On the battlefield, as Mathilda had once proudly proclaimed, there was no difference in gender beyond what they could accomplish on the battlefield. There was no distinction--no women's work and men's work, no forcing her to hide behind the men as shields when they all knew very well that Mathilda could fight better than the best of them.
... On the battlefield, that was the case, though that naturally did not extend to camp, or the barracks. In the barracks, men and women were segregated--for natural, obvious reasons that only the most foolhardy of men would ever try to undermine.
The last one who had thought it would be wise to try to peek on the women had gone home on crutches, leaving the Deliverance in disgrace after Clive was through with him.
Which, Clive knew, in part was the point behind this plan--but he also knew that it was practically suicide for just that reason as well, and he stared at Lukas with an expression akin to despairing disbelief.
"You must be joking." Flatly, simply, and uncompromisingly, Clive stared at Lukas, who looked back with that infuriatingly calm and placid expression he so perfectly wore.
Damn him. He was probably laughing about this entire matter.
"I'm afraid not." Lukas spread his hands in the slightest of placating gestures. "The truth is, we are at our wits end. There are no other options, Clive."
There was something that sounded suspiciously like an amused snort from Python, though when Clive shot a glance at him, his expression was straight and he was idly inspecting his fingernails. For his part, Forsyth was wringing his hands in absolute despair.
"There is no need to go through with this, Commander!" Forsyth's tone was pleading, and Clive grimaced further. "I will just have to deal with the consequences myself. It's... it is perfectly fine!"
Python elbowed him silent, but in truth, that in and of itself was more than enough to sway Clive properly. To Forsyth, nothing was more important than his knightly honor and his chances at becoming a proper knight. While things were far more relaxed in the Deliverance, it would still reflect very poorly on him if it was to be known that...well, he'd managed to misplace one of the Deliverance's defensive baubles (a ring of sorts that had been lent to him for a particular battle) in one of the woman soldier's bags by pure, unfortunate accident.
Such baubles were incredibly valuable, and Forsyth would naturally be called to return it the next morning when inventory was taken... and if he did not have it, it would reflect very poorly indeed. From any other soldier, he could easily have asked for it back, but barging into the women's barracks would be an incredibly unwise plan. Clive would have gladly asked Mathilda, knowing she would be able to extract the ring with minimal fuss, except she had left earlier for a quick scouting mission.
Which left them with few options, really; he could hardly leave one of his men to suffer like this.
Still... he tried one more go at pleading for reason, asking more than stating, "Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress."
--
It turned out, they had many good reasons.
"If you were to be caught, it wouldn't be your head on the chopping block," Lukas had offered up, almost cheekily if not for his innocent smile.
"My hair is unfortunately too distinct... I would be noticed immediately," Forsyth had stated, despairing, still despairing that he had pushed his commander, of all people, to this.
"Well, I mean... you'd work it well, y'know," had been Python's dry contribution, before being smacked silent by Forsyth.
It was hard to argue the three of them in unison, of course, and so Clive had had to swallow his pride (and his many, many sighs), and...toss the dress on. In truth? It did fit him reasonably well, if only because it was a large dress that hid his very unfeminine legs and without much in the way of a figure in general. With his hair ruffled from its usual style and keeping his head down, he... well, he didn't really pass at all, but he supposed he had a better chance than the other three.
And so it was that he'd hurried his way into the barracks, grateful that they were mostly empty at this hour, keeping his head firmly down, searching for the bag in question and easily finding it. One problem down, and this was going far too smoothly, he knew, but even as he started to rummage through the bag for the missing ring, Clive could only count his blessings that Mathilda was likely still out on her scouting mission, because she would never let him live this down--
"Drop the bag and put your hands where I can see them, madam," came a flat, fierce tone, one that he knew all too well and loved, and oh Mila, she'd gotten back early, hadn't she, and now she thought he was some random village woman trying to steal from their belongings, and he was either going to die like this, dignity-less, or throw his pride on the ground and trample it, and--
Mathilda, naturally, never one for waiting when there was action to be done, took the choice from him; she strode forward, grabbed his wrist firmly, and yanked him around so she could see his face.
In truth? It was almost worth it to see shock on her face; Mathilda wasn't easily surprised to this extent, and for a long moment, she could only stare at her fiance, mouth open and gaping. And then she gasped, releasing his wrist to instead press her hand to her chest, eyes still wide.
"Clive? What--what in the gods' name are you doing?"
--
The story took longer than he would have liked to explain, but once she understood, Mathilda had laughed, more amused than anything. She helped him search for the ring, finding it at the bottom of the bag none the worse for wear, and then escorted him out of the barracks, protecting his pride further by ushering away anyone who would look too closely at the towering woman beside her.
And once out of the barracks and in the shadows of the fast setting sun, hidden near the back of the building, Mathilda laughed properly, a hand to her chest and an arm around her stomach, clear amusement ringing out. It wasn't every day she got to see a sight like this, Clive knew, so while he was rueful, he weathered it; the sound of her enjoyment was worth the embarrassment, if nothing else.
"I... I apologize, my love," Mathilda finally gasped out, wiping a tear from her eye. "It is just--!"
Clive snorted softly at that, taking one of her hands in his gently, and shook his head. "I know. I simply look ridiculous."
Mathilda inspected him for a moment, fighting the urge to smile--and losing out against it, lips twitching upwards. "Well...yes. You do. Come--you should get changed before anyone else sees you like this."
Clive's eyebrows arched faintly at the insinuation that she would be joining him, though Mathilda cut him off before he could say anything, simply stating, "I can direct anyone who might see you away, and we shall have to return the dress. It will look less strange if I am the one who carries it."
"Sensible as ever, my sweet," Clive sighed, caving gracefully, and so they went, hand in hand, the evening theirs to wile away together now.
--
"But truly, I cannot imagine how the ring ended up in her bag...!" Forsyth fretted, wringing his hands together idly.
"Yup," Python responded, hardly even listening, watching the way that Clive and Mathilda left together, instead of the two very different directions they would have headed if not for this little impromptu "mistake". They were always busy, those two, Clive with reports and command, Mathilda with training and scouting and recruits--some time together was just what the doctor (in this case, Lukas) ordered.
"It's a real mystery," he added, expression far too amused to be innocent.
Minato knew the exact moment that everything had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
He could feel it, like a sudden wrench in his chest, and immediately he'd run outside, ignoring the way that Sojiro had yelled after him, to stare at the way the world had changed. The sky was a sickly color the ground disgusting and the city utterly metamorphosing, and for a moment, Minato almost felt dizzy as his vision transposed onto the sickly pink a hazy green instead, a giant moon, a heavy feeling of despair--
He shook his head sharply, shaking away the image stuck in his head.
Nyx was gone. The Dark Hour was gone.
But the feeling of despair...it was similar, wasn't it? That was still there, and Minato's brow furrowed, breath catching, as he clenched his hands into fists and ran. Wherever this was originating from (Mementos...?), Minato knew that that was where Akira would be, and that...was where he needed to go.
It didn't take much, really; there weren't many people to stop him, and those who were out and about wandered around as if nothing was strange at all. It was almost more unnerving than the screaming and fear (or outright adulation) of the people who had finally seen the Dark Hour. He didn't know for sure, of course, and he didn't have the time to consider it for more than a moment, because what really mattered, more than anything...
(Was Akira alright?)
This was it, after all. This was what they had been waiting for all along. This...was what had been waiting behind all of the machinisms, all of the lies and "coincidences". It had all been building up to this, and Minato... did not even want to begin to think of what they were facing. There was no way of knowing--all he knew was that he had to get there, somehow, some way.
Tennis shoes skidded in slick red gunk, translucent and disgusting, as he ran, ignoring the droplets of red that rained down from the sky, teeth gritted with his focus. What was it? What was happening? Where were the Phantom Thieves?
Where was Akira?
Minato flung himself threw Shibuya, shoving past people who acted as though nothing was wrong, who ignored him unless he bumped into them with an apathy that was stunning. No time for that, though, there was no time at all, he had to find them no matter what--
He was too late, of course. There was no way he would get there in time, and Minato skidded to a stop with eyes wide at the prone form of Akira on the ground, not in costume and seeming strangely defenseless without it, crumpled and alone, and Minato skidded towards him with distress plain on his face for once, shoving past people who got in his way, reaching out with one hand with desperation--
His fingers went through nothingness, Akira crumbling right before his eyes into blackness and then emptiness where his body had once been, and Minato stared, lips parted slightly in shock and an almost disbelieving whisper escaping him, a shaky, "A...kira?"
There was no response, of course; there was nothing to be said, and nothing to be done. Akira was gone, and Minato had no idea where he'd disappeared to. He had no idea what was causing this, what had made the city look like this, and what was choking the air with its apathetic despair.
Slowly, shakily, he slid to the ground as well, slumped in the red filth on his knees, ignoring the slightly flat looks that people gave him as they walked around him as if nothing had ever happened, as if nothing had ever gone terribly, terribly wrong here--even though in truth? Absolutely everything was wrong, in every possible way.
He remained there, head bowed, for how long he wasn't sure, before he finally, slowly, forced himself to stir, dragging in a deep breath, shoulders squaring. If something was wrong, he couldn't just leave it alone, after all. This was the world he had died to save, and Akira--Akira had to be somewhere, fighting still, because Minato couldn't accept that just like that, he was gone, but even if this was Akira's journey, Minato couldn't just sit here and do nothing.
Even if he had no idea where to start.
Even if he had no idea what was wrong.
Even if--
Stark against the backdrop of red and ivory and sickly pink, there was a stark, blue butterfly.
Minato's eyes tracked it immediately, watching it flutter past him with utter stillness, hardly daring to breathe--and then he stood, pushing himself to his feet so quickly that he stumbled, and followed at a run, shoving his way through the crowds without the breath to even apologize or excuse himself, focused instead on not missing that one, single, important point of hope.
The Velvet Room's door eventually loomed before him tall and familiar, and Minato breathed out a shaky breath, staring at it for a long moment as if unwilling to take that last step forward. He didn't know what it could mean, that such an important, familiar symbol had brought him here. And he didn't know...if he wanted to know.
But before he could figure it out, before he could make that decision and step forward to try the handle--the door opened, and out stepped the familiar, masked figure, and for a moment, Minato's expression crumpled plainly, breath hitching. Akira's eyes widened in return, meeting Minato's simply, but upon seeing the clear heartbreak on Minato's face, it wasn't as though Akira could ever ignore it; he strode forward, coattails fanning out behind him, and scooping Minato into an immediate hug, holding him close.
Minato's fingers lifted as well, burying into the fabric of Akira's coat, and then softly, almost brokenly, Minato whispered into his ear, "You came back."
Akira's eyes slid shut for a moment, and slowly, he drew in a deep breath. For people like Minato, for people like Ryuji's mother, and Shiho, and Sojiro and Makoto's sister, they had to always, always come back. Because they couldn't allow that sort of heartbreak to ever remain--not on anyone's face.
And quietly, firmly, he pulled back just enough to meet Minato's eyes and return, "I came back." He reached out with a gloved hand, gently tilting Minato's chin up just enough to lean in for a kiss, gentle and certain, a promise--there was more he, and the others, had to do, more that that world required from them. But even so, it was a promise: Akira would always come back to Minato.
That there was a war on had never been enough to stop passion--if anything, it only made passion all the more potent--and Severa had not once felt guilty for what she had with Lucina. The other children, the small group they had, had always understood in the future--they'd understood that they found comfort in each other, that what Severa and Lucina had was special, but also that it never would take away from what Lucina felt for all of them, her comrades and her friends.
So it had always been an open, unspoken secret, that Severa and Lucina had something approaching but maybe not quite love, but certainly passion and warmth and closeness, and that was all that Severa really needed.
When they jumped back in time, things were much the same; a war was on here, after all, too, and that Severa and Lucina often stole away into each other's tents, often woke up tangled up together, went unnoticed by each of the adults. They were well-meaning, after all, but utterly clueless, wrapped up in their own affairs and relationships, something Severa would disparage and Lucina would gently soothe, while being torn in her own heart as to how she felt about the fact that her father had not once noticed her clear adoration.
Was it a blessing that he never asked, or...?
Either way, neither of them let it distract from their performance on the battlefield, and that was all that really mattered. Lucina led the second generation with firm but kind certainty, and they rallied around her, even if it was Robin who called the ultimate shots--it was still Lucina they looked to, just as they had for all of those years holding out against a future that was all too cruel.
So the status quo persisted, until against all odds they were victorious, until all was conquered and everything was defeated, until there was peace, the word almost too soft and precious to be spoken, a word they all feared to say lest it somehow escaped them--
But nonetheless, peace remained, and that was when Lucina realized that while war was a terrible, horrible state of affairs, in many ways, it had made everything else very, very simple.
And now those simple things had grown incredibly complicated.
Lucina was the Exalted princess, Chrom's daughter in every form even if she had come from the future, even if her mother had already had her in infant form. She was still someone who the people of Ylisse looked to, both as example and as leader, and though her father had married someone from the army at what almost seemed like random to the advisors and nobility of Ylisse, that had been in the midst of an intense and painful war.
Anything went then, but Lucina wondered, maybe, if things were just a little stricter for her for just that reason--for the reason of people looking to her to be what her father flouted.
It seemed Severa had been having much the same thoughts, which shouldn't have surprised Lucina; Severa had always been attuned to such things, perhaps even more than Lucina. She was always concerned with how they were perceived, with how the court looked at them--with so many things that, in a way, constantly astounded Lucina.
Still... Severa and Lucina both left the topic unspoken, and weeks passed, weeks of etiquette lessons she'd lost with the onset of the Risen, weeks of stolen moments in the dark and kisses embraced in the early hours of the morning, where nobody else noticed.
But of course, even as peace persisted, this state of affairs couldn't; it was with her lips pressed to Lucina's neck, straddling her waist and clothed only from the waist down that Severa paused, and then murmured softly there against the skin, "Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?"
Nothing could have knocked the mood away more quickly, Lucina paused, fingers slowly slipping from Severa's hair to instead try and fail to cup her cheek; Severa seemed intent on keep her face hidden in the crook of Lucina's neck.
'What do you mean?' Lucina could have asked, but it would've been insincere; they both knew exactly what Severa had meant.
The silence dragged, unbroken in this early hour, so early still that no light filtered through Lucina's window, and when she finally sighed, Severa almost jumped at the noise.
"...Sorry. It was a stupid question. It's just--"
"Severa." Lucina's single word was calm, even as she properly sat up, strong enough still to very easily lift her own weight and Severa's, until she was seated with Severa cradled in her lap.
Still, Severa didn't lift her head--but it was clear she was listening.
There wasn't much, Lucina knew, she could say to resolve this. The truth was that the court had expectations. That for Lucina's own sake, it would likely be best to end this, to move on, to accept that she would likely have to have some sort of political marriage for the sake of Ylisse and her father--
But her heart knew that that was unacceptable.
Severa had been by Lucina's side from the first moment. She'd been there through the sleepless nights of listening for horrifying Risen, guarded by nothing but their wits and a campfire. She'd held Lucina's hand while blood loss made her dizzy, and she'd smiled at Lucina when the return had been true, Severa's own complexion pale. She'd stood by Lucina's side when she made the choice to go back--
And she was here now, warm in Lucina's arms, and that...that was something precious, something Lucina could not give up, not for anything, and she realized then that her heart was entirely made up.
"Severa," Lucina repeated, more softly this time, and then she continued, "Would you agree to be my traveling companion?"
Severa froze...and then finally, she lifted her head, tilting her head and staring at Lucina as if trying to understand.
It was fine. Lucina could explain--Lucina could continue, because Lucina knew then and there, that she knew what was best for her here. Ylisse did not need two Lucinas...but Lucina knew someone who needed her, and her alone.
"I would like to travel, now that peace has been won," she murmured softly, running her fingers up Severa's back in a soothing gesture. "Would you be willing to join me?"
Severa's breath hitched as the enormity of the request struck her and sunk in--and then she leaned in to press their lips together, fierce and warm and certain, and Lucina knew she had her answer.
Their parents would live their own lives, with their own families--with their own Lucina and their own Severa, with their own hopes and dreams. Now that peace had been won, now that their parents and their home were safe... it was time for Lucina to find her own dream--with Severa, most importantly of all, at her side, and without a single moment of shame in that.
"You're just as pathetic as your father was," Arvis said, but the sneer on his face was weak, and the taunt in his voice seemed put-upon, more an act for the stage that had been set for him than anything else. Still, the verbal blow put Seliph on the defensive, expression for a moment flinching as he lifted Tyrfing and stared at Arvis, eyes widened.
This wasn't what he wanted.
The villagers had not seemed unhappy under Arvis' reign, though the man had undeniably committed so many crimes. But for his father's sake--for the sake of Grandbell, which was his home, and for the sake of his destiny, Seliph couldn't hesitate here.
There was no room for hesitation.
Arvis' Valflame spell exploded around him, but Tyrfing defended Seliph, its light shining and cutting a path through the flames that had killed his father, and it was with that thought that Seliph moved, stepping forward without even thinking, moving as if by instinct--
And next he knew, Tyrfing had been plunged deeply into Arvis' chest.
Seliph immediately staggered back, and then, leaving the sword there, he retreated, Arvis' dying whisper haunting his every step as he fled, uncaring and unknowing where, exactly, he was going. Seliph didn't stop until he found himself by the waterfront, ocean gently lapping against the shore as if without a care, and there Seliph slowly sat, appearance ragged, ponytail askew and clothing torn and scorched.
He knew he had to return soon. The army was counting on him. This wasn't finished--there was more still to do.
He knew this.
But for a moment, it was as if his legs had lost their strength, and he couldn't do anything but sit there, staring at the ocean, and pretending the stinging in his eyes was from the salty air, and nothing more. That man had killed his father. He should've felt victorious in this moment--
But instead, he felt hollow.
It wasn't until he heard his name on the breeze, in fact, that he looked up, head jerking, and Laura paused, lips parted from where she had been prepared to say exactly the same--though it had not been her voice that had spoken his name, in the end. She stood there, Tyrfing wrapped gently in a cloth with the reverence a holy sword such as that deserved, but...she could only watch as the silhouette of an elegant, gorgeous woman appeared before Seliph, expression gentle and warm.
The familiarity didn't click for her until Seliph finally spoke, voice hoarse and almost disbelieving, as he murmured, "Mother...? Is that...you?"
So this, then, was Seliph's mother. The familiarity was all-too-clear to Laura then, and she could only inspect Deirdre quietly as Seliph scrambled to his feet, reaching for her on automatic. The same gentle, delicate features. The same fine hair. The same loving eyes--this was absolutely Seliph's mother, almost ethereal in her gorgeousness (but no, she truly was ethereal, wasn't she, because this was--)...
"...Seliph, always treasure those in your presence. Honor each and every one of them," Deirdre finally murmured, voice faint and appearance fading out, and it was almost as if in a panic that Seliph reached again, knowing that his hand would pass through, and exclaimed, "Mother--! I... I avenged father! Lord Arvis is slain!"
It didn't seem to bring the recognition he had wanted from her eyes, though; Deirdre just looked sad, shaking her head, and Seliph almost looked despairing, mouth opening again--
And then there was another, standing tall and certain, with the sort of elegant poise that could only come from one who was all-too-skilled and powerful, and Laura knew in an instant that this was Sigurd. His commanding presence matched her father's, and for a moment, she had to fight the urge to bow. His eyes skimmed over his son, meeting hers behind him for a moment, and slowly, she bowed her head in a respectful gesture--and when she looked back up, he had nodded in return, expression quietly warm, a moment of acceptance that filled her heart and made her feel warm.
Seliph, on the other hand, looked as though he was more and more tormented by the moment.
"Father...? Is that you?" Seliph's voice was quiet now, almost defeated, but absolutely reverent.
Sigurd looked at his son, and nodded once, firm and certain.
His words, though, were stern, though no less kind for it, even as he simply stated, "Do not allow this victory to go to your head, Seliph. It was only by those who support you and stand by your side that you are still here today."
Laura fancied for a moment that he glanced at her at that, and she met his eyes squarely, standing firm. In that, he was right--Laura was never going to leave Seliph's side, and she would always support him.
"..Get to know the people's sorrow. Your reality and theirs are still worlds apart. ...If you can't accomplish that, Seliph, then this whole war has been for nothing," were Sigurd's parting words, meeting Seliph's gaze firmly, and Seliph immediately shook his head, almost desperate.
"Father? What do you mean? Father--!" Despite Seliph's desperate cries, however, both his father and his mother faded away as if they had never been there, and slowly, Seliph sank to the grassy hill overlooking the sea, staring out at the ocean quietly. The sight was heartbreaking for Laura--but she knew, too, what she had to do.
So quietly, she strode forward, not at all bothering to mask her steps, and quietly, she crouched by Seliph's side, reaching out with one hand to rest it on his shoulder. He started, meeting her eyes with eyes wet with unshed tears, and Laura had to fight to keep her expression level. This was important, after all. She had to support Seliph--just as she'd silently promised Sigurd she would.
"Seliph... I brought this back to you," Laura murmured, and she offered him the sword quietly. Seliph's hand hovered over the sword uncertainly, expression torn. After his father's words, after Arvis'--was he really even qualified to hold this sword?
Would he ever properly match up?
Those were the fears that Laura could all too easily read in Seliph's eyes, and she reached up with her free hand to gently bring his hovering hand down to the hilt of the sword, pressing it there with firm certainty. And quietly, she met Seliph's gaze.
He had Deirdre's features, and his mother's beautiful hair, though of Sigurd's hair color--but she'd been wrong about his eyes. Those eyes, gentle kindness and all...
"You have his eyes," Laura said, firmly and certain, because in Seliph's eyes she saw the echo of Sigurd's firm kindness that she'd seen before, and that was when Seliph broke, head bowing and tears sliding down his cheeks--but his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and when he leaned against her, Laura let him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders quietly.
She'd pledged herself, after all--to him, but now too to his father, and she was not about to ever break her word in either case.
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clive/mathilda
... On the battlefield, that was the case, though that naturally did not extend to camp, or the barracks. In the barracks, men and women were segregated--for natural, obvious reasons that only the most foolhardy of men would ever try to undermine.
The last one who had thought it would be wise to try to peek on the women had gone home on crutches, leaving the Deliverance in disgrace after Clive was through with him.
Which, Clive knew, in part was the point behind this plan--but he also knew that it was practically suicide for just that reason as well, and he stared at Lukas with an expression akin to despairing disbelief.
"You must be joking." Flatly, simply, and uncompromisingly, Clive stared at Lukas, who looked back with that infuriatingly calm and placid expression he so perfectly wore.
Damn him. He was probably laughing about this entire matter.
"I'm afraid not." Lukas spread his hands in the slightest of placating gestures. "The truth is, we are at our wits end. There are no other options, Clive."
There was something that sounded suspiciously like an amused snort from Python, though when Clive shot a glance at him, his expression was straight and he was idly inspecting his fingernails. For his part, Forsyth was wringing his hands in absolute despair.
"There is no need to go through with this, Commander!" Forsyth's tone was pleading, and Clive grimaced further. "I will just have to deal with the consequences myself. It's... it is perfectly fine!"
Python elbowed him silent, but in truth, that in and of itself was more than enough to sway Clive properly. To Forsyth, nothing was more important than his knightly honor and his chances at becoming a proper knight. While things were far more relaxed in the Deliverance, it would still reflect very poorly on him if it was to be known that...well, he'd managed to misplace one of the Deliverance's defensive baubles (a ring of sorts that had been lent to him for a particular battle) in one of the woman soldier's bags by pure, unfortunate accident.
Such baubles were incredibly valuable, and Forsyth would naturally be called to return it the next morning when inventory was taken... and if he did not have it, it would reflect very poorly indeed. From any other soldier, he could easily have asked for it back, but barging into the women's barracks would be an incredibly unwise plan. Clive would have gladly asked Mathilda, knowing she would be able to extract the ring with minimal fuss, except she had left earlier for a quick scouting mission.
Which left them with few options, really; he could hardly leave one of his men to suffer like this.
Still... he tried one more go at pleading for reason, asking more than stating, "Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress."
--
It turned out, they had many good reasons.
"If you were to be caught, it wouldn't be your head on the chopping block," Lukas had offered up, almost cheekily if not for his innocent smile.
"My hair is unfortunately too distinct... I would be noticed immediately," Forsyth had stated, despairing, still despairing that he had pushed his commander, of all people, to this.
"Well, I mean... you'd work it well, y'know," had been Python's dry contribution, before being smacked silent by Forsyth.
It was hard to argue the three of them in unison, of course, and so Clive had had to swallow his pride (and his many, many sighs), and...toss the dress on. In truth? It did fit him reasonably well, if only because it was a large dress that hid his very unfeminine legs and without much in the way of a figure in general. With his hair ruffled from its usual style and keeping his head down, he... well, he didn't really pass at all, but he supposed he had a better chance than the other three.
And so it was that he'd hurried his way into the barracks, grateful that they were mostly empty at this hour, keeping his head firmly down, searching for the bag in question and easily finding it. One problem down, and this was going far too smoothly, he knew, but even as he started to rummage through the bag for the missing ring, Clive could only count his blessings that Mathilda was likely still out on her scouting mission, because she would never let him live this down--
"Drop the bag and put your hands where I can see them, madam," came a flat, fierce tone, one that he knew all too well and loved, and oh Mila, she'd gotten back early, hadn't she, and now she thought he was some random village woman trying to steal from their belongings, and he was either going to die like this, dignity-less, or throw his pride on the ground and trample it, and--
Mathilda, naturally, never one for waiting when there was action to be done, took the choice from him; she strode forward, grabbed his wrist firmly, and yanked him around so she could see his face.
In truth? It was almost worth it to see shock on her face; Mathilda wasn't easily surprised to this extent, and for a long moment, she could only stare at her fiance, mouth open and gaping. And then she gasped, releasing his wrist to instead press her hand to her chest, eyes still wide.
"Clive? What--what in the gods' name are you doing?"
--
The story took longer than he would have liked to explain, but once she understood, Mathilda had laughed, more amused than anything. She helped him search for the ring, finding it at the bottom of the bag none the worse for wear, and then escorted him out of the barracks, protecting his pride further by ushering away anyone who would look too closely at the towering woman beside her.
And once out of the barracks and in the shadows of the fast setting sun, hidden near the back of the building, Mathilda laughed properly, a hand to her chest and an arm around her stomach, clear amusement ringing out. It wasn't every day she got to see a sight like this, Clive knew, so while he was rueful, he weathered it; the sound of her enjoyment was worth the embarrassment, if nothing else.
"I... I apologize, my love," Mathilda finally gasped out, wiping a tear from her eye. "It is just--!"
Clive snorted softly at that, taking one of her hands in his gently, and shook his head. "I know. I simply look ridiculous."
Mathilda inspected him for a moment, fighting the urge to smile--and losing out against it, lips twitching upwards. "Well...yes. You do. Come--you should get changed before anyone else sees you like this."
Clive's eyebrows arched faintly at the insinuation that she would be joining him, though Mathilda cut him off before he could say anything, simply stating, "I can direct anyone who might see you away, and we shall have to return the dress. It will look less strange if I am the one who carries it."
"Sensible as ever, my sweet," Clive sighed, caving gracefully, and so they went, hand in hand, the evening theirs to wile away together now.
--
"But truly, I cannot imagine how the ring ended up in her bag...!" Forsyth fretted, wringing his hands together idly.
"Yup," Python responded, hardly even listening, watching the way that Clive and Mathilda left together, instead of the two very different directions they would have headed if not for this little impromptu "mistake". They were always busy, those two, Clive with reports and command, Mathilda with training and scouting and recruits--some time together was just what the doctor (in this case, Lukas) ordered.
"It's a real mystery," he added, expression far too amused to be innocent.
minato/akira
He could feel it, like a sudden wrench in his chest, and immediately he'd run outside, ignoring the way that Sojiro had yelled after him, to stare at the way the world had changed. The sky was a sickly color the ground disgusting and the city utterly metamorphosing, and for a moment, Minato almost felt dizzy as his vision transposed onto the sickly pink a hazy green instead, a giant moon, a heavy feeling of despair--
He shook his head sharply, shaking away the image stuck in his head.
Nyx was gone. The Dark Hour was gone.
But the feeling of despair...it was similar, wasn't it? That was still there, and Minato's brow furrowed, breath catching, as he clenched his hands into fists and ran. Wherever this was originating from (Mementos...?), Minato knew that that was where Akira would be, and that...was where he needed to go.
It didn't take much, really; there weren't many people to stop him, and those who were out and about wandered around as if nothing was strange at all. It was almost more unnerving than the screaming and fear (or outright adulation) of the people who had finally seen the Dark Hour. He didn't know for sure, of course, and he didn't have the time to consider it for more than a moment, because what really mattered, more than anything...
(Was Akira alright?)
This was it, after all. This was what they had been waiting for all along. This...was what had been waiting behind all of the machinisms, all of the lies and "coincidences". It had all been building up to this, and Minato... did not even want to begin to think of what they were facing. There was no way of knowing--all he knew was that he had to get there, somehow, some way.
Tennis shoes skidded in slick red gunk, translucent and disgusting, as he ran, ignoring the droplets of red that rained down from the sky, teeth gritted with his focus. What was it? What was happening? Where were the Phantom Thieves?
Where was Akira?
Minato flung himself threw Shibuya, shoving past people who acted as though nothing was wrong, who ignored him unless he bumped into them with an apathy that was stunning. No time for that, though, there was no time at all, he had to find them no matter what--
He was too late, of course. There was no way he would get there in time, and Minato skidded to a stop with eyes wide at the prone form of Akira on the ground, not in costume and seeming strangely defenseless without it, crumpled and alone, and Minato skidded towards him with distress plain on his face for once, shoving past people who got in his way, reaching out with one hand with desperation--
His fingers went through nothingness, Akira crumbling right before his eyes into blackness and then emptiness where his body had once been, and Minato stared, lips parted slightly in shock and an almost disbelieving whisper escaping him, a shaky, "A...kira?"
There was no response, of course; there was nothing to be said, and nothing to be done. Akira was gone, and Minato had no idea where he'd disappeared to. He had no idea what was causing this, what had made the city look like this, and what was choking the air with its apathetic despair.
Slowly, shakily, he slid to the ground as well, slumped in the red filth on his knees, ignoring the slightly flat looks that people gave him as they walked around him as if nothing had ever happened, as if nothing had ever gone terribly, terribly wrong here--even though in truth? Absolutely everything was wrong, in every possible way.
He remained there, head bowed, for how long he wasn't sure, before he finally, slowly, forced himself to stir, dragging in a deep breath, shoulders squaring. If something was wrong, he couldn't just leave it alone, after all. This was the world he had died to save, and Akira--Akira had to be somewhere, fighting still, because Minato couldn't accept that just like that, he was gone, but even if this was Akira's journey, Minato couldn't just sit here and do nothing.
Even if he had no idea where to start.
Even if he had no idea what was wrong.
Even if--
Stark against the backdrop of red and ivory and sickly pink, there was a stark, blue butterfly.
Minato's eyes tracked it immediately, watching it flutter past him with utter stillness, hardly daring to breathe--and then he stood, pushing himself to his feet so quickly that he stumbled, and followed at a run, shoving his way through the crowds without the breath to even apologize or excuse himself, focused instead on not missing that one, single, important point of hope.
The Velvet Room's door eventually loomed before him tall and familiar, and Minato breathed out a shaky breath, staring at it for a long moment as if unwilling to take that last step forward. He didn't know what it could mean, that such an important, familiar symbol had brought him here. And he didn't know...if he wanted to know.
But before he could figure it out, before he could make that decision and step forward to try the handle--the door opened, and out stepped the familiar, masked figure, and for a moment, Minato's expression crumpled plainly, breath hitching. Akira's eyes widened in return, meeting Minato's simply, but upon seeing the clear heartbreak on Minato's face, it wasn't as though Akira could ever ignore it; he strode forward, coattails fanning out behind him, and scooping Minato into an immediate hug, holding him close.
Minato's fingers lifted as well, burying into the fabric of Akira's coat, and then softly, almost brokenly, Minato whispered into his ear, "You came back."
Akira's eyes slid shut for a moment, and slowly, he drew in a deep breath. For people like Minato, for people like Ryuji's mother, and Shiho, and Sojiro and Makoto's sister, they had to always, always come back. Because they couldn't allow that sort of heartbreak to ever remain--not on anyone's face.
And quietly, firmly, he pulled back just enough to meet Minato's eyes and return, "I came back." He reached out with a gloved hand, gently tilting Minato's chin up just enough to lean in for a kiss, gentle and certain, a promise--there was more he, and the others, had to do, more that that world required from them. But even so, it was a promise: Akira would always come back to Minato.
severa/lucina
So it had always been an open, unspoken secret, that Severa and Lucina had something approaching but maybe not quite love, but certainly passion and warmth and closeness, and that was all that Severa really needed.
When they jumped back in time, things were much the same; a war was on here, after all, too, and that Severa and Lucina often stole away into each other's tents, often woke up tangled up together, went unnoticed by each of the adults. They were well-meaning, after all, but utterly clueless, wrapped up in their own affairs and relationships, something Severa would disparage and Lucina would gently soothe, while being torn in her own heart as to how she felt about the fact that her father had not once noticed her clear adoration.
Was it a blessing that he never asked, or...?
Either way, neither of them let it distract from their performance on the battlefield, and that was all that really mattered. Lucina led the second generation with firm but kind certainty, and they rallied around her, even if it was Robin who called the ultimate shots--it was still Lucina they looked to, just as they had for all of those years holding out against a future that was all too cruel.
So the status quo persisted, until against all odds they were victorious, until all was conquered and everything was defeated, until there was peace, the word almost too soft and precious to be spoken, a word they all feared to say lest it somehow escaped them--
But nonetheless, peace remained, and that was when Lucina realized that while war was a terrible, horrible state of affairs, in many ways, it had made everything else very, very simple.
And now those simple things had grown incredibly complicated.
Lucina was the Exalted princess, Chrom's daughter in every form even if she had come from the future, even if her mother had already had her in infant form. She was still someone who the people of Ylisse looked to, both as example and as leader, and though her father had married someone from the army at what almost seemed like random to the advisors and nobility of Ylisse, that had been in the midst of an intense and painful war.
Anything went then, but Lucina wondered, maybe, if things were just a little stricter for her for just that reason--for the reason of people looking to her to be what her father flouted.
It seemed Severa had been having much the same thoughts, which shouldn't have surprised Lucina; Severa had always been attuned to such things, perhaps even more than Lucina. She was always concerned with how they were perceived, with how the court looked at them--with so many things that, in a way, constantly astounded Lucina.
Still... Severa and Lucina both left the topic unspoken, and weeks passed, weeks of etiquette lessons she'd lost with the onset of the Risen, weeks of stolen moments in the dark and kisses embraced in the early hours of the morning, where nobody else noticed.
But of course, even as peace persisted, this state of affairs couldn't; it was with her lips pressed to Lucina's neck, straddling her waist and clothed only from the waist down that Severa paused, and then murmured softly there against the skin, "Do you ever think we should just stop doing this?"
Nothing could have knocked the mood away more quickly, Lucina paused, fingers slowly slipping from Severa's hair to instead try and fail to cup her cheek; Severa seemed intent on keep her face hidden in the crook of Lucina's neck.
'What do you mean?' Lucina could have asked, but it would've been insincere; they both knew exactly what Severa had meant.
The silence dragged, unbroken in this early hour, so early still that no light filtered through Lucina's window, and when she finally sighed, Severa almost jumped at the noise.
"...Sorry. It was a stupid question. It's just--"
"Severa." Lucina's single word was calm, even as she properly sat up, strong enough still to very easily lift her own weight and Severa's, until she was seated with Severa cradled in her lap.
Still, Severa didn't lift her head--but it was clear she was listening.
There wasn't much, Lucina knew, she could say to resolve this. The truth was that the court had expectations. That for Lucina's own sake, it would likely be best to end this, to move on, to accept that she would likely have to have some sort of political marriage for the sake of Ylisse and her father--
But her heart knew that that was unacceptable.
Severa had been by Lucina's side from the first moment. She'd been there through the sleepless nights of listening for horrifying Risen, guarded by nothing but their wits and a campfire. She'd held Lucina's hand while blood loss made her dizzy, and she'd smiled at Lucina when the return had been true, Severa's own complexion pale. She'd stood by Lucina's side when she made the choice to go back--
And she was here now, warm in Lucina's arms, and that...that was something precious, something Lucina could not give up, not for anything, and she realized then that her heart was entirely made up.
"Severa," Lucina repeated, more softly this time, and then she continued, "Would you agree to be my traveling companion?"
Severa froze...and then finally, she lifted her head, tilting her head and staring at Lucina as if trying to understand.
It was fine. Lucina could explain--Lucina could continue, because Lucina knew then and there, that she knew what was best for her here. Ylisse did not need two Lucinas...but Lucina knew someone who needed her, and her alone.
"I would like to travel, now that peace has been won," she murmured softly, running her fingers up Severa's back in a soothing gesture. "Would you be willing to join me?"
Severa's breath hitched as the enormity of the request struck her and sunk in--and then she leaned in to press their lips together, fierce and warm and certain, and Lucina knew she had her answer.
Their parents would live their own lives, with their own families--with their own Lucina and their own Severa, with their own hopes and dreams. Now that peace had been won, now that their parents and their home were safe... it was time for Lucina to find her own dream--with Severa, most importantly of all, at her side, and without a single moment of shame in that.
laura/seliph
This wasn't what he wanted.
The villagers had not seemed unhappy under Arvis' reign, though the man had undeniably committed so many crimes. But for his father's sake--for the sake of Grandbell, which was his home, and for the sake of his destiny, Seliph couldn't hesitate here.
There was no room for hesitation.
Arvis' Valflame spell exploded around him, but Tyrfing defended Seliph, its light shining and cutting a path through the flames that had killed his father, and it was with that thought that Seliph moved, stepping forward without even thinking, moving as if by instinct--
And next he knew, Tyrfing had been plunged deeply into Arvis' chest.
Seliph immediately staggered back, and then, leaving the sword there, he retreated, Arvis' dying whisper haunting his every step as he fled, uncaring and unknowing where, exactly, he was going. Seliph didn't stop until he found himself by the waterfront, ocean gently lapping against the shore as if without a care, and there Seliph slowly sat, appearance ragged, ponytail askew and clothing torn and scorched.
He knew he had to return soon. The army was counting on him. This wasn't finished--there was more still to do.
He knew this.
But for a moment, it was as if his legs had lost their strength, and he couldn't do anything but sit there, staring at the ocean, and pretending the stinging in his eyes was from the salty air, and nothing more. That man had killed his father. He should've felt victorious in this moment--
But instead, he felt hollow.
It wasn't until he heard his name on the breeze, in fact, that he looked up, head jerking, and Laura paused, lips parted from where she had been prepared to say exactly the same--though it had not been her voice that had spoken his name, in the end. She stood there, Tyrfing wrapped gently in a cloth with the reverence a holy sword such as that deserved, but...she could only watch as the silhouette of an elegant, gorgeous woman appeared before Seliph, expression gentle and warm.
The familiarity didn't click for her until Seliph finally spoke, voice hoarse and almost disbelieving, as he murmured, "Mother...? Is that...you?"
So this, then, was Seliph's mother. The familiarity was all-too-clear to Laura then, and she could only inspect Deirdre quietly as Seliph scrambled to his feet, reaching for her on automatic. The same gentle, delicate features. The same fine hair. The same loving eyes--this was absolutely Seliph's mother, almost ethereal in her gorgeousness (but no, she truly was ethereal, wasn't she, because this was--)...
"...Seliph, always treasure those in your presence. Honor each and every one of them," Deirdre finally murmured, voice faint and appearance fading out, and it was almost as if in a panic that Seliph reached again, knowing that his hand would pass through, and exclaimed, "Mother--! I... I avenged father! Lord Arvis is slain!"
It didn't seem to bring the recognition he had wanted from her eyes, though; Deirdre just looked sad, shaking her head, and Seliph almost looked despairing, mouth opening again--
And then there was another, standing tall and certain, with the sort of elegant poise that could only come from one who was all-too-skilled and powerful, and Laura knew in an instant that this was Sigurd. His commanding presence matched her father's, and for a moment, she had to fight the urge to bow. His eyes skimmed over his son, meeting hers behind him for a moment, and slowly, she bowed her head in a respectful gesture--and when she looked back up, he had nodded in return, expression quietly warm, a moment of acceptance that filled her heart and made her feel warm.
Seliph, on the other hand, looked as though he was more and more tormented by the moment.
"Father...? Is that you?" Seliph's voice was quiet now, almost defeated, but absolutely reverent.
Sigurd looked at his son, and nodded once, firm and certain.
His words, though, were stern, though no less kind for it, even as he simply stated, "Do not allow this victory to go to your head, Seliph. It was only by those who support you and stand by your side that you are still here today."
Laura fancied for a moment that he glanced at her at that, and she met his eyes squarely, standing firm. In that, he was right--Laura was never going to leave Seliph's side, and she would always support him.
"..Get to know the people's sorrow. Your reality and theirs are still worlds apart. ...If you can't accomplish that, Seliph, then this whole war has been for nothing," were Sigurd's parting words, meeting Seliph's gaze firmly, and Seliph immediately shook his head, almost desperate.
"Father? What do you mean? Father--!" Despite Seliph's desperate cries, however, both his father and his mother faded away as if they had never been there, and slowly, Seliph sank to the grassy hill overlooking the sea, staring out at the ocean quietly. The sight was heartbreaking for Laura--but she knew, too, what she had to do.
So quietly, she strode forward, not at all bothering to mask her steps, and quietly, she crouched by Seliph's side, reaching out with one hand to rest it on his shoulder. He started, meeting her eyes with eyes wet with unshed tears, and Laura had to fight to keep her expression level. This was important, after all. She had to support Seliph--just as she'd silently promised Sigurd she would.
"Seliph... I brought this back to you," Laura murmured, and she offered him the sword quietly. Seliph's hand hovered over the sword uncertainly, expression torn. After his father's words, after Arvis'--was he really even qualified to hold this sword?
Would he ever properly match up?
Those were the fears that Laura could all too easily read in Seliph's eyes, and she reached up with her free hand to gently bring his hovering hand down to the hilt of the sword, pressing it there with firm certainty. And quietly, she met Seliph's gaze.
He had Deirdre's features, and his mother's beautiful hair, though of Sigurd's hair color--but she'd been wrong about his eyes. Those eyes, gentle kindness and all...
"You have his eyes," Laura said, firmly and certain, because in Seliph's eyes she saw the echo of Sigurd's firm kindness that she'd seen before, and that was when Seliph broke, head bowing and tears sliding down his cheeks--but his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, and when he leaned against her, Laura let him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders quietly.
She'd pledged herself, after all--to him, but now too to his father, and she was not about to ever break her word in either case.