Archive of Our Own

The day Owain heard news of his brother’s execution was the day the world ended.

Ever since he was eleven, Dimitri had been all he had, standing strong and stalwart at age thirteen. He seemed an unshakeable presence, one that simply couldn’t vanish from the world. Even if it seemed he had, he would simply reappear with a sheepish grin and perhaps a few new scars.

An execution was final.
An execution meant Owain had lost his hero.

And now he shouldered everything Dimitri had left behind.

Owain always awoke just before the sun made her slow ascent across the sky, her fingers just tugging at the veil of night. Before, he had been able to sleep past the sunrise.

The fatigue in his body must have shown in every nuance of his posture. Even in the solitude of his borrowed room, he could almost feel eyes prying into him, just waiting to peel back his cheerful mask.

He wanted to itch his skin until he could no longer feel them.

He rose from his bed and stretched as far as his arms would allow, causing his fresh scars to protest, just slightly. A sharp stab of pain echoed through his body, his hand clutching his side immediately. He grit his teeth, hissing out a breath.

“Fuck.” He muttered.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the sharp, frigid air. It helped to clear the fog in his mind, at the very least.

Furrowing his brow, he concentrated, drawing energy from his chest, channeling it down his arms, pooling it in the palm of his hand.
When he allowed his eyes to open, his hand glowed with golden sigils, light pouring through his bandages into the wound beneath.
He focused on the pain, dwindling from the warmth of the magic. He did not focus on unwelcome memories of soft, foreign lullabies. He did not focus on healing hands he would never hold again.

He had more of his mother in him than just her smile.
The sigils faded, dissipating into the air. The warmth still lingered on.

Owain stood, sparing a glance out the window to his left. The crystalline snow was beginning to catch the newly awakened dawn light, glinting like diamonds.
Frost clung to the glass panes. If he looked too long, he could almost make out chubby hands writing sloppy names in the glass.

Dimitri
Owain

Owain looked away, biting his lip.
Why was this weakness invading his brain? Today, of all days. Felix and Ingrid would be expecting him to be in perfect form. Even Sylvain would be expecting nothing but the best.
He couldn’t afford to be bombarded with memories.
Perhaps he would ask Sylvain later what day it was. And why his chest felt so insistently hollow.

Owain quickly readied himself, skipping the formality of day clothes. It was all armor and battle gear, these days.

There was no reprieve. No end to the fighting. It was nearing five long years of war, and Owain could see no end to the madness and bloodshed. Not until one side was entirely eliminated.
If Owain were to be truly realistic, he knew who would win in the end.
But he wasn’t supposed to be realistic. He was supposed to be a fearless, optimistic leader, one who faced any challenge head-on.

He was supposed to be Dimitri.
And leaning against his wall was the plain proof his suspicion was correct. The glowing blade of Areadbhar.

He’d always preferred swords over lances. But his people didn’t need an average swordsman. The few hundreds of people who were still loyal to him needed the son of Blaiddyd and Loog and the great king Lambert.

They needed to see Areadbhar. And it was precisely what he would show them.

The lance was taller than him, making for an awkward position on his back when he had been first trusted with the weapon. He was far, far too used to it.

He swiped his notebook on the way out of the room, flipping through the pages. He tried not to read the earliest pages, yet his eyes still skimmed them.
His own overly looping script littered the pages, occasionally interrupted by the quick, no nonsense lettering of his brother.

Secret Technique: Binding Blade!
Owain, it is not wise to shout your intentions before you attack!

He flipped ahead, ignoring Dimitri’s voice rattling in his head. Schooling his face into a neutral expression, swallowing the knot in his throat, he glanced up at the days he had marked for himself at the top of each page.

20th day of the Ethereal Moon.

Owain dropped the notebook. His eyes stung; he squeezed them shut. He halted in the middle of the hallway, legs suddenly made of solid steel.

Dimitri would be twenty-three.
The goddess had the sickest sense of humor Owain had ever heard.

Owain opened his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath, forcing himself to focus on the surroundings.

The fortress had seen better days. It certainly needed repairs and a good cleaning, but it mattered less and less as time went on. Servants were serving on the battlefield instead of the hallways.
In fact, the fortress he had spent half his childhood within was nearly empty. A few soldiers milled about, most just beginning to awaken for the day.

A rough battle was ahead, and everyone knew it.

Owain would have to check the storehouse. They were beginning to run out of rations.
Though it wouldn’t be ideal, Owain could last over two days without a bite to eat. The Blaiddyd crest was good for more than a few things.
Recently injured soldiers would need it more.

Every time Owain thought of the source of their suffering, that vile witch, his chest began to burn. His fingers itched to clutch Areadbhar and storm the gates of Fhirdiad by himself.
Cornelia had no place in his city. She had no right to sit in Dimitri’s throne.

Owain squeezed his hands into fists before releasing. He was wasting undue energy on a simple stain.
He had a battle to prepare for.

Owain stooped to the floor and plucked his book off the ground, tucking it in a pocket just over his heart.
As he was beginning to rise, boots appeared in front of his eyes. A hand was extended out to him.

Owain looked up into Ingrid’s eyes. They were softened and full of sorrow, rimmed in a startling red.
She knew what day it was, as well.

“How are you holding up, Owain?” Her voice was soft as she spoke, careful not to provoke him.

They were all wondering when he’d become Dimitri. The one he was before he died. A raving lunatic who held torturous conversations with the dead only he could see.
He never saw any ghosts. He never heard otherworldly whispers, or shrieks of revenge.
Memories only toyed with the edges of his mind.
One in particular, these days.

Yet even after having his sanity proven time and time again, Ingrid still walked on eggshells around him, as did most of the soldiers that he interacted with.
So he painted on his practiced grin and took her hand, allowing himself to be pulled up.

“As determined as the mighty king Loog must have felt before his conquest of Faerghus! Today will be the stuff of legends, we will snatch victory from the jaws of those scoundrels, and we will do so to honor our fallen king.” His voice resounded, ringing off the edges of the walls.

Ingrid looked unconvinced, biting her lip and casting her eyes to the floor. Owain’s smile fell.
He wasn’t the only one who’d felt Dimitri’s loss so keenly.

He rested his hand on her shoulder, causing her to meet his eyes, surprised.
“We will make him proud, my winged friend. I swear it upon the Blaiddyd name, and on my brother’s divine birthright. We will make the minstrels sing for years to come of this most glorious battle.”
It seemed to reassure her, as a slight smile returned to her face.

“Right. Of course. We will toast to His Highness when we earn our victory.”
She nodded, determined, and turned away. She paused mid-stride, glancing back at him. “Oh, right! Felix was looking for you. He said something about…”

Owain knew what she’d been about to say. He’d forbidden the use of Dimitri’s name with his closest companions.

“His Highness. He’s in the training grounds. From the sound of it, you should go quickly.”

Owain nodded.
“You have my eternal gratitude, my lady of the skies! I shall make my way there without another word!”
Ingrid gave another soft smile and headed past him, leaving Owain to set out on his new mission.

He’d barely managed to keep it together. At least with Felix, he didn’t have to pretend.
In an odd twist of fate, Felix was his dearest ally. He forced Owain to carry on in strength, and he forced the ghosts away. He kept Owain’s skills sharp. Felix was his dearest anchor.

Owain hurried his way through the halls, dodging the newly awakened early risers. How deeply he loathed his sleep cycle.
The way to the training grounds was predictably empty, Felix blazing a trail of venom that stung everyone who dared tread it.

He didn’t precisely look forward to one of Felix’s sour moods, but he would take bitter honesty over honeyed truths. Being coddled was never something he enjoyed.
When he was a child, many of the courtiers tried to sugarcoat the Tragedy of Duscur for him, due to him not yet entering his teenage years. But even then, he loathed it. He could see right through their saccharine spiels.

Owain pushed open the door to the training grounds. He barely got in the door when a dagger landed in the wood beside his head. He let out a yelp.
“Cichol’s left tit!” Owain exclaimed. The blade nearly took off a few strands of his hair. His eyes locked onto it, gleaming in the torchlight of the secluded grounds.
His heart pounded in his ears. He could feel his pulse dancing inside his veins.
“Missed.” Came Felix’s harsh voice.

Owain’s head swiveled around to see Felix. Felix was just rising from his throwing position, poised to draw another dagger.
All the training dummies behind him were in splinters and tatters. Several training swords had been split in half and tossed aside. And quite understandably, they were alone. The air in the room suddenly felt oppressive.

“Felix! Are you trying to kill me?!” His voice betrayed the thin note of panic in his stomach.
“Only if you don’t dodge.” He answered.

Before Owain could reply, another dagger left his hand. He ducked under it, grabbing a discarded training sword off the ground. It was already split in half, but anything would be better than nothing against Felix.
When the next dagger flew, Owain deflected it with the sword. The steel clattered to the ground.

“Have you gone mad? Stop this at once!” Owain demanded. Felix flinched, almost imperceptibly.

Oh.
He’d used his Dimitri voice.
He wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a bane or a boon.

“Not until I have proof.” Felix was ultimately undeterred.

He drew out a training sword from the nearby rack and aimed it in Owain’s direction, lowering himself into a battle stance.

“Proof of what?!”

Owain barely had time to get himself into a defensive position before Felix’s blade clashed against his own. Felix’s force nearly knocked him back. It was only the sudden surge of his Crest that kept him upright.

“Proof that you won’t turn out like the boar!” The words were spat with venom. Felix had never hidden his feelings on Dimitri, but the day he chose to display them…
Needless to say, Owain wasn’t too pleased.

He knocked Felix off of him, regaining balance. Felix would never listen to words. The language of battle was the only one he spoke.
Felix lifted his blade, a common intimidation tactic Owain had seen him display for at least ten years. It certainly wouldn’t work.

“If you were going to follow in his footsteps and turn on us all, today would be the day. It’s his birthday, didn’t you know? Or are you so lost in your hatred you forgot already?”

Keep calm. Keep calm. Don’t show him the anger roiling in your chest.

“I hate Edelgard, that is clear for anyone to see. But you know I would never forget Dimitri’s birthday. Ever. Do not accuse me of things you know nothing about.”
“Who said I knew nothing?” Felix followed it up with an intense strike.

A word floated through both their minds, a single syllable that proved they weren’t as different as they liked to claim.
Glenn.

“I would be proud to carry even half my brother’s legacy, Felix! He was a better man than you or I will ever be!”
“Then you’re a fool!”

Anger flared in Owain, red and hot burning in his chest. He tamped down on it, gritting his teeth.

He knew what Felix was doing. Felix was testing him for the madness displayed in Dimitri’s last days.
It had been incomprehensibly difficult to deal with the loss of his brother’s mind. If Felix thought he would be going down a road that had broken his heart, he was sorely mistaken.

A voice echoed in his mind, as clear as day and sharp as a spearhead.
“RUN, OWAIN!”
Dimitri.

Owain leapt out of the way of Felix’s swing.

“RUN, OWAIN!” Dimitri screamed, before blocking a blow aimed for his head.
“No, I can fight!” Owain shouted back. Blood was streaming down his dominant arm, but it wouldn’t be enough to deter him. It couldn’t.
Floating embers clouded his vision. All around him, the sounds of battle made his eardrums ring.

“Don’t be a fool! I can’t lose you, too!”

Dimitri looked him in the eyes then, the first trace of sanity in weeks. Even as the monastery fell around them and the earth shook with the Empire’s demonic beasts, Dimitri regained his mind for a split second.
The entire world held its breath for his next words.

“Please, Owain. Go.” It was a broken sentence spilled from bloodied lips.

Owain bit his lip, finally allowing himself to clutch his arm. “Okay. Okay, but I’m coming back for you!”

Unable to bear looking at his brother in such desperation, Owain turned and rushed to find a healer. He sent a prayer to the goddess that he would return to his brother in good health.
He sincerely doubted she listened to mortal pleas anymore.

Owain clenched his fists, eyes darting across Felix’s stance. As always, his weakness was on display for those who knew him.
Finally taking the offensive, ducking under another blow, Owain brought his training sword down on Felix’s wrist.

Had he not restrained his strength, Felix’s wrist would have snapped.
As it was, the sword only clattered to the ground. Owain’s blade quickly followed it.

“Got any more knives? Or are we done? We have bigger things to be worrying about.”
Felix glared at him, assessing. Owain met his glare, angling his chin up.

“Watch yourself, pup. The second I see you heading down your beastly elder brother’s path, I will end you.” There was no real heat behind his words.
Felix began to leave, knocking his shoulder into Owain’s rather pointedly.

“I appreciate your concern, Felix.” Owain’s voice was just loud enough for his friend to hear.
Felix’s footfalls paused.

“Whether it’s for me or someone else, I appreciate it. And I trust you to hold to that promise.”

Owain turned, finding a far softer - though still quite stern - expression on Felix’s face. “If I show signs of my brother’s madness, I expect you to end me, and lead the reclamation of Faerghus for the people in my stead.”

He’d spent countless nights lying awake, paralyzed at the thought of his mind devolving as thoroughly as Dimitri’s. He often wondered if anyone would try to rescue him, as he would have given anything to save Dimitri.
But it was not the time nor place for childish fairytales. If Faerghus had any hope of reclamation in that possible future, it would only be diminished wasting effort on saving him.

Felix gave a curt nod. Owain could see the muscles tightening in his jaw.
With a final inspection of Owain’s figure, Felix gave a slight scoff and whisked out of the training grounds, calling “Don’t be late!” over his shoulder.

Owain let out a heavy sigh, casting his gaze down to the fallen swords.

What he wouldn’t give to reclaim his sword. What he wouldn’t give for Areadbhar’s rightful owner to be leading this charge.

He had to be enough.
All hope would be lost if he wasn’t.

It was getting rather boring.

On a gorgeous day in the Garland Moon, with sun streaming in through the windows, birds singing and maidens picking white roses, Owain was stuck inside. Learning about boring things. With a boring old man.

At least Dimitri was there.
Though, Dimitri was the reason why they were there.

Speech etiquette. How droll.

Owain had tuned it out quite some time ago, in favor of glancing out the window. Below, Felix and Ingrid played, waiting for the brothers locked up in the tower.
Sylvain waited on the bench, watching with a subdued smile. Owain never liked that smile. He wanted to ask what was wrong.
Soon, he would. If he could just wait out the most boring lesson mankind had ever invented.
Or…

He could escape.

The thought lit a candle in Owain’s head. He tried not to let the deviousness show on his face.
He checked the trees for movement and found them delightfully still. Perfect.

Carefully, so as not to alert the focused tutor and Dimitri, Owain unlatched the window and pushed it open. Mercifully, as though the goddess herself was smiling down upon him, it was silent. No one in the room nor on the ground below noticed.

Making quick calculations, Owain traced the best route down. A series of ledges just big enough to fit him.
Slipping out quietly, Owain managed to get to the first ledge without any trouble. In fact, he managed most of the way.
It was only when he dropped from one ledge to the next that his heart seized.

Looking up at him with as much disapproval as she could manage, El stared at him from inside, her round face in a pronounced frown.
Owain gave a timid wave and what he knew was a nervous smile. El was a notorious tattletail, he’d surely be in trouble.

Much to his surprise, she only rolled her eyes, fond smile working its way past her mask of disapproval.
He dropped to the ground. El unlatched her own window and crawled out, rolling onto the ground. She rolled right into him, knocking him to the ground.

A brief pause between them.

When El started giggling, it was over.
Owain erupted into a loud giggling of his own, certainly drawing attention. Above him, the tutor and Dimitri popped their heads out of the window, puzzled. He heard Ingrid call his name, excitedly.

Certainly more interesting than stuffy speeches.

Owain sighed at the sudden memory. At best, it was unhelpful. At worst, a painful sting to carry with him into the battle ahead.

The cold tore into him, a biting wind threatening to consume him. If not for the heavy mantle on his shoulders, it would freeze him completely.
The mantle was dusty when he found it, but the winds blew the dust out of it, leaving only the faint scent of its previous owner.

Owain had big shoes to fill. And not just because his father had been as tall as Dedue.

He scrubbed a rough hand over his face, trying to summon up the more important memories from that day. He needed the tutor’s advice. He would, after all, be giving a speech in just a few moments. He’d never properly learned as well as Dimitri. No one had ever thought he would need it.

Vaguely familiar footfalls knocked him out of his thoughts and back into the present.
The cold, snowy, gray present.

He looked up from where he’d been staring holes into the ground for a solid ten minutes and into familiar eyes.

His face had thinned, his hair had grown, his eyes had narrowed. But there was no doubt about the identity of the man who stood before him.
“Hello, Owain.”
“Ashe!” Owain rejoiced.

Ashe smiled up at him - still looking up, even with all he’d grown - and opened his arms. Owain wasted no time in embracing him, breathing in scents of lavender and dirt.
“It has been far too many morrows, my dear friend. I thought your allegiances laid elsewhere!”
Ashe pulled away, determination glowing in his eyes.
“They did. I intended to fight for the Empire with the rest of House Gaspard. But Faerghus is my home. I can’t let it fall to Edelgard.”

Dropping his act, Owain felt his face contort with concern. “But what about your siblings? Are they not in danger?”
Ashe shook his head, flicking silver hair into his too tired eyes.
“No, they should be alright. I left them with Mercedes and her church. She trusts them with her life, and I trust her with mine.”

Finally, Owain let a bit of hope spark in his chest. He clapped Ashe on the shoulder, grasping for what he knew was a moment too long.
“In that case, I am glad to have you with us, my friend. I hope you’ve come prepared to fight.”
Ashe only adjusted the quiver on his back, letting out a little chuckle. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t ready to fight.”
“Good. Ingrid and Sylvain should be around, if you want to catch up with them. They’ll find a place for you.”

He gave Owain a nod and moved to leave, but paused in his tracks. He reached up, ghosting a hand over Owain’s cheek, fingers just barely brushing against skin.
A shudder ran through Owain’s body, all too obvious.
Ashe grimaced, his hand curling away and falling back to his side.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you so brazenly. You’re my king, after all.” Ashe retreated a step back. The void he left would be enough to crush Owain’s heart.
“I’m not. Not yet, anyways. I’m trying to hold off becoming king as long as I can. I can’t...I can’t tarnish his memory. Not yet.”
“I can’t say I know what you’re going through, but...I understand. I’ll do anything I can to help. The cause, and you.”

Ashe gave a half-hearted smile and stepped away, giving a small bow.
“I’ll be around, if you should need me.”

With that, Ashe disappeared into a throng of shoulder, Owain only just able to spot his head of silver hair.

Owain let out a shaky breath, the fog of his breath curling into the atmosphere in an unsteady stream.

“Okay. I can do this.” He kept his voice low so no one else could hear him.

He stepped up atop one of their sturdiest supply crates, drawing eyes instantly. Not a bit of attention was away from him when he drew out Areadbhar.

“My countrymen and women!” Owain called, hoping his voice resonated as much as he thought it did. “Today, we make a stand. A stand against tyranny, against violence! Against the Empire! Today, we fight. Not just for the goddess, not just for those we’ve lost, not just for our future. No, we fight for freedom!”

A rallying cry went up amongst the troops. And though every word of it was true, Owain allowed himself a moment to be impressed at his own improvisation skills.

“We have fought long and hard to reach this point. We have forged a road paved with sorrow and loss and hardship. And we have overcome every second of it. Because we are the people of Faerghus! We don’t bend to soft breezes or to blizzards! We stand stubbornly against the Empire’s fist and we come out stronger for it!”

Another rallying cry. Another swoop of Owain’s heart.
He could do this. They could all do this.

“I ask once more for your aid in taking back the heart of our homeland. When we lay claim to Fhirdiad once more, the Empire will stand little chance against our might! So I ask you now. Are you with me?”

A final shout of impending victory raised his spirits into the stratosphere. Perhaps...perhaps Dimitri had a special influence over them.

He raised Areadbhar to the sky.
“For Faerghus!”

The echo was enough to prove it to him.
They could win this.

“You can do this, Owain.”
Dimitri’s voice was soothing, even as Owain’s brain struggled to comprehend the question before him.
Magical reasoning had never been his strong suit, but the professor had said they saw potential in him.

“Can I?” Owain moaned, allowing his doubts to slip through.

Dimitri reached over, grabbing Owain’s forearm and squeezing, gently. Owain met his eyes, seeing them soft and shining.
“You’re gifted. I’ve seen you do incredible things with untapped potential. All you need to do is break into it. I promise, you’re stronger than you seem and more powerful than you believe. You can do this.”

Owain looked into Dimitri’s eyes for a long moment before he let out a sigh.
“Okay. I can do this.”
“You have my full support.”

Owain visualized each individual rune, swimming before his eyes. He could feel his palm beginning to warm. His blood was boiling beneath his skin.
Distantly, he heard Dimitri say something in his soothing tone of voice, though Owain couldn’t hear it.

Fire danced across the lines of his hand, encircling his fingers. He could feel the warmth across his skin, but pain didn’t follow it.
Only a warm glow dissipated around his body, filling him like a sail against the wind.

“You did it!” Dimitri rejoiced.“I...I did it!” Owain joined.
“I knew you could!”

The fire burnt itself out, leaving only a hazy wisp of smoke in its wake.
When he looked over at Dimitri, he found a bright smile on his face, pride glinting in the blue of his eyes.
“You’ve done it once, and now you can do it again. As many times as it takes for mastery. I’m so proud of you!”

Owain stared down at his hands with awe. He’d done magic. Actually produced a flame.

“Thank you for believing in me.”
“I never doubted you.”

Areadbhar sung the hymns of battle, thrumming up Owain’s arms. Though he couldn’t quite hear its voice, he felt it in his blood.

Around him, Fhirdiad burned. Rebels swarmed the streets, trying their best to overwhelm the superior Imperial forces.

Above, Ingrid swooped on her pegasus to pick off wall guards, dodging arrows left and right. Sylvain charged forward, wielding his devastating lance with ease.
Ashe fired arrow after accurate arrow. Felix was a whirlwind of unmitigated destruction.
Elsewhere in the city, he knew Mercedes and Annette worked to evacuate the citizens. Their letters back reassured him they would be there. He had to trust they would keep their word.

And Owain? Owain was trying.

Areadbhar cut through the hordes of enemies like a knife through butter. But it still wasn’t enough. They were still losing.

Too many of their troops had fallen at the very beginning. Too many were still overwhelmed and underprepared.
Even with the aid of Ashe and Sylvain protecting the others, there was only so much to be done.

They would lose. And it would all be Owain’s fault.

But he couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not until there was no choice but to admit defeat and withdraw, to preserve the last remaining survivors of Faerghus.

Even if he championed it by himself, he would destroy the Faerghus Dukedom. Even if it could never return to a kingdom, he would present Cornelia’s head to his brother’s grave.

Tapping into his Crest’s power, Owain let out a roar, cutting a broad circle around him. He would think on the lives lost to his hand later. He would deal with the guilt when the battle was over.

An arrow above. An axe below. Owain rolled away.

Another swoop of the lance. Another chorus of screams. He pushed it away.

Owain glanced up at the ramparts where Cornelia stood, looking down on them all with a condescending gaze. Hatred burned in the pit of his stomach.

He could map out his entire course to cut his way to her. He could see the path he needed to take, how many enemies would fall.

If he had more backup, he would try. He could imagine his own satisfaction as her life fell away.
But he couldn’t abandon his people. Not like this.

“Ashe!” He called over the sounds of battle. He drew Ashe’s attention. “You have a shot on Cornelia!”

Understanding, Ashe nodded. He notched an arrow just as Owain blocked a swing from reaching him.

The arrow let loose.

Time slowed around its flight. Owain tracked its passage.

Blood spilled from Cornelia’s newly pierced shoulder. Her sickening scream could be heard across the entire battlefield.
Not nearly as untouchable as she liked to believe.

She raised her hand to the sky. A dark force gathered in her palm.
Owain recognized the spell. He’d seen Lysithea attempt a smaller version of that spell.

His heart stuttered to a stop.

“TAKE COVER!” He bellowed, as loud as his voice would allow. He shoved Ashe to the side, readying himself.

The spell had been stopped before by a Hero’s Relic. Thunderbrand had sliced it in two, shattering the runes.
Perhaps Areadbhar was capable of the same thing.

He could see Ingrid and Sylvain steer their steeds behind large walls. Felix dove under a pile of rubble.
Ashe stood not far from him, hiding inside a house. His face looked stricken with worry.

“Owain, what are you doing?!” He shouted.
“Trust me!”

Keeping his movements fast, he spun Areadbhar around in his hands, praying it would be enough.
If it wasn’t enough, the spell would destroy Fhirdiad and everyone not taking cover. An act of pure destruction.

Owain glanced one last time into Ashe’s distraught expression before facing the growing darkness ahead of him.

Ashe’s voice mixed with another when it cried out to him. A memory of Dimitri, desperate and terrified, as Ashe was.

The darkness let loose. Owain squeezed his eyes shut.

The pressure dug his heels into the ground, sliding him back in place. His Crest kept him propped up. He could feel it scorching his veins, reinforcing his lance.

He was burning, his veins alight from the dark magic pelting his body. But he couldn’t stop.
He had to.
He couldn’t.

Slowly, the pressure against Areadbhar faded. The power of his Crest dissipated, no longer feeling the need to emerge.

Owain blinked open his eyes, allowing daylight to filter in.

Around him, he could hear things crumbling, a hush falling over the battlefield. But shadows were still cast by the buildings. He could hear people beginning to move again.

Had he...done it?

He looked across the battlefield to find many faces he recognized standing up, crawling out of the woodwork.
Felix stood, looking at him with wide eyes. Ashe stepped from his place inside the house. Ahead, he could see Sylvain leading his horse around a wall, Ingrid flying high to get a good vantage point.

And then-

“Owain, watch out!” Felix cried, running towards him.

Owain’s eyes didn’t catch sight of the threat in near enough time. Lightning gathering at Cornelia’s fingertips.
Aimed directly at him.

Ashe caught sight of it the same time he did.
But the lightning was on its way already.
Nothing could stop it.

The last thing Owain saw before darkness consumed him were two different colored hands reaching out to him.

The soft crackling of a fire was what eventually roused him from sleep. An undercurrent of quiet, familiar footfalls eventually forced his eyes open.

He was in the infirmary at the Fraldarius fortress. He’d been in this room with some injury or another countless times. It was practically a staple of his childhood.
It was as warm as always, the fire keeping it from succumbing to the freezing winds of Faerghus.
It smelled freshly of herbs and newly cleaned blood - very likely his own - and a faint waft of perfume.

Annette paced the room, nervously, biting her thumbnail. She muttered something to herself, too quiet to make out, too loud to ignore.

“Annette?” He called, his voice hoarse.

She nearly jumped out of her skin, letting out a startled shriek.

“Owain! You’re awake!” She exclaimed. Owain winced at the volume of her voice, attempting to sit up.

He could feel no aches in his body, on the faint lingering of a pain that should have been there, but was absent. He knew he’d been hit. But his body no longer recognized that he had been.

Annette rushed to his side just as the door burst open, revealing Ashe with a sword in his hand, his stance ready for a fight.

His eyes locked on Owain. His sword clattered to the floor.

“Owain!” Ashe rejoiced, a brilliant smile splitting his bruised face.
He rushed inside, coming to a stop on the side of the bed opposite to Annette. One of his hands reached out to cup Owain’s face, his head resting on Owain’s.

“Goddess, I was so worried. When you stepped in front of that spell, I-I thought…” he trailed off, his voice wavering. His eyes squeezed shut.

The warm glow of Annette’s healing magic - silly songs, magic exams, stolen pastries, peach scented soap - entered into his body, her hands hovering over his chest.
“You had us all really worried, Owain. We thought we’d lost you!” Annette’s fake cheer didn’t fool him.

“Don’t do that again.” Ashe insisted, quieter.
“No promises.” Owain managed. “Was anyone hurt?”

Ashe pulled away, sharing an odd look with Annette. He bit his lip. She looked away.
Goddess, they both looked so tired. Annette’s back slumped with work, Ashe dragged his feet across the floor. The bags under their eyes looked unbearably heavy, and it seemed neither had treated their cuts or bruises.

“Guys?” A lump of anxiety was forming in his throat.

“We lost half our troops.” Ashe mumbled, just barely audible.

It was as though the world stopped spinning. Owain’s heart certainly stopped beating.

Half.
Their rebellion had been two hundred strong. How could they lose a hundred people in a single battle?

The contents of Owain’s stomach churned, burning and sickly.

A hundred people had died for Owain’s cause. His foolish, haphazard battle against a far superior force. How could he ever think they would win?
He should have waited, should have thought better, should have, should have, should have.

Should have didn’t bring people back to life.

It was a miracle that the people of Faerghus hadn’t claimed his life while he slept. Maybe they’d tried.
He couldn’t blame them if they had.

Brothers. Wives. Children.
Parents. Lovers. Artists and poets and craftsmen. Chefs and farmers and merchants.
They’d all been something before picking up swords and spears and axes and even sickles to fight for the folly of rebellion.

The room was spinning. Though the fire burned hot, his body felt as if it was buried in snow. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat no matter how hard he searched.

Hands grasped his shoulders, sending a twinge of pain up his arms. His eyes snapped up to meet Ashe’s, some of the cold fading under the touch.

“Listen to me, Owain.” Ashe’s voice was a lifeline. “You give these people hope. They need a cause to believe in. They need to fight for what’s theirs. They felt strongly enough about your cause that they agreed to die for it if it came down to it. It doesn’t feel good, I know. But I doubt any one of them died thinking this was for naught. They believed in you.”

“And I failed.” Owain’s words shattered upon leaving his mouth.

For a moment, none of them spoke. Annette silently returned to her task of fixing the remains of his wounds. Ashe could no longer meet his eyes.

As if sent by the goddess herself to break the tension, Sylvain’s fiery head appeared in the doorway.
He’d stripped himself of his armor, leaving only plain clothes - not even those of a noble.
He, too, appeared exhausted. Same baggy eyes, same bruises swelling across his face, same halting movements.
Was it still the same day? Still Dimitri’s birthday? Two weeks after? Two years?

Sylvain’s eyes flicked across the three of them, picking up on the tense atmosphere around them. Owain could see the way it bunched around his shoulders.

“I, uh, hate to interrupt. But Owain has a letter from the Alliance.” He interjected, haltingly stepping into the room. “And honestly, you people need to get better at picking up your weapons.”

Sheepishly, Ashe stepped away and retrieved his sword from the ground, sliding it easily back into the scabbard at his hip.

Sylvain sidestepped around him, handing Owain a rolled scroll with a yellow seal over a black tie. The seal was emblazoned with the Crest of Riegan.

Claude.

Two moons after sending his request for aid to the Alliance, he finally received a reply. All too late, it seemed.

Owain broke the seal on the letter, unrolling the weathered parchment to decipher Claude’s handwriting.
Official letters had neat, curling script everyone found appropriate. Unofficial ones had a barely legible chicken scratch he clearly wrote in a hurry.
This letter held the latter.

My dear Owain,
Much as I’d like to help you - believe me, I’d like nothing more - I can’t. I’ll be useless if I’m ousted from my current position, which is inevitable if I send Alliance troops to clearly pick a side in the war.
We’re stretched thin enough as it is defending our border, especially with as many nobles siding with Edelgard as there are. I have the final say in decisions, but I can’t make calls like that, no matter how much I’d like to.
If I was just looking out for me, I’d already be there. But I have to look out for Alliance citizens, and my family back home. I’m sorry, Owain.
As soon as I get the chance to, I’ll lend my aid. And for the time being, I’ll ask Leonie, Ignatz, and Raphael if they’d lend a hand. Not on the orders of Duke Riegan or Prince Owain, but as favors for Owain and Claude. I can’t send any of the noble Golden Deer, it would be political suicide for the both of us. But maybe a few extra pairs of deadly hands can help.
I wish you luck, my friend. And I pray that you fight on. For Fódlan, for the future, and for your brother.
My faith is with you,
Claude

The letter crumpled in Owain’s hands. He was sure they were shaking. He dared not remove them from the paper to find out.

He looked up at the three pairs of concerned eyes looking over him.

“Faerghus is doomed.”

Owain could remember precious little of his mother. He remembered a soft voice singing song, a snorting laugh that never failed to have all four of them cackling. He remembered failed baking attempts and soft blonde hair, warm arms and her healing touch.
He could remember the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled at them.

But little else. No specific memories stood out to him.

When he couldn’t sleep, he remembered her song. But it seemed the memory wasn’t working to soothe him.

The shadows seemed too long, every sound too much. Every slight disturbance set Owain on edge. Even picturing himself as a valiant hero wasn’t enough to calm his nerves.
There was only one solution.

Dimitri.
His bedroom was closer than their father's. Owain could cross the shortest distance to get to him, and risk less things lurking in the shadows.

Taking a deep breath of the frigid night air, allowing the gentle moon to guide him, Owain grabbed hold of his plush lion and slid out from under the covers. His feet made precious little noise hitting the ground.
The door would be the hard part.

Still, Owain summoned up his strength and pushed against it with all his might. With a weak “oof” spilling from his mouth, the door creaked open.

Amazingly, the hallway was lit with torches. The shadows were few and far between. He could navigate his way to Dimitri’s room with no problem.

Owain would never admit how he dashed across the hall, or how he frantically knocked on the door to Dimitri’s room.

He only had to wait a few seconds before the door opened, revealing a Dimitri sleepily rubbing at his eyes.
“Owain? What’s wrong? Are you alright?” He mumbled, seemingly more alert when he saw Owain’s anguish.
He studied Owain’s face for a moment.

“Is there a monster too big to beat tonight?” He asked, seemingly understanding. Owain nodded, unable to summon up the right words. “Then, come on. We’ll face it together, okay?”

He held out his hand, Owain gratefully taking it. Dimitri pulled him into the room and helped him climb into the bed.

His room was equally moonlit, showing the mess on the floor and table. Books strewn everywhere, a few trinkets tossed haphazardly around. Without their mother to clean up after them and the staff too afraid of upsetting the boys, it seemed Dimitri had been slipping in his cleanliness.

Dimitri crawled into bed beside him, pulling up the covers to both of their chins. The bed smelled like his brother, already warmed from his body heat. If Owain searched, he could swear he still smelled Lissa’s scent lingering in the air.

“Nothing bad is gonna happen to you while I’m around, okay?” Dimitri said.

And Owain truly believed him. His big brother would keep him safe from everything life threw at them.
He always did.

His boots had holes in them.
There weren’t enough resources to constantly be fixing his boots. The most he could manage was once every three moons.
It wasn’t yet time for his tri-monthly repair.

Owain often wondered if Cornelia was draining the coiffers dry, or if she was actually preserving the money. Either answer would make him angry, he knew. But he still wondered.
He hoped, someday, he would find out what became of the funds. Maybe if it ever came to be his turn to take the throne.

Areadbhar seemed to stare at him, judgingly. It knew it wouldn’t be coming along for his journey. He wasn’t sure how he could tell, or how it was almost alive, but he knew, without a shred of doubt.

Instead, he donned his usual sword strapped to his side. Goddess, how he’d missed wearing a blade at his hip. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed his swords until he finally had them back.

It was the day after Dimitri’s birthday. In a mere four days, it would be the Millenium Festival. The Blue Lions would have had their class reunion at the monastery.
He’d gotten verbal confirmation from more than a few of them that they’d be going. But Dedue had faded away into the wind, and Dimitri and the professor…
He could only hope for a miracle.

Despite it being light, the bag on his back seemed heavy. Heavy with his burdens, his fears, his doubts.
As soon as the would-be festival was over, he would have to come back and face the music.
His choices were slim. Fight until he died, or surrender to the Empire and allow it to become the Faerghus dukedom. Forsake the legacy of his father, his grandfather, his great-grandmother, and every ruler of Faerghus since Loog.

He knew what his only choice was.

The mantle rested on his bed. It was folded tightly to fit into his bag. Once he was out of Faerghus, he could wear it to keep warm in the Oghma mountains. A place where no one dared to travel.
No one would recognize him.

Mercedes, saint that she was, had managed to find time to get the blood and dirt stains out of the fabric. Owain would have to thank her when he next saw her at the reunion.

The room was stuffy with the scents of musk and blood, the faint trace of pine ever present. The bed was breaking down underneath his weight, yet it didn’t seem worth it to repair. Even Rodrigue hadn’t bothered asking if anyone needed room repairs. More important matters needed tending to.
Empty cups and tankards littered his table, his clothes littered the floor. He would pick them up when he returned.
But for the moment, he couldn’t be bothered.

He’d insisted on taking a small room, despite his status. He refused to receive special treatment, with all that had been going on. He’d gotten what he’d asked for.
A bed and a bookshelf with barely any walking room between them, and a small, cracked window.
He was fairly certain this had been a servant’s room before...before.

It wasn’t something he enjoyed thinking about it. And yet it crossed his mind every night he went to sleep.
Some nights, he didn’t.

“You’re leaving, huh?” Came a voice that set Owain’s heart racing.

Sylvain stood at the entrance of his room, leaning heavily against the doorway. His entire posture rang of exhaustion, his eyes heavy, his body slumped.
“Not that I can blame you, of course. But I never thought you were the type to bail out when times got tough.”

Owain flinched. “This isn’t permanent. I’m going away for a few days. On my own. I need some time to think things through, to clear my head. I hope you can understand that.”

He stood, testing his shoddy boots, before stuffing the mantle inside his pack. It just barely fit, though it would be a bit heavier to carry.

Sylvain sighed, pushing off the doorframe and stepping inside, only a few paces.
“Yeah, I get it. You haven’t really gotten time to grieve, have you? I’ve never had a good older brother, but even for me, it felt weird losing Miklan. I can only imagine what it was like losing Dimitri.”
Owain squeezed his eyes shut at the mention of the name.

“You lost him, too.”
“Not the same way. He was my best friend, someone I’ve known since I was a kid. He was your hero. Anyone could see that.”

Owain looked down at his feet, no longer able to meet Sylvain’s too-understanding gaze.
His hand came up to grasp Owain’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze.
“You’re headed for the monastery, right? It’s almost the Millenium Festival. I figure you’re heading there a little early.”

“I am. But I have a stop to make, first.”
“Oh. The-”
“Yes.”

The words went unspoken between them, but they both knew what Owain spoke of.
Sylvain moved his hand from Owain’s shoulder to his hair, ruffling it mercilessly. Something he hadn’t done since Owain was a child.

“I’ve already lost two brothers. Don’t make me lose you, too, alright?

Owain reached forward and pulled Sylvain into a hug, fingers tightening in his shirt.
“I won’t. I promise this isn’t goodbye.” Owain vowed, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt he could keep this promise. Every other promise he’d made, he hadn’t been so sure.

Sylvain pulled away, gripping both his shoulders and giving him a gentle shake. The smile that graced his face was sad in nature.
“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

With that, Sylvain gave a final nod and strode out of the room, clearing the exit for Owain to leave.

Taking one last look at Areadbhar, Owain followed Sylvain out the door, shutting it behind him.

The Tailtean Plains were a snow covered nightmare during the Ethereal Moon. The wind blustered across the plains, sending a howling through the scarce few trees. The wet marshes froze into solid ice barely navigable by foot, impossible to tread by horse.

The cold was particularly brutal across those acres, freezing anyone unprepared in a matter of minutes.
It was unfortunate for travelers to have to cross through them, but very fortunate for Owain.

No one from the warm, cushy Empire wanted to even attempt to take the plains. The rumors it was cursed didn’t hurt, either.

Owain knew better. It wasn’t cursed. But it was haunted.
Haunted by the spirits of those whose bodies laid to rest in the humble graveyard.

Loog had been the one to insist on keeping the grandeur from the Blaiddyd burial rights, a tradition that had stuck for four hundred years.
There was no special ceremony, they were given the same treatment as commoners. They had no ornate burial ground, only a plot of land to the southernmost edges of the plains.

And though the route to Garreg Mach would take him a bit longer to travel, Owain had a few people to pay a visit. One resting beneath the frozen earth, one burned to ash, one never found.

His walking stick threatened to snap in half under pressure from the wind. It took all his might to keep hold of it and keep himself balanced.

The gales puffed up clouds of snow, obscuring his vision. Snow clung to his eyelashes, stuck in his hair. The bite of frost and chill sunk into his bones, a shiver he wouldn’t be rid of for days.

He’d long ago been told by his father that Faerghans were born to withstand the cold, proving the point by showing off a shivering Lissa. Though Owain had never gotten a solid answer on where she was from, he knew it was far, far away from Fódlan.

But she’d become a Blaiddyd. And her grave was beside her husband’s, and her eldest son’s. Neither of which had bodies beneath them.

Owain tried to swallow the lump in his throat and pressed on.
He could see the high stone wall just up ahead. The archway appeared to have lost a few stones, but it wasn’t enough to break the weather-protective enchantments within.

No one liked to be interrupted visiting their family by sudden snowstorms. One of Owain’s ancestors had suggested the enchantment, and he couldn’t thank them enough for it.

Finally, the end was in sight. His walking stick crossed the threshold of the cemetery, the pressure immediately lightening.

His body crossed soon after, feeling near weightless after his hard trek. The ground seemed rather inviting, but he couldn’t collapse. Not just yet.

The graveyard carried the vague rot of death and decay, but as it usually did, it smelled primarily of grass and pine needles, both of which littered the ground. It was a safe haven from the vicious snowstorms, only calm snow falling within its boundaries.

It looked undisturbed since he’d last been there. The flowers over Dimitri’s makeshift grave had been claimed by frostbite, forever frozen in a state of decay, unable to return to the earth.

Beside it was the perfectly carved headstone denoting his mother. It was a polished stone untouched by the elements, no more than a few snowfalls a year.

Lissa Caeda Blaiddyd

Even in the years after her death, even after remarrying, their father could hardly say her name. It always seemed to get caught in his throat, forever to be choked down with the accompanying sob.

He’d found another love in their step-mother. But no love was as true as the one he held for the first queen. Even his second wife knew this. Owain had never been completely sure if she’d made peace with it.

Owain settled himself in front of his mother’s grave, close enough to both Lambert’s and Dimitri’s that he could speak with his whole family.

His walking stick was laid across his legs, his pack hit the ground. The cold had softened to a gentle ache rather than the vicious bites he’d grown accustomed to.

“Hello Mother. Father.” Owain took a shuddering breath. “Dimitri.”

He paused, adjusting, nervously. He hadn’t thought about what he was going to say, but he knew once he started, it would be hard to stop.

“I...I need your counsel. I know you cannot give such a thing beyond the veil of death, not as I would like, at least. But…” He trailed off. “I am running Faerghus into the ground. I cannot save it, not on my own. And I know I’m not truly alone, I have the Blue Lions. But I’m supposed to become king. That...that was never part of the plan. I don’t know how to rule. I was only taught ‘just in case’ or as a backup.”

The more he spoke, the less formal it was.

“I don’t know what to do. I was never taught how to be a king. I was always taught to be the prince. The second best in the eyes of the people. They don’t want me, I know they don’t. But they’ve got no better option, and even then, I’m failing.
In five years, I’ve lost everything. I lost my brother, my country, my people, nearly my own life. I’m close to losing the few friends I have left, and I'm losing a war. I don’t know who to turn to for help.”
He could feel the sobs beginning to bubble in his throat.

There was no answer from the cold headstones, or the pile of rocks that constituted as the disgraced prince’s grave.
Only silence, and the howling winds sweeping beyond the boundaries of the graveyard.

Even if he strained, he couldn’t hear the beauty of his mother’s song, or the boisterous timbre of his father’s laugh, or the soft lilt of Dimitri’s voice.

It was only the wind to drown out his tears.
Only the cloudy sky for company.
Only a dark path ahead.

Owain couldn’t tamp down his nerves, nor his excitement. Both were battling it out for control over his brain, causing an incessant swarm of butterflies to form. He tried to restrain from bouncing where he sat, knowing his horse would protest the movement.
He refused to hitch a ride on Dimitri’s horse after last time.

Everywhere Owain looked, the forest was alive. The plants were beginning to turn the rich green of spring. Birdsong echoed through the verdant woods. He could hear creatures rustling in the underbrush.
He’d already had to strip himself of his fur cloak. The further south they got, the more the temperature rose. He knew he would begin to hate it when summer rolled around, but after the relentless Faerghan winter, the warmth was an excellent change of pace.

Dimitri rode beside him on a pure white mare. He’d been taking in the scenery before noticing Owain’s nerves.
He gave one of his signature soft smiles, reaching over to pat Owain’s back.
“Are you nervous?” He asked.

“Nay! I am but exhilarated at the prospect of communing with like minds, to be at the helm of a new generation of great warriors and heroes! The bards shall compose songs about those who fight on our side!” Owain proclaimed. The occasional tremor in his voice gave him away.
“It’s more than alright to be nervous. You and I haven’t made many new friends since Dedue.”

Though he’d been spaced out, Dedue looked up upon hearing his name. He was sitting rigidly atop his horse, as though he feared one wrong move would break it. He gave Owain a nod before turning his attention back to the horse.

“A noble scion such as I cannot be nervous! I fear neither evil nor death, itself!” Owain tried to bluster. It only served for Dimitri to give him an amused chuckle.
“Right. Well, indulge me for a moment. Say that you are nervous, if you were capable of such a thing. I would assure you that I will be with you if you should need any assistance, as I always have been.”

Owain tried not to let it show how much of a relief the comment was. But he was certain it showed in the tension draining from his shoulders.
“Thank you.” He mumbled, just loud enough for Dimitri to hear.
“Of course. Remember what I told you? Nothing bad will happen to you while I’m around. I intend to keep that promise.”

A smile slipped onto Owain’s face, one that quickly fell away when he caught sight of their destination.
A grandiose building that rose high above the mountains, with towering spires that cast dark shadows upon the ground. He could see silhouettes of fliers darting around the tops of the towers.
The shimmer of stained glass caught the sun, even from so far away that Owain could make out a myriad of reds, purples, and greens.

A bell began to chime, signaling a certain hour of the afternoon.

“I suppose we’re home, now.” Dimitri commented.
Owain couldn’t think of a suitable response. No words came to mind. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t think of something adequate to describe scenery.

Great things waited for him at Garreg Mach. He could feel it in his bones.
He only wondered what.

Seeing the familiar Oghma Mountains rise ahead of him was something he hadn’t fully prepared himself for.
Homesickness tugged at his heartstrings, sorrow weighing down his back heavier than a stone.

Even from afar, the damage to the monastery was evident. A few of the spires that first greeted him so long ago, towering and proud, were no more. If he hadn’t been looking for the structure, he would have missed it, entirely.
It had changed so much from the home he once knew.

The climb up the Faerghan trail through the mountains was a hard one, if peaceful in ways. Not even birds dared to sing around what was surely a mass grave by this point.
The mantle on his shoulders had never felt more like a burden.

The winding stairs up to the entrance were cracked, several steps missing. The sides of the mountains enclosed the walkway, but would soon give way to the full ruins of his former academy.

Owain’s footsteps resonated loudly against the stones, battling with the whistling of the wind through the loose stones.
The sky was clouded, threatening snow. Almost as if it knew what he was experiencing below.

He hopped two missing steps, finally seeing the end to the stairway. As soon as he summited it, he would see what became of the monastery. He knew he would have had to the next day, anyways, for the reunion.
But he would have been equally as unprepared either way.

He took a deep breath, one that rattled through his aching ribcage and freezing lungs, exiting in a thin trail of fog that blurred the air in front of him for a split second.
He could hear an odd thumping sound above, and an even stronger whistle of wind. It held no sounds of life or merriment.

He could do this.

He took the last few steps up.

The monastery was in shambles. One of the grand doors had been smashed to bits and tossed to the side. The other was flapping uselessly in the wind, one half broken off. Where it had gone, he couldn’t tell.

Inside, the entrance hall was littered with rubble and faded bloodstains never properly washed away. Pools of rain had gathered in cracks in the floor, frozen solid with the chill.
He tried not to look too hard at the corpses buried under the rubble.

Owain attempted to stem the tears welling in his eyes before moving on.

The ceiling of the great hall had been broken in, allowing for the beginnings of snow to fall in small patches.

To his left, the dining hall was in disarray, and smelled only of rotting, mouldy food, some pieces fresher than others. Various bandits and squatters over the years, no doubt.

The Blue Lions usual table was the one least intact. The Golden Deer table looked only to be scuffed, the Black Eagles table cracked in places. The Lions’ table was completely split in half, no longer able to be eaten off of.

To escape the rotten smells, Owain walked out of the dining hall and down to the fishing pond.
The fish had long since been eaten, or fled to safer waters. The water had turned brown from the dirt and grime kicked up by the sweeping winds and the various inhabitants of the ruins.
A glance towards the greenhouse showed it to be overgrown beyond belief, with no one left to look after the plant life inside.

Ashe and Dedue would mourn its state.

The first floor dorms varied from untouched to completely destroyed. Dedue’s looked to be completely intact, while Lysithea’s had been ransacked.
The second floor dorms were generally in much better shape.

Owain’s footsteps creaked the slightly rotten floorboards, forcing him to measure his weight carefully so as not to fall through.

Many of the rooms had the long dead flowers gifted by Byleth for the occupants’ birthdays, along with various belongings they’d been forced to leave behind in their scramble to evacuate before another wave of Empire soldiers stormed the place. It seemed some hadn’t been stolen.

Ingrid still had broken spurs on her desk she’d been meaning to fix up. A book of hymns to the Goddess was still laying on Marianne's bed.

Unfortunately, no room carried the distinct scents of the previous occupant. Time had wiped away all scent memories.

Owain hesitantly pushed open the door to his own room, more than a little afraid of what he would - or wouldn’t - find.

It was as barren as he’d expected, with a few objects of his strewn haphazardly around as bandits had been routing through his things.
The rusty sword he’d been meaning to restore was tossed onto his desk. An old children’s book had been untouched on the shelf - they hadn’t looked inside to see the queen’s handwriting, it seemed - and his vase of roses from the professor had been tipped over, but not taken. Shriveled petals littered his bookshelf.

He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to check the one room he’d been dreading. He wasn’t entirely certain what would be worse; seeing it in complete disarray, or seeing it perfectly intact.

The room was right next to his own. He still remembered hearing his brother’s nightmares ringing through the walls, his muffled screams as he dreamt horrible memories Owain hadn’t been present for.

The door made an oddly final creak as he pushed it open. The knob had been broken off, leaving a gaping hole in the wood. The doorknob had rolled next to Sylvain’s door.

Inside, the bed was still crisply made, flat enough to see every deviation in the mattress. Dust coated every surface.
Out of every room Owain had seen, it was the one most untouched; the only sign that anything had happened at all was the broken window, letting in only the slightest draft. Barely enough to rustle the pages of an open book on Dimitri’s desk.

Owain could still remember countless nights spent in this room before trudging back to his own. Studying into the wee hours of the morning, patching his brother up after rough battles, talking about the past, or the future.
If he squinted, he could still see Dimitri’s outline silhouetted against the window, arms folded as he looked out across the mountains.

Owain shook his head to be rid of the memories and turned away.

He would never return to this room. Not unless it was a matter of life and death. Every beat of his heart caused his chest to ache.

Picking up the pace, he began walking, not entirely sure where his feet were taking him. He was nearing a run, but made sure to keep his speed just below so as not to run into a gap.

The former classrooms were a blur he couldn’t bring himself to look at. The reception hall waterfalls had long since stopped working, but he refused to stay and study them.
It was only when he reached the bridge to the cathedral that he paused.

It was only when he reached a gap in the road that he felt the hot tears running down his face.
Roughly, he swiped the tears away with his sleeve, forcing himself to focus on the path ahead of him, to process what was wrong with the image.

A part of the bridge had been knocked down into an open plain below with odd monoliths he could barely make out. The stones had crushed a few of them, from what he could tell.

Ahead, the doors to the cathedral had been pushed open, one more so than the other, allowing enough room for just one person to make it through.

Was someone inside? Was another soul waiting for him to find them?

Owain sucked in a deep breath before taking off in a run. His feet pounded against the slightly unsteady stone, he pushed his legs as fast as they could go. He could feel his Crest surging to meet his exertion.

He leapt off.

For a brief, wondrous moment, he could forget where he was or why he was there. He could forget his burdens and his troubles.
He was some flying thing, immune to the woes of the pitiful flightless.

His landing made an echo that shook rocks from their perilous places, sending them tumbling to the valley below.
The shock of the landing was absorbed in his back as he rolled into a crouch, taking pressure off his legs.

He would certainly have his fair share of bruises, but he’d had a lot worse for far fewer reasons.

Coming to his feet, Owain took a step back, the feeling of his Crest fading to nothingness. He tipped his head up to truly look at the cathedral how he had countless times five years prior.

The ornate stained glass adorning every surface not made of stone had been shattered, leaving only the most stubborn of shards clinging to their frames. The long banners depicting the Crest of Seiros had been torn haphazardly, likely to be used as makeshift shelter for those daring enough to disturb the peace of death.

He could only imagine how much worse it was inside. He shuddered to even think of it.

Sliding his way past the door, careful not to disturb its precarious position, Owain stepped inside the cathedral for the first time in five years.

His breath caught in his throat.

Where once the grand altar stood, only a pile of rubble remained, getting slowly covered in the gently falling snow.
A hulking figure stood before the pile, body bent over it.

A mop of raggedy golden hair hung over their face, the crown of their head only just visible, glowing despite the dull light.

Even through the dirt and the grime, Owain would recognize that shade anywhere. It was the very same shining atop his own head.

His heart didn’t dare to beat. His pulse fell silent.
The earth didn’t breathe.

The figure was speaking, a low, manic narrative Owain couldn’t understand. But he knew that voice. He could still hear it singing lullabies to him in the back of his head in a loop.

It couldn’t be possible. It wasn’t possible.
He was dead.
His execution was widely known. It was impossible to find a person who didn’t know about the death of Prince Dimitri.

And yet…

“Dimitri?” He called. His voice was hoarse from lack of conversation over the past three days. He hadn’t realized how much it would ache to speak.

The monologue stopped in its tracks. The figure stiffened, slowly raising their head.
Owain could now make out the side of their face. There was no doubt left in his mind.

Dimitri.

“Why do you always return? Again and again, I must watch you burn in agony. Why must you torture me, Owain?!” The shout echoed across the hollowed out remains of the cathedral.

“Dim-” He tried, but was swiftly cut off.

“How many times must I apologize? How many times must my soul be cut open?” Dimitri was frantic, mania slipping into his voice.
His madness must have entirely taken over.

“Dimitri, stop.” Owain’s voice resounded, clear and concise. He was proud of the fact that it didn’t waver. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes once more, hot and burning.
“Please. Just stop.” His words broke.

Whether it was the words themselves, or the way his resolve wavered, it got Dimitri to turn around to face him.

He wore strange black armor with a blue slash in the chest. He was missing an eye, a plain black patch covering what was surely a wound. His face was gaunt and drawn, his mass entirely too big, yet entirely too small.
He took on an expression of unbridled surprise, shock glimmering in his familiar blue eyes.

“Owain?” Finally, Dimitri seemed to understand that he was real. “You’re...you’re alive?”
“I could say the same to you.” Owain choked out. His tears had finally broken loose, streaming unrestrained down his cheeks. “Dima.”

Dimitri flinched.
“This...this is a trick, isn’t it?” He asked, distrusting. “I watched you die, Owain. You aren’t here.”

“I’m alive and well, Dima! I promise!” Owain could puzzle over his words later. For now, he knew what he had to do.

He rushed forward, barely keeping himself from an all out sprint, and grabbed Dimitri in an embrace.
Dimitri stumbled back a pace, shocked. His body was stiff and frozen to the spot, his arms wide, not even close to touching Owain.

“I am real, Dima. I am real and I’ve missed you. More than you’ll ever know.” He had no strength left to speak. His chin rested against armor.

Dimitri had grown. But so had he. They were nearly equal height.

Silently, hesitantly, Dimitri wrapped his arms around Owain in turn. He held like a man that hadn’t been touched in years.
Owain guessed he hadn’t been.

His voice was little more than a whisper when he said:

“Welcome home, Dimitri.”