostly true. Joanna looks less peaceful, fear and disbelief a shadow over her lifeless gaze, her dirks so close to her rigid fingers. Felix bends down and brushes her bloodied hair out of her face and closes her eyes. There’s a lot staring back at him, mostly that shade of blue that too closely resembles Annette.

“Am I supposed to care about your journey there?” Ashe’s voice gets Felix to slowly rise to his feet. Ashe watches his every move, eyes less narrowed this time. Confusion knits his brows and he takes a deep breath, a little bit of that signature Ashe softness filling out his cheeks as he exhales. Felix crosses his arms and looks at his feet.

“No,” Mercedes answers, “not our safety. But I’d like to save this girl, if I can.”

“The nerve,” Ashes whispers, shaking his head. He looks up at the sky as a sparrow flies north overhead. He runs a hand through his hair and says, “I don’t want to be your path to retribution.”

“It’s too late for that,” Felix mutters alongside Mercedes, the both of them blinking at each other.

Ashe shakes his head again and kicks at the dirt on the ground as a couple more sparrows flap up above. Inner turmoil spins him around in a circle, and it feels like half the day passes before he reaches a conclusion.

“Fine,” he sighs, the fight in him draining altogether. “To prevent any more trouble up here.” He exerts a lot of effort in not sparing them another glance as he turns around and leads the way. He pauses after a moment and looks over his shoulder. “And that girl. Get yourselves together and let’s get moving.”

Felix and Mercedes do a quick inventory check on themselves before moving Joanna’s body out of the road. Petyr is a struggle with only the two of them, but Ashe can only keep up his fake nonchalance for so long before running over and assisting them anyway. It reminds Felix of so long ago, a tiny fragment in the wreckage beneath his feet. A moment in the training grounds. He’d been slicing at the training dummies all afternoon in blissful solitude until he heard the door clunking behind him. Dedue and Ashe had entered in silence, Dedue relaxed and comfortable in the quiet, was such a contrast to Ashe fiddling with the ends of his sleeves.

Oh, sorry Felix! I hope we’re not interrupting. Dedue asked if I could give him some bow—”

Don’t care, as long as you stay out of my way.

Right!

Felix hadn’t paid much attention to them for most of the afternoon until an arrow landed sadly at his feet. He looked over at the direction from which it came to see Dedue holding a training bow with too-stiff arms. Ashe was chewing on his thumb nail, wincing as Dedue notched another arrow and missed the training dummy right in front of him.

Here, Ashed walked over and adjusted Dedue’s form. Relax a little! You don’t have to be so rigid. Aim with your eyes rather than the point of the arrow.

He’d hit the dummy after that, sharing a smile so small with Ashe that Felix was astonished he could feel the force of it from all the way across the training grounds.

“We can’t even bury them,” Mercedes whispers once they’ve laid them down with some dignity to spare. Ashe looks between the two of them, a sadness washing over him, his hands restless as he remains indecisive with what to do with them.

“No,” Felix stares at Joanna and Petyr’s hands. “We can’t.”

Gaspard into Magdred is a mostly quiet affair. Normally this would be a boon to Felix. He’s never been accustomed to idle chatter and he’s not too eager in getting involved in any sort of conversation with Mercedes and Ashe of all people, but the tension squeezing them all on the road together is compressing his ribs into his lungs.

Mercedes must be less tolerant of it as she turns to Ashe and asks, “Have you stayed over in these territories all these years?”

Ashe looks at her like she’s grown several heads. “Yeah, wouldn’t you?”

“You haven’t felt compelled to see what the rest of Fodlan is like?”

“I’m not sure if you remember,” Ashe begins. He wears his anger so plainly. Felix doesn’t know why he cares so much about seeing such fury redden those freckles. “But there was an entire war that pulled me all over the place like a fish hook in my cheek. I watched my friends fall out of the sky and bleed into the humid air down there. Sorry for not feeling the wanderlust.”

Mercedes just nods like Ashe had just shared he hasn’t really traveled because he can’t do the heat.

“That’s true,” she adds. She digs into her satchel and retrieves some dried fruit. “I’m sorry for asking. I guess it’s just been so long.” She offers some of her fruit to Ashe, who looks like he can’t decide whether to accept it or yell at her at the top of his lungs. He opts for looking away. Felix shakes his head when she turns her attention to him.

It’s a strange thing to walk alongside Mercedes an Ashe with only the sound of the flora and fauna around them keeping complete and utter silence at bay. There was a time where it seemed Mercedes and Ashe would never run out of things to say to him. He thinks about the dining hall at the Officer’s Academy, chatter and laughter filling out the creases of the wood holding the building up. Ashe to his left, going on and on about his younger siblings, the fowl he’d shot earlier that week, the book he was reading. Such enthusiasm then, such unfiltered awe so heavy that it flattened Felix’s irritation paper thin. He stopped telling Ashe to stop yapping at him long ago since Ashe would listen to a fault, a resigned self-discipline that made him look so pitiful Felix couldn’t take it anymore and told him to just talk.

Felix thinks of a particular evening where all of the Blue Lions were seated at one of the tables. Felix is gnawing on a beef rib, Ingrid mirroring him from across the table, Dimitri next to her politely setting his fork down as he smiles sadly at his empty plate, food just a means to nourish himself rather than something to be enjoyed. Sylvain is on Felix’s right, trying to hook his ankle around Felix’s as Felix playfully kicks him away. Annette and Mercedes flank Ingrid on each side, braiding her hair, laughing as she tears meat off her bone.

And Ashe to his left, with Dedue next to him and still near enough to Dimitri, his voice pulling all of their attention to him like gravity as he recounts the latest plot twist in the novel he’d found lying around near the bath house.

Felix doesn’t remember the story, but he remembers the noise. Ingrid’s pleased hum as she inhaled her dinner, Dimtri’s fork against the plate, Sylvain’s laughter as Felix finally relented and left their ankles intertwined, Annette and Mercedes’ busy hands as they fussed over Ingrid, Dedue’s single-word encouragements as Ashe told his story.

Felix has never been sentimental, at least not in the way that it matters. He never carries anything with him, a rule he set for himself long ago. For decades he has endured in silence. He is used to it, he is shrouded by it, he never even thinks to acknowledge it anymore.

His vision warps again, tunneling in on a cardinal flitting from tree to tree, red and loud. He shakes his head and ignores Mercedes’ questioning glance. He takes a deep breath and lets go of the memory, wincing as he exhales. He doesn’t remember taking a hard enough blow earlier to warrant such an ache in his ribs.

There isn’t very much going on in Gaspard as they pass through, but it is welcomed and unfamiliar in equal measure. Bordering what used to be the line between Faerghus and Adrestia, Felix recalls it being a busy territory. A border territory meant a larger military presence, soldiers and towers dotting along the imaginary lines. It meant a fleeting tension that you couldn’t quite ignore while you were there but rather existed alongside it hoping it didn’t bite your hand as you walked.

Those are gone now, replaced by homes and shops and trading posts. They’re dispersed rather widely with so much space in between, and there’s nothing threatening to tear his hand off. He catches Mercedes staring at a couple of children kicking a ball around.

“How are your siblings?” She asks.

“Fine,” Ashe mutters. He waves at the children with a half-smile as they beam at him with toothy grins. “They’re in Dagda currently, last I heard.”

“You don’t keep in touch?” Mercedes shares a glance with Felix.

Ashe doesn’t answer. Instead he runs over to a nearby patch of wild violets. He carefully plucks a few of them out of the ground and hands them to the kids. They cling onto his legs for a few minutes, the sunlight reddening their buoyed cheeks.

Castle Gaspard still stands, a small testament to how much Edelgard knew and how clearly she displayed her gratitude. Lonato wasn’t perfect, and Felix used to pity how easily manipulated he was, but he was still just a man outliving his son. Who could blame him for that?

Ashe returns, failing to keep the smile spreading across his freckles as he shakes his legs off.

“Do you want to linger a little while?”

Ashe looks at Mercedes, smile flattened. He scratches the back of his head and sighs.

“I’m here all the time.”

There’s a purple petal stuck to Ashe’s glove as they continue. A gust of wind picks it up and carries it away.

“We’ve spilled into Magdred,” Felxi says, eyeing what little he can see of the Oghma Mountains. He looks at all the surrounding trees and the nightfall crowding all around them. “I think we’ve overshot the possibility of an inn tonight.”

Mercedes hums in agreement and promptly gets to work on her tent now that the temperature has dropped as Felix and Ashe rummage for firewood. Nobody utters a single word as they settle in, not even when Ashe’s shoulder brushes up against Felix. He doesn’t look at him when it happens to spare them both of the possibility of an awkward interaction, but he can feel Ashe’s hesitation, his restraint as he presumably sucks back a knee-jerk apology.

Their tents are set up, Mercedes lights a fire with the flick of her wrist, they all split the available rations and stare into the fire.

Felix blinks at the flames before looking up. He blinks and sees Mercedes and Ashe’s figures. He blinks and sees them again. One more time. Now there are more bodies circling the crackling warmth. Ingrid chewing on a rabbit leg, Dedue staring at an oblivious Ashe, Dimitri grimacing at the smoke curling up into the sky, wispy white little phantoms. Felix feels Sylvain’s thigh against his own, and before he blinks them all away, Annette smiles at him through the fire.

And then, it’s Mercedes and Ashe. Felix pulls out his sword and whetstone and concentrates on the sound, how it reverberates into the evening. It chases it all away, chases away what Dimitri couldn’t avenge, what he couldn’t say no to.

“We’ve gotten lucky with the weather,” Mercedes says as she jots something down in her ghost letters. “Although, I hope the opportunity to sleep in a bed will present itself at some point. My old back can only take so much stiffness.” She’s saying it in that post-war Mercedes way of hers, where she might be alluding to the possibility that she lives in an alternate reality where the three of them had a conversation like this fairly recently.

Ashe bites, nibbles, really. “Yeah, but you know how it is on this side of things. Once we get far enough north, snow might pose a problem if we overshoot the towns again.”

“We’ll be fine,” Felix says loud enough to be heard over his sharpening.

“I guess you would know,” Ashe mutters like he’s got mud in his cheeks. “I’ll take the first watch by the way. You guys look terrible.”

“No,” Felix grits at the same time as Mercedes.

“Why not?”

“What do you mean why not?” Felix puts his whetstone down as he grips his sword.

“What do you think I’m going to do? Slay you in your sleep?” Ashe scoffs and stretches his legs out. “If I wanted you dead I would have done it back there at that awful skirmish. I would have done it on the way here. I could have buried you next to my father.”

“But you didn’t,” Mercedes concedes.

“Nope.” Ashe really emphasizes the p, which ignites Felix’s irritation. “You can put your sword down by the way. Or point it at my face again. I doubt you’ve learned how to follow through.”

Felix says nothing. He sheathes his sword and gets to his feet to march into his tent.

An hour passes and sleep still eludes him. He stares off into the fabric of his tent for a few minutes before quietly getting up to stretch his limbs out. His joints creak as he touches his toes, his knees popping as he dips into a squat. He peers through the flap in his tent. Ashe is sitting on the ground in front of the fire, turning a page of the enormous book in his lap. He’s sitting crisscrossed, dirt caking his pants, but there’s something so soft and fond in the way his eyes glide along the words it makes Felix sick. He grimaces at something he’s read, and a memory lodges itself in Felix’s chest.

Blood and sweat and death stinking up a battlefield. Felix’s hair drying red with a few remnants of gristle getting tangled in the strands. A thud echoing over and over again in his head, thick and thunderous as he grinds the image of a falling Ingrid into dust. He’s walking through a field of bodies, skin flayed thanks to a powerful Cutting Gale. He’s got his sights set on someone on the ground on their knees, a body in their arms. Annette’s gaze has lost its luster, that enchanting blue siphoned out in death. Her eyes look gray in comparison to the bright reds and pinks of her insides spilling out. Ashe pulls her lifeless body to his chest and levels Felix with an exhausted glare.

Look, Ashe says, hiding Annette’s face. Fucking, look!

Felix looks straight at him, doing everything he can to avoid looking at her again. He draws his sword and points it at his chin.

You’re a coward, Ashe spits.

A guttural roar snags Felix’s attention. He stares at Ashe one final time, memorizing that particular shade of green.

And he runs.

Not much changes on this leg of the journey.

Ashe doesn’t say much despite Mercedes’ sad attempts at any kind of conversation, so she gives up and grants him space after a while and redirects her attention to reading through her journal, somehow gliding through the terrain as she flips through the pages. Felix’s hot anger returns, red and raw, and he has half a mind to slap the notebook out of her hand and kick it far beyond her reach.

But his fury is there and then gone, replaced by an unevenness that radiates from his thigh, like he’s misjudged the steepness of a step and overextended his leg. He watches her expressions shift through their trek and it’s the most emotion he’s seen pull at the corners of her mouth that isn’t that persistent smile. He’s not sure where to put any of this. He entertains the thought of peeking over her shoulder and reading her scribbles, but he waves it away after only a moment. He’s scared himself into plenty of things; he won’t scare himself into that.

He doesn’t bother with Ashe. Those stiff shoulders and chewed lips are enough to keep Felix at bay, not that he was ever known for extending his hand or for throwing a white flag first. Ashe is escorting them through this once familiar territory because he can’t bear the thought of turning away from someone in need. He could probably care less about Felix and Mercedes, but Felix doesn’t dwell on it. It’s not his problem. They’ll all part ways in Itha, and he never has to see them again.

Felix takes in the sight of Magdred. He recalls the ambush from so long ago. The noise, the chaos, the death. Byleth’s sword digging into the meat of Lonato’s chest. Ashe’s devastated face. He knows Ashe is thinking about it too if the speed at which he’s escorting them is any indication. Mercedes looks like she wants to say something when she slips her journal back into her satchel, but thinks better of it as she glances at Felix. She’ll probably write to Annette and Ingrid about it later. Felix wonders what he’d say in a letter, who he’d address it to before digging his nails into his palm so hard he draws blood.

He shakes his head at her and looks around. There are no visible stains from that battle, at least not any that he can see without really squinting and knowing where to look. It’s quaint and peaceful, small villages dotting alongside the road as they carry on. There was an anticipatory tension that used to live here, just like Gaspard. Border towns are always like that.

But now it’s all so terribly normal, so plain and mundane. Children flit past them again, their cheeks fuller than Felix could have ever imagined. He catches Mercedes staring at them, and she catches him in turn, their gazes colliding and asking a question they haven’t uncovered in a long time.

This is what it was for, right?

They’re about midway through Charon by the time nightfall descends, and they finally get lucky and stumble upon an inn that has more than enough rooms available. The innkeeper glares at Felix, recognition illuminating his fury. Felix is a traitor still in some respects, and this guy is definitely old enough to remember. Felix doesn’t hold his attention for too long. He recognizes Ashe as soon as he sees him, all of his anger diluted into apprehension. He may not trust Felix, but it looks like he trusts Ashe enough to allow him to stay. What has Ashe been up to all this time to have this kind of mild influence?

Felix doesn’t care, he decides. He takes his belongings and makes his way upstairs as directed by the innkeeper, marching into his room and locking the door.

He stands still in the middle of the room. Then he paces. Then he stands again. He paces. Stands. Paces.

Several things flit through his mind. Children with full cheeks enjoying what the world has to offer with reckless abandon. The purple petal on Ashe’s glove. Mercedes’ notebook. Letters. The dead. Dedue and his green thumb. Annette and her sweets. Ingrid and her grit. Dimitri and his ghosts. Sylvain. Sylvain and all his knowing of Felix.

He almost slaps himself. There’s no reason for this. This back and forth, the jumping around, the pressure in his ribs. There’s no reason everything he’s balled up into his fist and set aside needs to untangle itself now. He’s gotten this far. Too late to feel ridiculous about any of this.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but when the swell of the patron chatter dies down a notch he figures he should at least go downstairs and get something to eat.

Despite things quieting down, it’s still fairly busy. Mercedes sits at the far end of the bar, writing in her journal as she scoops a spoonful of stew in her mouth, unbothered by the snoring giant of a man to her left. Felix scans along the counter and frowns when he realizes the only vacant seat is the one next to Ashe, who drains an entire pint of beer in one pull. There are three empty glasses in front of him, and he adds the most recent one to the lineup as the bartender gives him another.

Ashe doesn’t say anything to him when he sits down. He glances at him over the rim of his beer before taking a sip.

“So the Fraldarius deserter still lives, huh?”

Felix looks at the bartender, whose features indicate he must be the innkeeper’s cousin, or brother. That same ancient fury blankets his face. Ashe snickers into the crook of his elbow.

“I’ll have a bowl of stew and a beer,” Felix says.

“You think we want your patronage here? Don’t you think you’ve done enough? We’ve already let you rest your head in these lands. Isn’t that sufficient?”

“Coin is coin. Take it or leave it, I don’t care.”

The bartender grunts through a smile and takes Felix’s payment before shuffling to the back. He returns with a large bowl that he halfway flings at Felix and slams a pint down in front of him.

Felix eats without a word. He takes his time chewing and concentrates on breathing. It’s not the first time he’s been heckled and it won’t be the last. It doesn’t bother him. That’s just what comes with the territory. You abandon your homeland and some guys are going to feel a certain way about it.

No, what he’s currently trying to distract himself from is Ashe’s incessant giggling to his left.

He only lasts about three minutes before he angrily asks, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Ashe slurs through a menacing grin. He doesn’t wear it well. Even now, in all of his fury, malice is just not a coat Ashe can put on comfortably. But he tries. “It’s just, is it bad that I’m glad you’re still getting a little bit of shit these days?”

Felix has spent a good portion of his life practicing patience, or more accurately, the art of not giving a fuck. But something about Ashe’s smile, the unnatural glee he takes in the mud that gets hurled at Felix, ignites something in his chest, and he can’t stay quiet.

“It’s pathetic is what it is.”

“Pathetic?” Ashe scoffs, his smile sliding off his face. “You know what’s pathetic?” He jabs a finger into Felix’s shoulder, hard. “You thinking you can hold any sort of judgement after what you and her did.” He waves towards Mercedes with his free hand. She looks up, mouth pressed into a thin line, like she’s trying not to smile. What is with these two and smiling every time they’re furious?

Felix smacks his hand away. “I’m not having this conversation with a drunk.”

“You want to talk about drunks?” Ashe hiccups. “I heard about those early years where you were drinking and pissing on everything because you couldn’t deal with feeling like shit.”

“Come on now, Ashe.” Mercedes is now standing behind them, eyes murderous. “When did you ever learn to speak like this?”

Ashe laughs into the rafters. “You’re going to lecture me on my manner of speech? Fuck off, Mercedes. Fuck you and your fake sincerity and gentle small talk and mother hen facade. You were on the other side of that battlefield, too. Healing the very same soldiers who carved Annette’s entire stomach out. The same soldiers who shot Ingrid out of the sky. And for what? Your hideous excuse of a brother?” Ashe drains the rest of his beer. “Now we all have older brothers in the ground. Was it worth it, Mercy? Mercy, Mercy, Mercy,” Ashe sings.

“That’s enough,” Felix interrupts.

“Are you feeling brave?” Ashe says, mimicking Felix’s voice from their first encounter. “Did you feel like you were being merciful lowering your sword when I was on the ground with Annette’s corpse? Were you brave when Dedue’s axe almost came down on you until one of your Eagles swooped in and enveloped him in so much black magic I still don’t even remember what he looked like in the dirt because it feels like my brain won’t allow me to recall that? Dimitri’s beheading? Your first friend, your first band of loyalty? What about when you found Sylvain’s isolated body in that clearing?”

Felix freezes and then lunges, scruffing Ashe’s coat into his fists.

“Felix.” Mercedes grabs one of his wrists.

“I saw you,” Ashe says, body limp in Felix’s hold. “Before everyone else fell, before you guys killed them all.” He shoves Felix off him. “Can you believe I felt fucking sorry for you? I’d never seen you so, so. You didn’t even cry.”

Felix untangles this memory quickly. There were bodies, there are always bodies. Everywhere, Faerghan and Adrestian soldiers alike strewn about, fighting for vastly different futures. It didn’t take long to see him, that shock of red, slumped over another body like a pile of stones. Felix had rushed over and forced himself to let it seep into his skin. Most of Sylvain’s armor was blackened, scorched by a very powerful fire spell no doubt, but that’s not what did him in. There was a dagger lodged into his neck. Figures. Sylvain was always horrendous at minding his blind spots, and not for a lack of skill.

He hadn’t passed peacefully, fear and anger and resignation frozen in death. Felix thought about the promise they made, about the promise he made to himself when he ran off in the woods and abandoned everything he knew. He’d be the one to take out Sylvain. He had owed him that much.

He stared at his face. He must have been staring at the sky in his final moments. Sylvain couldn’t pretend to be asleep and deny Felix a glance here, his eyes unmoving and bloodshot, colliding with Felix’s glare. For a fraction of a second, he imagined a vastly different outcome, where Sylvain had ceased his useless pretending and sat up to look him squarely in the face in the threshold of his tent. All of the feeling drained out of his hands and his face as he stamped this version of Sylvain in his mind. Perhaps it was the only possible version of Sylvain, he did always fight like he wanted to die. It might have only been a matter of time, and Felix had a hand in accelerating it.

Felix had bent down, brushed Sylvain’s bangs out of his face, and closed his eyes before running back to battle.

“You just stared at him and closed his eyes,” Ashes continues. “But too late to turn around by that point, right?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Felix’s grip tightens, and Mercedes lets go.

“Don’t do this here.” Mercedes sounds disgusted.

“You’re right.” Ashe shoves Felix away. “We’re going outside.” Ashe teeters off his stool and stumbles towards the door. He swings it wildly and steps outside.

“Felix—”

Felix storms after Ashe outdoors and finds him shaking his arms loose. He puts his fists up.

“Come on. No weapons. Just our bare hands. Don’t you want to hit me?”

Felix walks toward him until they’re almost nose to nose.

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re pathetic.” Ashe doesn’t give him another chance, sucker punching him right in the cheek. It’s not an especially hard punch thanks to all the alcohol, but it still stings for reasons past the physicality of it. He takes another swing and misses. Another, swing and miss. Swing and miss.

“That’s enough, you both look ridiculous.” Mercedes steps in between them, but Ashe doesn’t pull his punch. She narrowly gets out of the way before he tries again. He barely grazes her shoulder.

“You’re not absolved of this,” Ashe slurs. “Your girls are dead.”

Mercedes slaps Ashe hard enough that he falls to the ground. She stares at him for a long moment as she dusts her skirt off. Then she turns to Felix, unbridled rage boiling beneath her gaze.

“Merced—”

Her slap against Felix’s cheek is louder than the previous one, and it rings in his ears. He stares at her in disbelief and doesn’t notice when Ashe gets up and tackles them both to the ground.

Brawling is too dignified of a word for what they’re doing. They’re punching and slapping and scratching and kicking each other, and there is bite to it all, but it quickly devolves into them simply rolling around in the dirt. Felix can’t tell who he’s hitting and who is hitting him. Just that he lands blows, just that they land on him.

It’s funny how all the embarrassing grappling between the three of them gives Felix time to think. He doesn’t have to pay all that much attention to what he’s hitting, who is hitting him, where they’re doing this. His body just moves, reacting off everything being untangled, all that fear and anger a catalyst for his limbs to move while his mind wanders, his vision tunneling into lines.

He thinks about that morning in the snowy woods, wrestling with Dimitri, Ingrid, and Sylvain. He thinks about Mercedes’ misguided doting back then, which may not have been misguided at all. Dedue getting better with his bow. Annette and her loach. Ashe and his stories. It all blurs together, mashing together and stretching out into more lines.

And then it’s five years later, war sinking its teeth into their chests. Ashe, fearful but resilient. Dedue abandoning a bow altogether, favoring the lethality of his axe. Mercedes, haggard and spent from succeeding and failing at reviving Faerghan soldiers. Annette staring listlessly at the surface of the empty pond. Ingrid, cheeks hollowing with each passing day. Sylvain, his grip a vice around the Lance of Ruin. Dimitri, distant and dirty in the church, so far gone in his quest for vengeance Felix can’t even see his own hand in the dark as he tries to reach for him.

Felix replays all of this over and over again as heels and palms smack into every inch of his body while dirt gets in his mouth. He wonders, briefly, what Mercedes will write tonight. How will she talk about him, about Ashe? What will she say about this? What would Annette and Ingrid think about it all, if they could read those letters?

Time passes as they fuss on the ground until all of the fight has seeped out of them. Mercedes rolls off first, followed by Ashe until they’re all free. Felix lies on his back, sweat mingling with the blood dripping from his lip. He doesn’t wipe it away. He stares up at the night sky, counts three stars before he decides he’s too tired to care about anything. The cool dirt feels good against his hot neck. He listens to Mercedes and Ashe’s breathing, waits for it to even out to something steady before he fully relaxes.

“Goddess,” Mercedes murmurs from somewhere to his right.

“Fuck,” whispers Ashe from his left.

“Yeah.”

Back in his room, Felix stands perfectly still.

He keeps turning something over, a memory. He’s so tired of these and almost resorts to asking Mercedes about the potency of memory potions.

But if these are the phantoms of his decision, he decides that it’s probably time to mingle with them rather than shredding them into pieces. And besides, this is one he’s forced himself to leave out in the open. A reminder, a reason, the turning point.

He closes his eyes and pictures it.

Dimitri in the church, statuesque, ragged and horrid. Acknowledging nobody but his ghosts. He stopped responding to Felix’s taunts after his rise from the dead. He smelled terrible, looked awful. All that gave him any reason to exist was his thirst for blood and relying on primal fury. Felix never wanted to be right, he didn’t gloat about those things anyway. But what he saw on that penultimate evening was what always stood right in plain view, tusks out. He slapped him, then. No response. He shoved and punched and kicked. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Dimitri just looked at him, or rather, through him, and only said three words. It was the last thing he had ever told Felix.

Glenn, I’m sorry.

The walk through Charon starts off quiet. No apologies, no mentions of the evening prior.

But, there’s a lightness here that Felix hasn’t felt in a long time. He almost feels like he’s imagining it, but when he looks over at Mercedes, at Ashe, their expressions seem less rigid, less downturned. Felix sees Mercedes journal sticking out of her satchel and wonders if she told Annette and Ingrid about last night.

He’s sore, they’re all sore, probably. The three of them have bruises blooming everywhere. Felix’s bottom lip is still slightly swollen despite the salve Mercedes had given him before they left the inn. The sun is obscured today, eclipsed by bloated clouds and a gray sky. Felix supposes it’s a good thing. He really doesn’t feel like seeing all their bruises from last night illuminated by daylight. A distant clap of thunder makes them all look south.

“Hmm, I hope that doesn’t catch up to us,” Mercedes hums.

“It won’t if we hurry up a little,” Ashe says. It’s the first time he’s spoken to them today. His voice is the same as it’s always been since they ran into him, except gone is that boiling anger. It’s more rounded now, his tone more reminiscent of that curious boy from the academy. Apprehension still seeps out of it, but it’s not born from hostility now. Ashe sounds like Ashe, tired, but Ashe. “We can probably get through two and half territories if we hustle. The two after Charon are small. That storm won’t have a chance.”

“Then let’s get moving.” Felix’s lip stings when he says it. He probably should have stayed quiet, but something in his chest simply would not allow it. It almost unbalances him. He’s always been good at minding his business.

So what’s this, then?

Getting through the rest of Charon is fine, albeit a tad stiff. Felix keeps a close eye on the flora, how it begins to shift into tall firs. They’re thin compared to the ones north from here, but that wintery green digs deep into Felix. He thinks about the first time he’d ever met Ingrid. The memory is unrefined, the details blurring together, but he can make out the gist of it. A girl slightly taller than him, pine needles stuck in her hair, pine needles that matched her defiant gaze.

She didn’t care about who she was in proximity to Felix and Glenn. They all wrestled in the snow anyway. The image of the memory may be blurry, but Felix can recall one thing with the utmost clarity.

Laughter, so much of it, mingling with the fluttering pine needles. Ingrid’s laugh had never changed after that first encounter. It may have become a rare thing after Glenn’s passing, but Felix could identify it over the business of the dining hall no matter how far away he sat.

He strains his ears as they enter Galatea and only hears a passing breeze as it deposits pine needles in his hair.

Galatea is unrecognizable.

Ingrid’s father was not a bad man, but certainly an imperfect one. Felix can concede that Galatea is a difficult territory to maintain. Crops so rarely grow here, the soil growing more infertile with each passing year. Felix remembers funds being allocated to help, but a frigid wasteland is a frigid wasteland. Count Galatea resorted to marrying off Ingrid to gain influence, and Felix shakes all that away.

But as they pace through the snowy landscape, Felix sees them in the distance. Crops, agriculture, enduring and tenacious despite the fallout from that famine from ages ago. Felix stops dead in his tracks, Mercedes pausing right beside him. A man waves at Ashe from the threshold of a bakery and calls him over.

It’s just the two of them when Mercedes says, “I don’t think I ever saw a single thing grow from the dirt here.”

“Me neither.” Felix’s gaze lands on Ashe, on the man, on the few people gathering around him as he laughs about something. Everyone’s cheeks are filled out, flushed pink with vibrancy. It is frigid out here, but the firs are filling out, and things are growing tall from the ground. It’s an overcast day, but none of it touches a single piece of Galatea. Ashe’s laughter carries over to them.

“It’s good to see it so lively here.” Mercedes runs her hand over her satchel. “I wish Ingrid could see this.”

It’s the first time either of them have said anything like that. She’s broken the unspoken rule of not only mentioning their old friends, but wishing for something that can’t be changed. Wishing for something alternative to what they did.

Perhaps Ingrid would have ended up in the ground regardless of their choice. Perhaps she could have led the way for something like this despite the outcome.

But right now, thanks to the unified country by Edelgard's hands, Galatea has the means to cultivate life from their long soiled dirt.

“She deserved to see this,” is how Felix answers.

Ashe waves them over to the bakery, and while there are some cautioned stares and frowns aimed at Felix and Mercedes, the people are still pretty amicable. The man that had greeted Ashe earlier ushers them inside and quickly gets hot tea and a basket of immaculate pastries set on the table. Neither of them have to say it, how the jellied fruit would please Annette, how the braided bread would impress Dedue. But Felix looks around and takes in Mercedes and Ashe’s smiles. He can see the gears turning, the memories hovering over the table.

He smells the bergamot before he tastes it, the aroma coaxing a memory out. Felix and Sylvain in the Goddess Tower, the loud chatter of the students a distant thing. Sylvain had tasted like bergamot with a bite of ale.

They thank the man as they dig in. A quiet affair for all of two minutes before Mercedes feels she needs to break the silence.

“So what have you been up to? You’re so widely recognized in these parts.” She stares at Ashe as she chews, and he sets his teacup down before answering.

“Right after the war, things were out of control in Faerghus, or what was Faerghus, I guess.” He squeezes his hands into fists on the table and lets it go. “The Imperial army came in quickly following the last battle, but there were only so many of them. There was a lot of rebellion, Faerghan soldiers were captured. I’m surprised I wasn’t arrested and executed.”

Felix and Mercedes share a side glance. They had learned quickly about Ashe’s survival, and had only asked Edelgard for one thing after kicking up all that dust. Ashe stares at them but doesn’t acknowledge what’s been left unspoken.

“It was several years before everything stabilized again, and with Faerghan soldiers and those rebelling getting arrested, the amount of people who could help rebuild kept dwindling. So I just. I just wandered around and helped as best as I could. I hunted, I took care of children, babies, I learned how to manage a forge, although I’m not very good at it. For years and years I stayed north of the old border and tried my best.”

Of course he did. Felix isn’t surprised by any of this. Textbook Ashe. Felix is glad to hear it and he’s surprised that he’s not surprised by his relief.

“That’s wonderful news. I’m so glad all these people had you to help.” Mercedes looks like she might be on the verge of tears, but her eyes harden again to keep them from falling.

“My younger siblings got tired of my meandering, though. Said I should stop trying to unbury Faerghus.” Ashe stares at his hands and shakes his head. “What about you two?” He drinks the rest of his tea and spreads jam on a pastry. He takes a bite and waits for an answer.

“Similar to you,” Mercedes starts. “Mostly just wandering around, offering my healing services. I was very busy after the war, of course, but lately it’s just been researching new healing methods, for instance getting rid of arthritic pain for good.”

“Sounds like you.” Ashe’s smile is small, and Felix doesn’t even think he means to do it, but it evaporates when he looks up at him and asks, “And you.”

Felix brings his cup to his lips and pauses. His bergamot tea steams into his nose. He carefully takes a sip since his lip is still swollen and sets the cup down.

“I’m just a sword for hire.”

“Right.” Ashe leans back and crosses his arms, surveying the both of them. “All these years and you never did get fully involved with the Empire. You fought in their war and wandered off.” There’s no anger or disappointment. He’s just making an observation. That’s just how this all is.

“I suppose so.” Mercedes tucks a hair behind her ear.

And then, Ashe laughs. Loud and persistent. There’s a darkness lingering, but it’s always sort of been there. That’s the nature of the paths they took, of wandering. Mercedes joins in, and even Felix finds himself unable to contain a smile.

“We can’t fucking help it, huh?” Ashe scratches his beard. “All of that fighting, all the sadness and fear and anger, all our friends in the ground. But none of us have changed one bit. Looking for ways to help, in any way, with the things we’ve only ever been good at.”

“Hmm,” Felix hums. He was good at fighting, he is good at fighting. A master, even. If he thinks about it, the only healer who outpaces Mercedes is Linhardt. And Ashe has clearly kept up with his bow. They’ve been remarkable in all these pocket areas, but Felix can’t say for certain that they were ever good at war. He thinks about Dimitri’s head, Dedue slumped on the ground, Ingrid falling from the sky, Annette bleeding out from her midsection, Sylvain’s dead stare at the stars.

They’ve all worked towards a life where none of that has to happen again.

They’re living, and that’s all they can do.

They spend the evening at the edge of Conand. The tower looms over them, an enduring reminder of the biggest turning point. Paths and fates and choices expanded and evaporated in that tower, and Felix would rather bury himself in his tent.

Mercedes has first watch as she writes in her journal. Ashe is lying on the ground on his back, book in hand as he skims the pages. Felix gives them a nod before turning in. He can look away from the tower all he wants, but the only direction to look toward is north. Fraldarius. He hasn’t been there since the war ended, and he really has no interest in haunting his old grounds now. He’s not nervous, and he’s expecting a certain level of animosity as he gets recognized. He’s still a Fraldarius. What scares him into anger is not the backlash or the betrayal and hurt from those who remember.

What if Fraldarius has dissipated? What if it prospered? Which would be worse?

Felix closes his eyes and tries not to dream of his father.

The snow is thick despite the season.

As they pass through the first Fraldarius village, Felix stares straight ahead. Mercedes and Ashe walk a few paces behind him, granting him space to breathe. It would bother him if he didn’t feel like one wrong step would result in the ground opening its maw and swallowing him whole.

He remembers this village. There is a promising blacksmith tucked away in the northeast corner of it. It’s where he got his first sword at the ripe age of five. Glenn had loomed over him as he took a few practice swings, Rodrigue laughing right beside him.

It is still early, so no one has their eyes open and sharp enough to see him in their peripheral vision. He’s grateful for it, to be able to move in stealth throughout this region. They pass through this village without incident, the blacksmith’s forge glowing orange in all the white.

The next town is a different story altogether.

None of these regions are particularly big, but the roads between villages and cities can be long and winding. It’s midday when they reach the next town, and it is bustling. There’s a market at the center of it, and it seems like hundreds of people have gathered here.

He’d been to this market so many times throughout his youth. He recalls a day where he and Dimitri had slipped out of the guards’ supervision and ran throughout it. Dimitri, so anxious about betraying his guardsmen’s trust, but even more anxious about betraying Felix, had run with reckless abandon. He stumbled into a fruit stand, a tower of citrus descending upon them. But rather than rat him out, the shopkeeper had thrown the empty crate on top of them as the guards ran through. When they peeked through the crate, the farmer had brought a finger to his lips and handed them each an orange.

Felix tells himself not to hold his breath.

“We should stock up on a few more things,” Mercedes says, walking towards the market. “Itha is right there, but we’re low and you can never be sure.”

“Agreed,” Ashe nods, jogging up ahead of them and disappearing into the crowd.

Mercedes follows him but stops when she realizes Felix hasn’t moved.

“Felix?”

Felix looks at her and then back at the market. He sees a tall tower of oranges.

“Let’s get this over with.”

They buy a few things with minimal glaring, and for a gracious moment, Felix thinks they’ll get out of here unscathed.

“The fuck are you lot doing here?”

A man stumbles out of a nearby tavern, swaying back and forth as he sloshes a beer in one hand and firmly grips a peeled orange in the other.

Felix says nothing, keeping a close eye on him. Mercedes looks like she wants to say something but can’t find the words.

“Fraldarius turned dog for the Emperor,” the man spits. He sets his sights on Mercedes and a wave of disgust washes over his expression. “And you,” he points. “You’ve always been a whore for the empire!” He quickly launches the orange at them. Felix rushes to get in front of it, but too late. It smashes all over Mercedes’s skirt. She makes no move to wipe it off.

“Enough,” Felix grits.

“Or what?” The man taunts. “Are you gonna cut me down? Sword in my abdomen like you did your father?” He spits at Felix’s feet. “You’re not anything, not even the shit I feed my pigs. Killed your father and the kingdom and spent years drinking and disgracing everything.”

“Hey!” Ashe runs over and gets between them and everyone else. “That’s enough.”

“Ashe,” says the man, wobbling from foot to foot. “You know better than we do what these traitors did.”

“Maybe,” Ashe whispers, glancing over his shoulder at them. “We can’t change that now.”

“No, but we can have some kind of retribution!” The man almost trips over himself. “Let me hit them or piss on them, at least. They deserve that much.”

“No.” The finality in Ashe’s tone makes the man recoil and stumble backwards. “Don’t do yourself the disservice, nor them. Walk away with your head high.”

The man looks like he wants to say something else but thinks better of it and gives them a crude gesture before walking away. The crowd murmurs among themselves as they disperse, leaving the three of them in the middle of the path.

“Happened a lot later than I expected,” Ashe says, light. He helps Mercedes get some bits of pulp off her dress. “We should find an inn soon. I know there’s one up the road.”

“What if,” Felix starts, drawing their attention, and now that he has it, he feels like a coward for what he’s about to ask.

“What if,” Mercedes encourages.

“What if we camped in the wilderness? Forgo an inn altogether.”

Ashe and Mercedes share a glance before nodding.

“I think that’d be for the best,” Ashe says. “I’ll take the first watch.”

Felix doesn’t think when he leads them into the woods. He just moves, following his instincts as they lead him to a small clearing at the lip of a ravine. He looks all around him and realizes he recognizes this place. He pictures it now; Dimitri, Ingrid, Sylvain, and himself, wrestling in the snow. They grow taller as the memories swarm in like bees. Felix barely able to keep up and then suddenly winning, pinning them all down for real, not because they let him win. Smiles, smiles, and smiles. Laughter shaking the branches. A childhood spent here now covered in cobwebs in the back of his mind. He looks over the edge of the ravine and quickly looks away when he sees his reflection in the water.

“Here’s good,” he says.

Ashe and Mercedes just nod as they set up camp.

The fire cracks into the evening, cutting through the frost in the air. Felix feels guilty for suggesting they spend the night outside, but Ashe and Mercedes are no stranger to frigid evenings. Besides, they have more than enough supplies to keep them warm enough.

They’ve just finished their ration supper, drinking tea they grabbed from the market before the man interrupted them. Felix tries not to think about his father, six feet deep. If he could see himself in the dirt he’d probably be proud of himself like he was with Glenn. Felix takes a deep breath and reminds himself he’s the only remaining Fraldarius.

“Thank you, Ashe,” Mercedes says, setting her cup down. “For sticking up for us.” Felix grunts in agreement.

“‘S Fine.” Ashe stretches his legs out. “Not that he didn’t have the right, but an orange? Really? Surely he could have done something more dignified than that.”

“What would you suggest then?” Felix muses.

Ashe scratches his beard. “A dagger, maybe.”

“Very vengeful,” Mercedes teases.

“I would have thrown it over my shoulder without looking.”

Felix grabs his chest like he’s been hit. “Ouch.”

Ashe and Mercedes giggle to themselves while Felix huffs out a laugh. He doesn’t know what this is, what to call it, but he knows he wants to linger in it.

“Look.” Mercedes rummages through her satchel and pulls out a pipe and a pouch. “I could use some relaxation.” She pours some herbs into the pipe and packs it in. Once she’s satisfied, she conjures a little flame on the tip of her finger and lights the pipe. She takes a few puffs before offering it to Ashe.

He’s enthusiastic when he grabs it, takes long puffs like he’s been doing this for ages.

“Shit,” he laughs through a cough. “This is the same stuff Byleth gave me after she killed Lonato.”

He passes the pipe to Felix, who regards it like it might explode.

“Go on,” Mercedes encourages.

Felix looks between their eager faces and sighs. He takes a small puff, and then another. He’s never been much of a pipe guy. Alcohol has always been his vice, but his very little tolerance for this sort of thing hits him immediately, and soon his limbs feel nice and loose. He passes it back to Mercedes before he loses all agency.

They pass it back and forth for a while, chatting about nothing. Mercedes shows Ashe how to blow out smoke in the shape of a ring. Felix lies down on his back and revels in the chill he can feel beyond the blanket.

“You want to know something funny?” Ashe says, slowly. “I smoked with Dedue in the greenhouse all the time.”

“Really?” Mercedes is utterly shocked. “How did you get a hold of such contraband? How did you convince Dedue?”

“I guess there were some cheeky students from years prior because Dedue showed me where it was growing in a crowded corner in the greenhouse. And as far as Dedue smoking, I think the guy just needed it.”

“He was wrapped around your finger,” Felix declares.

“More like I was wrapped around him,” Ashe sighs. “I never was able to grow anything after our academy days.

“Annie and Ingrid couldn’t keep very much alive, either.” Mercedes takes a long pull from her pipe. “Although, Annie’s pastries did eventually become so beautiful. And Ingrid really allowed herself to fall into hobbies she never allowed herself to entertain.”

“I remember Dimitri accidentally cracking the doorframe of the greenhouse from gripping it too hard.” Felix closes his eyes. “I remember Sylvain dragging me in there with him when he was hiding from a girl.”

“Do you think,” Mercedes stops short, resting her pip on a nearby log.

“It’s alright,” Ashe says. “Let’s speculate. I want to.”

“Do you think they’d all enjoy this right now?” She brings her knees to her chest.

“I think Ingrid would choke on the smoke,” Felix jokes, earning a couple of smiles.

“Dimtri would break it,” Ashe adds.

“And Sylvain would make inappropriate jokes about it.”

“Dedue was evidently a master so,” Felix thinks, “He’d have to show Annette.”

They go through several scenarios of what the Blue Lions might do with a pipe and some herbs and a fire and a heartbeat. Eventually, Ashe and Mercedes join Felix on the blanket, and they all stare at the sky together.

A long pause as Ashe shuffles his hands on his chest, and then, “Was it worth it?”

Nobody says anything for quite a while. Felix stares at the stars and wonders if Sylvain saw the same thing as he was dying.

Finally, he answers.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“We just need to move forward now,” Mercedes adds.

“I’m glad you’re both alive,” Ashe admits, voice wavering. Felix can’t imagine ever being this brave. “I’m glad we’re all alive.”

Felix gathers himself to turn in for the night, but takes one last look at Ashe and Mercedes. Ashe is engrossed in his book, turning page after page as he nears the end. Mercedes has just finished writing and she looks so pleased with herself. Felix stares at her closed notebook and sighs.

He doesn’t have to say anything. Mercedes flips through her journal until she finds a blank page and tears it out. She also lends him her quill.

He gives her a nod as thanks and retreats into his tent.

And he writes a letter.

The three of them are covered in snow by the time they reach the Itha Plains.

Felix feels like he's flanked on both sides. Fraldarius to the south, Gautier to the north. He can practically see the Gautier manor if he squints.

They find the manor where the noble’s daughter is currently residing, but they haven’t made a single move. They just stare at the pointed roof of the manor.

“This is it, yeah?” Ashe asks even though he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” Mercedes nods, pinching his elbow. She takes a few steps forward towards the door before stopping. She looks over her shoulder before turning around, the building behind her eclipsing the sunlight. She smiles at them, a big beautiful thing that wobbles a little before she jogs to them again.

“Oh, goddess,” she whispers. She takes Ashe’s cheeks in her hands and squeezes. “I’m so glad we got to see each other again, Ashe. I do feel horrible about sucker punching you, but I won’t apologize, and neither should you. I love what you’ve done here, I love the mark you’ve left. You’ll reunite with your siblings soon, alright?”

“Yes,” Ashe nods. “I will.”

She gives his cheeks one last squeeze before she walks in front of Felix. She’s not smiling, but her gaze is as soft as ever. Genuinely gentle, all her anger gone.

“I think this is much better than a sad old cliffside, don't you think?”

Felix scoffs at her and shakes his head, earning a giggle.

“I don’t miss the briny air, I guess.”

Mercedes lets out a full bodied laugh.

“Felix,” she shakes her head, fighting off another laugh. She looks him square in the eyes and says, “I think I would have followed you in that forest so deep in the night regardless of, well, anything. Keep looking ahead, okay?”

Felix nods and she must deem that a good enough response. She bows her head to both of them before turning around. Felix feels like he’s fallen down hundreds of icy steps. He’s used to anticipating her footsteps behind him, but he’s not used to watching her walk away. The black ribbon in her hair sways as the doors open, and she disappears to fulfill her duty. He knows deep in his gut that he will never see her again.

“Where are you off to now?” Ashe asks.

Felix shrugs. “Mercedes will send word of her arrival. I’ll get my coin. On to the next job.”

“Sure.”.

“But I think I’ll head north first.”

“I figured you’d say that.” Ashe stares at him for a half minute before almost choking on an intake of breath.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Sorry,” Ashe coughs, patting his chest. “It’s just, for a second there, with the way the sunlight was reflecting off the crown of your head, you sort of looked. Regal. Knightly. Like, like—”

“Don’t you dare,” Felix turns away.

“No way,” Ashe says through a smile, and then, “I tried so hard to hate you. I exerted so much angry energy into all attempts to loathe you. I got very creative in all the ways I imagined you dying, but none of it ever sat well in my stomach. It was so easy to help you and Mercedes in that skirmish despite everything.

Felix doesn’t know what to say to that, but it does punch a smile out of him. “Where will you go?”

Ashe sighs. “I think I’m gonna go hunting.”

“Good luck,” Felix says, and he means it.

“Yeah.” Ashe reaches out and clasps onto Felix’s forearm, who follows suit. “You too.”

Felix gets a good look at those eyes, ripe as pears, hair like moonlight, and lets him go. Ashe waves before he walks off, disappearing into the bustling crowd walking down the path.

Felix feels the heavy weight in his pocket and begins walking north.

The snow blankets everything in Gautier, like the family frigidity seeped into the territory's very veins.

Gautier manor still stands, as does the watchtower looming over Sreng.

But Felix isn’t here to reminisce. He has a mission to accomplish.

He hurries into the woods, picking his knees up higher and higher as he marches ankle-deep in the snow.

He scans all the trees, staring up into the branches for hours. He doesn’t think he’ll find it and almost turns back until a sharp gust of wind barrels into him, and when he regains his footing, he sees it, no warped vision necessary.

Two flimsy tattered pieces of fabric tied to a branch.

He beelines for it and stops a few feet short. They flap in the wind, covered in snow. There’s pressure all around him, like it’s emanating from the branch, but he grits his teeth and finds the courage to move forward.

Felix stops and reaches out, rubbing the fabric between his index and thumb. He turns it this way and that, but he can’t find the blood that should be there. Those pieces must have been eaten by the cold long ago.

He thinks about it, about what transpired here. A young Sylvain, an even younger Felix, and a promise.

Father says I’ll be going to the Officer’s Academy in a few years, Sylvain says, staring up at the waning sunlight.

Glenn is there now, Felix leans against the tree facing Sylvain.

What do you think they teach over there?

Combat, magic, war tactics, Felix shrugs. I think we already know.

You think they’re gonna teach us how to die?

Felix freezes then, mouth contorted into an angry scowl.

Don’t say stupid shit like that.

It’s a glorified war school, Felix. We have to look that in the eye at some point.

Fine, Felix grinds his molars. But on our terms.

I don’t think we can determine—

Not without each other, Felix says.

Sylvain doesn’t say anything for a long, long while, snow gathering in his lashes, in his hair.

Then he smiles and says, Not without you.

Felix takes out a knife and presses it into his palm. Sylvain follows suit. They bloody a piece of their cloaks and tie it around the tallest tree.

Felix is present now, staring at the fabric. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a letter.

And he reads it.

Sylvain,

My training has been going well, but there’s been a steady decline over the last few months. The last few years, actually. I’m still in fairly good form, but my wrists are growing more intolerant of my sword by the day, and my knees can’t stay quiet. You made a joke about aging knees once, but I can’t recall it.

My memory is not what it once was. I know I’ve always said that hanging onto the past is a waste of time, that there’s no use in dwelling on what you can’t change. Focus on what’s in front of you, that’s what matters. But I find myself clawing at the walls, my nails digging into the wood so hard that there are too many splinters to pluck out of my hands. Every shade of red is yours, and I can’t help but chase after it each time I see it.

I wish you could see Galatea, I wish you could see Faerghus.

I never did send that letter to my father, did I ever mention that to you?

Mercedes is still gracious and lovely. She’s saving a young girl right now.

Ashe helped me get her there. He has a beard. I didn’t think he could grow a beard. It suits him.

He saw us in that clearing.

I told you, Sylvain. Don’t you dare. Not without me.

I have no room to talk, but I’m still here, living and breathing. And waiting.

I wish I could say I stopped speculating on what would have happened if you had sat up in your tent that evening. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think I would have changed my mind.

I should have told you that I was leaving.

But there was a piece of me that truly thought you all had a chance and that maybe—

This is the last time I’ll set foot here. I won’t trample on the good things we left behind.

I remember you. I miss you.

Yours,

Felix