Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ephraim rose to the sway of creaking oak and the taste of salt in the morning sea air, just as he had done for the past three months each day. The damp floorboards made an awful screech as he made his way on deck, resting an arm on the railing while the crew worked diligently around him. His cloak billows softly in the ocean breeze, he picks himself off the railing to squeeze it closer to his body. Most mornings he was greeted with an expanse of blue empty waters as far as the eye could see, but on this occasion a Carcino port dot the horizon line. Above the little houses and boating docks was a sky painted in vibrant pinks and oranges swirling with the wispy edges of its clouds like wild blazing flames. It was a gorgeous morning, and a sailor’s worst nightmare. A sea-tired crew member informed him it would only be a couple of hours before they arrived. Ephraim thought about jumping off the boat now. His homecoming would mark the first time Ephraim would step foot in Magvel in nearly ten years. The thought made his stomach churn even more so than the waves. He wondered what his homeland looked like in his absence, or if it had fully recovered from the maelstrom of turmoil that had gripped it so long ago.

Back then, despite the horrors and the losses and the pain that ravaged Magvel, Ephraim had become intimately engaged in the art of war, as he drove back Grado forces and fought increasingly bleak odds at every turn. The thrill of battle, the sweetness of victory, the smell of death, it was an art he relished in. It was only until the grief had fully settled in, the destruction of his campaign completely in view, did Ephraim realize the fatal flaw in a road paved by battle. Bloodlust can only be just that: lust, not love.

Every life taken in the pursuit of death was a father lost, a brother never to return home, a best friend fallen. It was him or them, he would reason. Nonetheless, he contributed to the scattering of lives all the same. He tore them apart like tiny paper scraps, leaving families of all Magvel severed and lost. Another fault Ephraim had to reconcile with, battle comes at the cost of war, and no one wins in war. Once the closest of allies, Renais and Grado had become bitter enemies over the course of the war. It made Ephraim ache every time the toll and the weight had truly settled in his heart once the thrill and high of rushing headfirst into enemy lines had worn off.

As a reward for his efforts Ephraim was dubbed the Restoration Lord, and left with a broken body and soul. His punishment was the weight of a kingdom he had abandoned, and another in desperate need of leadership that he himself put into that position. Ephraim didn’t know the first thing about healing. He could barely patch himself up after battle, let alone two whole countries. He could make wounds, not stitch them. He was clumsy in his efforts, overwhelmed, and far too brash for tasks and conditions that needed careful consideration. There was only so much that Eirika and every advisor around him could help with, only so many resources that could be allocated across the nations, only so much he could do to fix his reputation into an honorable king, rather than a demon of battle. Ephraim was only ever good at one thing: throwing his body into the fray and skewering men on a stick. He only knew lust, not love. 

But Eirika could heal, she could mend even the deepest wounds with just a smile. And so she became the face of the restoration efforts despite their shared title. She was there when Renais fell. She always felt for the people’s pain, and never once relished in the bloodshed. It was only natural she would be a perfect fit for real leadership, for the duty placed upon her shoulders in the wake of a new age for both Renais and Grado. She was gentle but firm, and always considerate of the machinations involved in governance. She settled into her new role perfectly, a task Ephraim could not do despite his best efforts. Eirika could love even with a broken heart, unlike her dearest brother. 

He was proud, the proudest he had ever been of her, but bitter too, bitter and envious that he was incapable of pulling it together like her, until those emotions coiled and twisted into yet another thing to feel guilty over. How could he possibly think that way about Eirika, his own sister? Guilt was another sin that had fully settled into Ephraim’s bones after the war. It clung to him like the blood-soaked clothes he had grown so accustomed to sporting during the campaign. It ran deep and seeped in, not only found with the people he had failed to protect, but the ones he had hunted, hundreds of lives he brought to ruin, hundreds of faces and faceless etched into his skull, hundreds of people that could not be restored no matter their efforts. Ephraim was haunted by every sin he had ever committed, and at the zenith of the poltergeist was one ghost that always seemed present: always that soft-spoken shadow of his own heart, the very cause of their shared suffering. 

Ephraim won the fight, but not the war. He conceded that healing didn’t seem like a possible outcome for him, and did as he did best: he abandoned his country, renounced his title, and afforded all responsibility to the Restoration Lady. He would leave Renais to Eirika, just as he had done when the war began, just as he had done when he left Eirika with their father when it fell. Erika who was a more suitable heir and child to the late King Fado than he ever could be. 

They never had an argument quite as explosive as the one they had when Ephraim formally announced his decision. She was furious with him, a white-hot anger he deserved for his cowardice. She would never throw insults, Eirika wasn’t capable of such a thing, but she could pierce Ephraim all the same, just like he taught her. Simple desperate words, confused and naive and scared.

‘You said we would do this together! You promised we would do this together, Ephraim!’ 

They cut into him like daggers, his already wounded heart poked full with ten thousand more holes. Her frustration turned to betrayal when she realized Ephraim was leaving Magvel, and so too was her wrath replaced with sorrow. Ephraim left his sister sobbing and screaming and begging, all while he did nothing, couldn’t do anything to comfort her. Both their hearts bled that day.

He left his past far behind, leaving all intention of repairing himself or his country. Breaking things was just so much easier, and Ephraim only knew how to be broken by this point. So, he wandered foreign nations, doing what he had always wanted: to travel as a mercenary. It was the only profession he did best, the only thing he had ever put effort into practicing all his years as a royal runt. He had made up his mind, and he wasn’t going to change it. Not until now, not as he was soon to wash up on Port Kiris with his tail between his legs.

The stablehand’s eyes bore into the back of his skull, unsure whether to ignore him or call for help escorting him out. Ephraim paid him no mind, merely munching on his meal while staring at the mares and stallions offered. After arriving in Port Kiris, Ephraim had paid his dues to the crew and left the ship with wobbling land legs. He wasn’t intending on staying long, only allowing himself a quick bite to eat in the bustling market street. Post-war Carcino recovery seemed to have gone well, it was much more lively than when he had initially left Magvel. Carcino’s power schism and betrayal of Frelia had caused his sister quite a bit of headache during the war, sidetracking an already desperate search for aid. It caused so very much trouble that Eirika had to make a quick detour to save prince Innes, who found himself caught in the bleakest possible odds on his own mission to Jehanna. Ephraim remembered when he heard the news, his chest swelled with pride once more for his dearest sister. Picturing Innes as a damsel in distress made Ephraim chuckle, it was like a reversal of those princess stories with his sister as the classic knight in shining armor.

Perhaps it was an odd choice for a grown man in his late twenties to pick, but Ephraim had always enjoyed purple yam buns whenever he visited Frelia. He beamed for the first time in months when he saw a food stall off the boardwalk selling them. Finally, something that wasn’t moldy hard tack or leather-tough dried meat. The first bite was mostly bread, it was a divine fluffy texture containing a subtle sweetness. The second bite went right to the center, filling his senses with a jammy sugary indigo substance that made him nearly weep from how much he missed and needed it in his life again. He and Eirika often ate these kinds of treats when they were young. He remembered they were particularly fond of the color inside, it always reminded them of— He shut that line of thinking off with the last bite of his snack, before giving his full attention to the horses rather than his own thoughts. 

The stablehand was a boy of mottled freckles and brassy curly hair who only came up to Ephraim’s shoulders, his mouth pressed into a line while his eyes stared in confusion. He swept a few bits of hay nervously as Ephraim continued assessing the steeds. Normally, only lords and the wealthy could afford a horse, and while Ephraim was at least one of those, he did not look the part. Months at sea and years of not properly taking care of himself had made him out as an average bum to any onlooker. Quite frankly, by all accounts, Ephraim was a lord with no name and no title, his own fault for abandoning such honors. He might as well have been considered a dead man walking.

Matted teal hair of long greasy tendrils clung to his neck, like a dubious kraken latching onto the last territory of skin. It did not help that he neglected to shave or even manage the overgrown hedge now swallowing up his mouth and chin. He definitely inherited his father’s genes, at least. He was slightly sunburned from staying out on deck for too long, and an ugly jagged scar crested his face from cheek to cheek. His body had become a canvas for scars like that— Constant unending war and battle did that to a man. His once iconic armor might have informed the boy of his status, with its gold edges and Renais emblem emblazoned on the chest piece, had the gold not have deteriorated with time or the mark not purposefully scratched out. Now it looked like any old hunk of dented roughed up junk worn by any old soldier, paired with a matching fraying moth bitten cape and dubiously stained leather. On top of the myriad of problems with his appearance, he smelled worse than even the horse manure lining the stalls before him, something he had grown used to and likely hadn’t noticed.

Eventually he found a particular liking for an older workhorse with a graying muzzle but a well-maintained large and powerful frame. It wouldn’t be the fastest horse by any means, but it would have a considerable amount of stamina and could probably get him across long stretches of road. Though, perhaps that was an excuse to delay his arrival in Renais for a bit longer the dread of his return still creeping in. With his final decision made, he turned to the stablehand, who jumped at the sudden question from his odd customer.

“How much for this one?” 

“Um, Harvey? He’s a bit older but my boss would probably lend him for about 800 gold.”

“Done.”

Ephraim began procuring a hefty satchel from his belt. The stablehand’s eyes widened at the clink of coin. The boy must’ve thought he killed a man for the amount of money in that bag, and he wouldn’t exactly have been far off. Mercenaries were paid handsomely if they kept their lives and if the battles were plentiful, though it wasn’t the most sustainable way of making a living, and when battles and arena dried, so too did one’s funds. Ephraim had acquired a large savings during his stay in foreign lands. He maintained his ruthless reputation, and in turn it had made him well sought after by many employers. Being bid against wasn’t exactly what he was accustomed to, nor was it to his liking. It made him uncomfortable, like he was just a weapon to be bought and sold more so than a man. But he never chose the highest bidder, he mainly picked his employers based on his own morals. Unfortunately more often than not, most of them conflicted with those, being both greedy and foul scumbags. Still, he tried to do whatever hurt the common folk the least for the most part. 

He poured what he thought was around 800 gold into the stable hand’s shaky palms, letting the boy keep the change as a tip. He definitely went way over the amount offered, Ephraim wasn’t very good with cash or at math. He slipped the satchel back into his belt and met with his steed. Harvey was a gentle beast, and Ephraim thought it suited him. He let the horse nibble a bit of leftover yam bun from his palm before hopping on the saddle and taking the reins in his right hand. He was a bit unsteady at first as his legs struggled to find proper purchase on either side of Harvey. He hadn’t ridden a horse in sometime unless his employer had afforded him one. He found they often died too quickly for his liking, and none were quite as well-built for war as his white stallion had been. Nonetheless, once he was stable and settled, he took Harvey out and began his journey to the Mulan border.

Chapter Text

Innes tapped a slender index finger atop his sleek mahogany desk eyeing his documents back and forth. His other hand rubbed his eyes before sliding over his forehead to hold silver bangs back, as if any of it would help him see the little words more clearly. Innes’ eyesight had been deteriorating for a while now, but he refused to see a specialist or admit that he might need glasses. It would wound his pride not only as a king, but as the best archer in all of Frelia to allow for such weakness to take hold of him. Still, the blurring mess of words was hindering his productivity and gods only knew how much was piling up in his backlog. His normally pristine workspace had lost its flawless appearance since he had taken his new position, replacing the rich gorgeous wood and neatly compartmentalized items with mounds of papers, books, and inkwells. It only ever got worse with lack of sleep, but he was caught in a vicious cycle that kept him exhausted and behind. His current state made work difficult to get done, causing him to stay up late to continue working, which in turn would worsen his already fairly bad eyesight. This process would repeat until he finally burnt out and crashed from the sheer amount of stress.

Eyesight wasn't the only health related issue impacted by his harmful tendencies. Tana had told him that if he continued staying up late and frowning all the time his face would stay like that permanently, and unfortunately the deep bags and creases under his eyes were proof she was right. He hated every wrinkle and stress line that formed in his pristine image, after all he was barely a man of thirty-one. Moulder reassured him that a few wrinkles weren’t so bad and that they showed wisdom in his countenance, but Innes’ vanity could not stand for it. Unfortunately for him, he ruled out skin treatments and healing staves for being too cumbersome with his already busy schedule, so he decided on doing facial exercises in between readings to alleviate what little he could. They did not help, but it didn’t stop him from convincing himself they did. Another issue, albeit minor, was finding the time for a haircut. In the past he would’ve let the servants fuss over him as much as they needed, and then he’d typically fuss over himself for another hour or more afterwards, but having become king he struggled with fitting in an appointment. The most he ever did now was cut his bangs when they got in his eyes, but other than those few instances, the rest of it had grown nearly as long as Tana’s. Silvery threads hung off his shoulders and clung to his back becoming quite cumbersome, but Tana had been happy to help braid it into something tolerable every morning. Though he would never admit it, it was nice being able to spend some time with his sister despite his schedule. Frankly, it was a far better solution than, say, allocating three hours out of a day to his hair that could be better spent on his work. 

Innes was always prone to overworking and overachieving, that’s what it took to be the best of the best after all. But every habit that he had built to prepare himself for his title, only worsened when it was finally thrust on his shoulders. King Hayden had passed from illness nearly eight years prior, it was neither sudden nor unexpected, but it destroyed the Frelian siblings all the same. Innes watched his father slowly die over the course of nearly a year and a half before he completely slipped into the cold unknown. He watched as Hayden’s body became a mere shadow of his former self, sickly and frail and barely noticeable under the covers of his own bed. The king’s chamber festered with a suffocating miasma and a creeping sense of dread, leaving Innes unable to breathe easy for months. He and Tana had been rehearsing for their father’s death at every false alarm, every bad piece of news, and every close call; they had been grieving through the whole process. Never once did Innes delude himself into thinking his father’s health would improve, he would leave that duty to Tana to hold what little hope they had. Hayden’s mind thankfully stayed intact no matter the circumstances of his condition. It was a silver lining that made Innes grateful his father wasn’t subjected to the indignity of losing all sense of self. Regardless, the whole of Frelia and its royal family were in pain, still raw from the prior wounds of war and reopening with the passing of their beloved king.

The day it finally happened, Innes held his father’s wrinkled and ghost-like hand with a shaky sweaty palm, the very action betraying all sense of calm in his demeanor. Innes was anything but calm, he was silently screaming and cursing the gods for inflicting his father with such an unworthy fate. Tana was beside him trying her damndest not to break down into tears, but they were already welling up in her big crystalline eyes. She would cry enough for the both of them, Innes needed to be a pillar for her to rely on. A pillar for all of Frelia for that matter, he could stand alone. He would not cry again. In spite of the grief already filling the room Hayden’s last words were ones of pride for his children.

‘Frelia and I are truly blessed to have you both as its leaders…

Tana was a mess, sobbing uncontrollably as she buried her face into what remained of her father’s body. Innes caught the weak little fingers that slipped through his with an iron like grip, holding desperately to his father in a silent plea, begging him not to leave them both. 

Innes should have felt worthy, should have been reassured by his father’s dying words. Of course Hayden would be proud, Innes was his son, he reasoned. But something didn’t click this time, no matter his words he couldn’t convince his own ego of facts that seemed obvious to his father. Instead he felt the weight of all of Frelia crush him like a small bug beneath her heel. Frelia was blessed with the wisest king in all her history, a title that was fairly difficult to top even with all of Innes’ flawless preparations. He wanted more time before being given this legacy, needed more time. The pride his father had in him felt unwarranted and undeserved when Innes still left so much wanting, so much to prove.  Nonetheless, Innes swallowed his fears and faced reality. His father was dead and he was the new king of Frelia, he needed to act as one, as the best king he knew he had to be. He vowed to make his father proud in death, to make sure that those dying words of praise had truly been earned.

Innes was halfway through his fifth reread of the hour when a knock at his study door jolted him back to reality. Normally no one bothers him while he’s at work except for the occasional advisor or Tana. While he could just shoo an advisor away, Tana usually bursts through the door no matter what he tells her. Fearing this possibility he scrambles to reorder papers and fiddle with his appearance, just as he had always done before greeting anyone. A habit to maintain his image even with his little sister, a role to perform like any good actor. Innes truly couldn’t stand having a hair out of place. 

“Yes?” He calls flatly.

The voice of his page comes out high pitched and squeaky as a mouse. “My King, um— there’s a visitor for you.”

A visitor? Innes isn’t expecting visitors, was it an urgent request or just some unexpected drop in? If it was the latter then what kind of ill mannered and uncouth noble would dare to drop in unannoun—

“It’s a man who claims to be Prince Ephraim of Renais?” The boy continues with vague uncertainty.

Ah, yes that would be considered an ill mannered and uncouth noble to dare— Wait, Ephraim was back in Magvel?! Both Innes and his heart jumped to the news, a smile steadily spread across his face from ear to ear as he left his desk in a whirl of papers. The page twiddled his thumbs outside before giving a high pitched squeal as Innes violently threw open the doors without a care in the world. 

“Where is he?!” He grabs the boy’s shoulders with his full height bearing down and trapping the child in the doorframe. There’s a giddiness to his voice that’s scarcely been heard in sometime. It frightens the already frightened page further.

“Uh, um he’s—“

“What, spit it out I don’t have all day!” Innes doesn’t even realize he is trembling with excitement, or maybe that was just his scared-shitless page reverberating through his grip.

“HE’S IN THE GREAT HALL WITH LADY TANA!” The poor lad finally blurts out.

Innes rushes past him with a slight skip in his step, his heart racing wildly in his chest. “Ah wait, my lord you should know—“ The boy’s voice is already too tiny as Innes continues bounding through his own castle halls. He catches himself in the act after passing several servants all looking to him in utter bewilderment. Flustered, Innes calms his pace to a mild stride, his mind still frazzled at the thought of seeing his long lost rival again. 

Wait, could they still be rivals after all this time? They’re adults now not children, they don’t have time for petty squabbles or bickering. 

Innes’ pace slows to a walk. 

And besides, didn’t Ephraim leave Magvel in disgrace? Didn’t he abandon all his duties to his only sister? 

Innes steps forward shakily. 

Didn’t Ephraim break his heart ten years ago? 

Innes comes to a halt alone in the empty hallway.

Ten years ago on a rainy Magvel day, Innes had flown his pegasus ragged through unsuitable flight conditions, just to meet Ephraim at the border between Renais and Frelia. Rumors had spread like wildfire of conflict in the Renaian leadership, but it was only through Innes’ spy network did they catch the Restoration Lord in time before he departed. Tana was already flying to Eirika’s side looking to get the full story from her, and to be a shoulder to cry on in her fool brother’s stead. Innes would confront Ephraim in the only way he knew how: a duel. He was certain that if anyone could convince Ephraim to stay, it would be him. 

Eyeing the plains below like a hawk, Innes spotted a bright teal spot through the howling winds along the border path. After zeroing in on his prey he swooped in, landing a few paces just before the deserter king. Innes felt heavier than normal, though he did not know whether the cause was from his rain soaked doublet or the gravity of the situation. Ephraim readies his lance startled from the surprise attack, but quickly lowers it when he realizes who the rider is. He is just as sopping wet as Innes, as never ending lines of rain stream down his face. His cape hangs heavy and drags down the outline of his silhouette, doing the power in his physique a great injustice. His hair clings to his face like a drenched kitten with an expression that holds a bone tired weariness, that tugs at Innes’ heartstrings in a disconcerting and ugly way. Ephraim looks ghastly, and Innes hates it.

“Innes? When did you– no, what are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here?” He dismounts and grasps a lance of his own. The arrogance of picking Ephraim’s preferred weapon of choice for this kind of wager isn’t lost on him, but he points the tip to the other all the same. “I am here to put an end to your foolishness. Fight me, Ephraim. If you win you can continue on your merry way, if I win I will drag you right back to Renais.”

He smirks, finishing his announcement and dripping with confidence only the Prince Innes of Frelia could possibly exude. His form never wavers, nor does his heart. Ephraim will answer the call just as he has always done countless times before, just as their entire rivalry has been built upon. A hand guides the lance tip away from where it's pointed, Innes is so shocked he doesn’t even register the shoulder that brushes past him. 

“I’m not dueling you, Innes. I don’t care for these petty games anymore. I’m not going back.” Ephraim’s voice comes through cold and distant, as he continues walking away.

Innes finds himself wide-eyed and frozen in place, the shiver that runs down his spine is one he knows for certain is not the rain’s doing. He feels stripped bare, all confidence leaves his body and he is left with his anxieties to eat away at him. He and Ephraim might’ve never seen eye to eye, but what they had always shared was a love of challenge and combat, a love of these ‘petty games’ . In all his life, since the first declaration of war was made at Tana’s tenth birthday, Ephraim had accepted. There was never a time in which either of them had ever refused the other, in which one threw in the towel. There was a pride that came with proving one’s abilities and settling scores, and an enjoyment in pushing and testing each other’s limits. It’s what built up and tied their bond together, to reject a proposal was the same as rejecting everything that they had. No, Innes wasn’t going to let it end like this, he wasn’t going to let Ephraim surrender so easily. He spins around and tries to provoke Ephraim, tries desperately to stoke the fire of his fighting spirit. 

“Come back here and face me, Ephraim! Or are you as much of a coward as you are a disgrace?” Ephraim stops and for a moment Innes thinks he’s going to come marching right back with his lance in hand. 

Instead, Ephraim turns to him, meets him with an unwavering gaze and says:

“I am.”

Innes drops the lance, he watches helplessly as Ephraim continues moving forward. He doesn’t know what else to do, he was far too confident in his plan and it has crumbled away with no backup. ‘Amateur mistake’ , he chides. Ephraim would never accept being called a coward, so who the hell was this? It felt as though the distance between them grew tenfold in a matter of a few words. The only thing they had was this, this unspoken agreement to always rise to the challenge. If Ephraim wasn’t answering, then what did they even have? Was Ephraim so lost in his downward spiral that he could no longer give two damns about their rivalry, did he ever really care? The thought that this was always beneath Ephraim, that Innes was never an obstacle to be met, is one that crushes the archer’s soul. The only thing between them now was resentment and a long forgotten childhood, one Ephraim was clearly intent on leaving in the past. Perhaps, it was always foolish to believe this could last as long as it did, to hold onto a connection that was built on a shaky foundation. Innes was confronting a stranger with a familiar face, or maybe a ghost inhabiting the closest thing he had to a friend. Innes searches for something, anything to compel Ephraim to stay, but falls short. He refuses to beg, refuses to get down on his knees and plead with him. He won’t say the words he’s kept hidden away in his heart either, he wouldn’t be able to bear another rejection. 

“Why, Ephraim? For what reason must you go?” 

He settles on a question, but gods , he hates how desperate it sounds. How his voice comes out unsure and nervous, the slight lilt when he calls the other man’s name is sickening. He watches Ephraim’s silhouette get swept up and disappear into the rain and mist, not even granting him the decency of an answer. Every part of him wants to chase after the man and demand his due response, but his feet feel anchored to the mud surrounding his boots. He chastises himself for feeling abandoned, when he was clearly never regarded in the first place. Whatever this outcome was, was a fate worse than defeat, worse than failing to bring the man home by his own lack of skill. He shakes angry and betrayed, but most of all frustrated, frustrated by his own inability to do anything and his stupidity for thinking that he could. If Eirika and every single knight in Renais couldn’t do it, what gave him the gall to think that he could? 

“Fine! Run away then, see if I care!”

The last words Innes finds are cruel, the kind he falls back on all too often. He’s not quite sure if Ephraim even heard them, not over this distance and the pitter patter of rain. Innes kicks his lance, grips at his damp hair, and does everything in his power not to scream to the heavens above. One tears its way through his lungs anyways, muffled by the downpour, and leaving his throat hoarse and raw. He feels childish, stupid, and entirely unlike himself; he despises the feeling. His pegasus comes to his side, she is sensitive to his emotions and must know just how badly he needs someone. He buries his face in her mane and wraps his arms around her neck, thankful that she is the only one here to witness his outburst. Thankful that the rain can wash away his tears. 

What in the gods' names was wrong with him? Acting sporadically in front of his own servants, skipping about like a child on his way to a play date. For whom? A man who fell from grace and left everyone else to pick up their broken continent. A man who left everyone to grieve him as one of the fallen, despite having won the war alongside them. A man who rejected him… and his proposal. Innes is furious with himself, furious with Ephraim for making him fly right back into his flame. No, Innes will not find himself orbiting around the sun again. He stomps the rest of the way to the meeting hall, the onlooking staff stare bewildered once more, over the sour mood that had taken their king like a shifting tide.

Any lingering doubts and funny feelings leave him when he finds his sorry excuse of a rival in his throne room. Tana is holding a grimy gauntlet with tears and a smile, saying words that don’t seem to reach Ephraim, nor do they reach Innes. This has to be some kind of twisted joke, this isn’t Ephraim, this is some filthy mutt on Innes’ doorstep. He smells of wet mud and bad body odor with the underlying familiar notes of iron and rot. It’s the scent of death and Innes knows it all too well as he covers his nose absentmindedly. Innes can’t tell if Ephraim looks small because he’s hunched over and farther away, or if his body is made tinier by the large archways of Frelia’s grand hall. No matter the cause, Ephraim is still barely the size he once stood when he came before King Hayden for aid all those years ago. He looked limp and hollow with the left half of his body completely obscured under a disgusting looking cloak, like a shambling corpse half out of its mortuary bag. Though a bit blurry at this distance, Innes could see that the features he was typically fond of were either hidden under a curtain of blue, a bush of blue, or were horribly marred and dulled. Ephraim never took care of his appearance, but this was just complete neglect. Complete neglect, like everything else he ignored and stopped caring for in his life. Innes fights every urge to spare the man a bone, he nearly considers leaving the room and calling for the guards. But Tana shoots him a look from across the aisle that commands him to stay, he sighs and gives in to her silent demands. Innes settles himself on his gilded throne, keeping his posture firm with his hands on either armrest, he eyes the animal before him with a visible disgust he doesn’t hide.

“Innes, aren’t you going to properly greet Ephraim?” Tana is earnest in her request but also clearly annoyed with her brother for being an ass. Innes keeps silent, and instead shifts to rest his chin on a closed fist entirely unamused. 

“What does it want, Tana?” He finally says after a beat or two. Tana scoffs at him, like she cannot believe how he is referring to the beast , before turning and whispering something of an apology to Ephraim. Ephraim doesn’t say a word, but his glare speaks for itself: ‘Fuck you too.’ 

“ He is seeking refuge in Frelia, my King .” She emphasizes his title as if it’s supposed to be insulting. Innes just rolls his eyes at her in response. “Why don’t you tell him, Ephraim?” She coos like she’s talking to a child, it’s aggravating.

“Is this how you treat all your guests, King Innes of Frelia?” Ephraim finally speaks, his voice comes through low and even. It would have been a welcome sound, had the comment not made Innes grind his teeth. 

‘No, only the worthless strays who come begging at my doorstep every ten years.’ He wants to spit, wants to deny Ephraim as he had done to Innes years ago, but something grips him and holds his mouth shut. A strange fear seizes the back of his mind and tells him that whatever vitriol he throws now will likely make Ephraim leave forever. A part of him thinks he would be perfectly fine with that, and another doesn’t want to watch the man go again. Besides, common courtesy dictates that it would be deeply impolite to throw a traveler out without at least offering a meal, and Innes will not be known for lacking decency, unlike some.

“Fine, get him a room and a bath, Tana. He can stay for a night or two.” Innes concedes, the words feel sticky in his mouth.

Tana beams at him, her eyes say a thousand thank-yous and the expression makes Innes turn away from how bright she is. He doesn’t overlook the sheer shock painted on Ephraim’s face through his junglish mop. Innes can’t tell whether Ephraim is more surprised he’s allowing him to stay, or that he didn’t continue verbally abusing him. Either way Innes is starting to regret his decision now.

“Oh don’t worry if you need to stay longer, Ephraim! I can get someone to bring you a spare change of clothes, and maybe a razor?” Innes finds himself agreeing with her on that front. “Would you prefer a larger or smaller room? We can also send out messengers if you need to contact anyone urgently…” Tana drones on excitedly while ushering in a few servants to help care for and welcome Ephraim. 

Innes decides it's his time to leave, as he picks himself off the throne and begins his retreat back to the study. What a worthless waste of time this had been, he should’ve just let Tana take care of it. It’s not as if he wanted to see Ephraim, and certainly not like this, not with the way he is now. He should’ve marched back to his study and told his page he would not be greeting him, he shouldn’t have given Ephraim the satisfaction of a response. Tana begins taking Ephraim’s cloak, hopefully to throw it away, but lets out a shriek that has Innes’ thoughts interrupted and his body turning on its heel to see the commotion. He would not excuse Ephraim for laying a finger on his sister.

But that's not what he finds, rather Innes feels his whole heart drop and sink in the same moment the ragged cloak hits the ground. Just below Ephraim’s left shoulder was naught but a loose dangling sleeve swaying softly like a white flag of surrender. Tana apologizes profusely to Ephraim, who in turn shakes his head trying desperately to calm her down. In all that time Innes hadn’t even noticed his own fingers twitch in sympathy for the man’s missing limb. Tana looks visibly distraught, unable to contain her outburst, unable to process what her dear friend had lost. She brings him into her arms tightly, though Ephraim doesn’t seem to hold her back. His expression is one of shame and defeat, with his brows contorted in guilt as he rests his head against her shoulder. The servants pick the rags up off the floor around them, before beginning to escort the two further down the hall. Innes has to turn away again, lest he let everyone see the look of distress painted on his face. Lest he let Ephraim see him concerned, his heart bleeding out on the floor.

Chapter Text

The border of Mulan is a vast stretch of green plains and farmland separated by mountains and cliff sides. Military forts and the Eastern Front of Frelia lie near the shimmering waters of a large lake. It is a quiet and peaceful ride through the countryside that Ephraim is grateful for. Just before sundown and not a soldier in sight, as it ought to be he thinks. As the sun sets over the mountain tops Ephraim cannot help but be reminded of the time he and Eirika would sneak out to watch similar scenes back in Renais. When they too would go on horse rides and watch the great peaks swallow the sun, the light slowly dissipating until it was completely gone. Just a little more, south of the path, past these ridges and Ephraim would be back in Renais— he tightens his grip on the reins and pulls with a jerk. Harvey whinnies and rears up at the abrupt stop. Ephraim’s breath quickens, his heart beats wildly out of his chest, and his whole body freezes. No, he’s not ready to cross those peaks, not ready to let Renais swallow him again. 

A fear seizes him like no other, how foolish he was to think he could ever go back to the days of a peaceful existence at his sister’s side. How can he face her when she has put in all the effort to return these serene lands and gorgeous views? When he had left her with nothing but heartache and more work. He can’t do this yet, he’s not strong enough. But to regret his decision now would be unwise, unless he wanted to spend another three or four months at sea. He doesn’t know where to go, he didn’t think this through long enough, why didn’t he think this through? 

He turns to the great Eastern Front, the light still cast upon its walls slowly succumbing to the climbing shadows. Frelia, he could go to Frelia. A close ally of Renais and one that might house him for sometime until he built the courage to face his sister. He was certain Tana would be happy to see him, certain it would be easier to face her. He could learn more about the state of his sister and Renais from her to gather information before working up the courage to face Eirika. Tackling great foes required diligent training and careful consideration, after all. Besides, any familiar face was better than none, and Tana was still a dear childhood friend no matter how many years had gone by. Innes probably wouldn’t be happy with him, not after Ephraim rejected him at these very crossroads. He must’ve been sent by Tana to convince Ephraim to stay, or he probably wouldn’t have done anything at all. Though maybe he had just been itching for an excuse to fight, it’s still difficult for Ephraim to ascertain Innes’ intentions even to this day. Well, at least if there were any hard feelings, Ephraim could always rechallenge him, he thinks. Innes would never back down from a duel, his pride wouldn’t allow it. There was a time when Ephraim thought he might’ve been the same, before he was consumed by his grief and guilt. He regrets turning down the request now, or at least the embers of his long dormant pride do. But something else within him regrets it far more, far more for what could have been. The wager Innes placed might’ve kept Ephraim on Magvel, might’ve been the final defense in keeping him from wasting away for the last ten years, kept him from losing what little pride he had left. Maybe he would’ve thought it over more, sought help before mindlessly trudging ahead down a path of self hatred, maybe it would’ve been easier to face Eirika. He was just so intent on leaving, and to throw it all away at the time felt like he was betraying himself and his own decisions. He couldn’t risk his mind being changed over such a small trivial thing, couldn’t risk losing. His heart aches at that, at the thought he, Ephraim of Renais, was afraid of losing a battle. He shakes his head from his thoughts and turns his horse towards the Eastern Front. 

The guards accost him at the gate wondering who in hell’s name this lone ragged traveler was, and assuming by appearance that he was some kind of miscreant. They are a pair consisting of a shorter rotund man and a tall lanky mustachioed one, both sporting the typical ill fitting helmets of most foot soldiers. However, the way in which they hold their spears feels somewhat familiar, like Ephraim has seen it before, though he can’t quite put his finger on where. In the past Ephraim could have easily cleared his name to these two and proven his lineage, had the emblem of Renais still been even mildly visible on his chest piece. He had etched it out himself, tired of seeing a symbol of home and not wanting to be identified in foreign lands. Though truly, he did it so that he wouldn’t return to Eirika in a bag. Better he die and she not know, than her final memory of him be that of a corpse. 

The two guards continue to stand their ground before Ephraim even has a moment to speak, he backs away trying to seem like less of a threat. Beyond them the inside of the fort is mocking him through gated bars, so very close, yet so far away. Shelter and nostalgia, a place to rest before he would begin his couple days journey to Frelia’s capital. Prior to the rude welcome, Ephraim had spotted a few archers patrolling the watchtowers on either side of the stone walls; he was just thankful that they didn’t turn him into a pin cushion, despite how gnarly he must’ve looked. They could’ve made him human sport if they wanted to, soldiers had the habit of abusing their power when they got bored or were without proper leadership. Ephraim probably would’ve never thought that of the Frelians while he was still a prince, but being a common soldier taught him many things he turned a blind eye to before. That no matter how decent some men were, power could change you utterly if you lost yourself in its spoils.

“Alright buddy back up, name, occupation, and uh, reason for entry?” The taller one questions, poking Ephraim back with the butt of his lance. 

“Not that he’ll actually get in…” The shorter man whispers to his partner, they smirk in collusion with each other.

“I am the former Prince Ephraim of Renais, I come seeking refuge for the night before I depart for Frelia.” Ephraim tries to act as genteel as his upbringing had taught him, refinement he hasn’t used in a decade. Unfortunately, no level of collected coolness or composure in his tone and body was going to give these men the impression he was due their respect, as they both burst out laughing. Ephraim felt the coals of his pride flaring up again, leaving his face hot with humiliation.

“Hah! Prince Ephraim is dead isn’t he?” The shorter man elbows his friend with a boisterous laugh.

“Yeah, even if he was alive this loon sure as hell ain’t him.“ Mustache agrees with his partner, before turning back to address Ephraim. “Alright, guy get the hell out of here and go spout your crazy nonsense elsewhere.”

“Please, I just need a place to rest.” 

“Not a chance, buddy.” 

They both point their spears back to him, maintaining distance between Ephraim and the gate. Ephraim nearly considers teaching these two a lesson, perhaps even taking on the whole fort if he has to. But that would be deeply unwise and he doesn’t exactly want to cause a headache for the Frelian royalty over his fool’s pride. He begins turning and heading back, thinking maybe he can just camp out along the path and reach a nearby town before heading for the capital, but the voice of an old friend stops him in his tracks.

“What’s all the commotion about over here?”

“Nothing commander, it's just this loon claims to be Prince Ephraim of Renais.“

Ephraim looks back and when his eyes meet the commanding officer, recognition sparks between them like a thunder tome.

“Huh? That’s no loon, that’s the Prince Ephraim!”

The awestruck commander knocks his two equally surprised guards upside the head. Like a missing puzzle piece the familiar lance work finally clicks in Ephraim’s head. Though he  looked odd without his typical shield and hulking massive pauldrons, there was no mistaking those bushy eyebrows and perpetual frown. Commander Gilliam hadn’t aged a day since Ephraim last saw him.

Thank the gods Gilliam was still posted as the ‘Great Wall’ of the Eastern Front. Had Ephraim known, he would’ve attempted requesting for him earlier to save the trouble. The guards were quick to apologize after learning he had been telling the truth and that they directly insulted allied royalty, they even personally took Harvey to the stables while he and Gilliam caught up. Gilliam was sure to give them a bit more of an earful later, perhaps even more resistance training as punishment. Though Ephraim was not particularly close to the commander during the war, his personal retainer’s only brother had shadowed the man, and Gilliam had been with him during his siege on Grado. He respected the man as a soldier and found it pleasantly surprising to see him again as they walked through the twilit courtyard.

“It’s good to see you all in one piece, prince.” Ephraim shifts a little to the left, keeping that side of his body away from Gilliam as much as possible while they make their way deeper inside the fort. 

“Well, I don’t pick fights I can’t win.” He gives a nervous smile and thankfully Gilliam seems none the wiser to the lie.

“Haha, but of course. Though, I am surprised to see you back in Magvel, let alone in Frelia of all places. What brings you here anyways, if I may ask?”

“Well I—” Returning to Renais terrifies me… “I thought I’d pay Tana a visit, maybe catch up with Innes.”

“Oh? The king is rather busy at this time of year, unfortunately.”

“It’s alright I wouldn’t want to bother King Hayden too much anyways.” 

Gilliam stops and turns to Ephraim, his face contorted slightly in confusion. Ephraim realizes he must have said something wrong, but what it was he does not know. All he knows is that the air seems much more awkward, and his nervous energy is mounting. But Gilliam gets his ‘aha’ moment, and all seems well until… 

“Right, you left before my liege passed away.”

Now Ephraim is staring wide and confused, the disconnect and realization hitting him in the face like a ton of bricks. King Hayden was dead? Nono, that can’t be right, he was perfectly well when last Ephraim left. Hayden was a bit older than the other regents, but surely had some years left in him. Right on cue Gilliam clears his throat to clarify.

“A plague swept through Magvel a few years after the war, slowing down the reconstruction efforts. Unfortunately, my liege was stricken by the accursed disease.” Gilliam’s fists shake bitterly, mourning his king once more. “He recovered from it, but his health continued to decline well after. The damnable illness would not go down without taking the king with it… King Innes has been on the throne ever since.”

It's a lot to process for Ephraim, even in a time of recovery Magvel could not avoid another tragedy. At least he didn’t boast about Hayden outliving them all… Though, coming to terms with King Innes was an almost equally disturbing thought. It might be even harder to stay in Frelia now, with Innes deciding whether or not to toss Ephraim a bone. Hopefully, he can make his case to Tana before Innes throws him to the wolves.

“I’m sorry for the loss, I was still greatly indebted to King Hayden for his aid during the war.”

“Mm, it’s alright it's been quite a while now, and you did not know.” Gilliam closes his eyes for a moment, before knocking the wind out of Ephraim with a hearty slap on the back. He smiles wide, seemingly coming out of his grief spell. “I’ve a new king now, and Frelia remains stalwart as this very fort under his guidance. Though, on that note I shall send a messenger to announce your visit.” Ephraim beelines for his arm, tugging him back towards the path.

“No, that won’t be necessary, I’d prefer if er…” He desperately searches for an excuse not to provide this common courtesy, before he lands on: “I’d like my arrival to be a surprise for Tana and Innes. A messenger would ruin that, besides I can deliver the letter myself.”

“I’m not sure my king would appreciate that, you of all people know him well enough to know that much.”

Ephraim grimaces at the thought of Innes’ death glare for dropping in unannounced, ‘ uncouth ’ and ‘ ill-mannered ’ he’d probably say. But as much as Ephraim is not looking forward to an unhappy Innes, he doesn’t need Frelia to officially learn of his return. A formal announcement could end up as the gossip of the day among nearly every servant and noble there, news that could easily spread to Renais within a few days. He wanted to delay Eirika’s knowledge of him for as long as possible, and being an unexpected guest could at least prevent the early notice.

“It’s fine, Gilliam, Innes and I are—” Friends? No. Rivals? Maybe. Enemies? He hoped not. “We go way back, he’ll be upset but I’ll make it up to him.” Ephraim prays that he can.

“Mm, alright but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Gilliam continues a few paces before stopping and turning to him again. “One last thing though, you may want to use the bath, if not for your own sake than for the princess’.”

Ephraim grows a little pink before doing a sniff check. When he actually focuses on the scent it's putrid. “Er— my apologies…”

“No worries, I've seen soldiers in much worse condition than you. We’ll get you nice and settled in, with a hot meal first though, yeah?”

“Mm, thank you Gilliam.”

Stripping himself always came with great pains and great difficulties since his arm had been amputated. It was hard enough getting things on and off, but he always seemed to manage somewhat. He used his teeth well to make up for the missing limb, pulling and tightening loose fabrics and belts between them. He had been making due for a while but it was still a bit of a clumsy process, the inconvenience only aided in his continued dwindling desire to bathe. It was easier sitting around in filth, more fitting too he often thought. But it didn’t do well to concern others with his health, as much as it wasn’t good for it overall. Having come back to Magvel, he needed to be more considerate of the people he wanted to see, no matter how difficult of an ordeal it may be. He was just thankful that the part of him that wanted to reconnect with his homeland was winning by just a smaller margin, compared to the part of him that wanted to give up again. Gilliam was the unexpected first step in his recovery, and he might as well arrive at Castle Frelia in a slightly more presentable state. Though, he doubted by the time he’d get there that he’d even be half as clean. This bath was going to be a new beginning for him, to wash away all the years of dirt staining his soul, at least that’s what he hoped it would be.

Though, as he removed layers of armor, fabric, leather, and more he recalled the other reason he often disliked undressing. His body was always a tapestry of scars that lined every nook and cranny of his being, but in recent years he could not bear to see them. Scars he once took pride in, scars that reminded him of battles won and brushes with death, no longer mattered in that way to him. A star shaped stab wound, a jagged painful cut, a weaving magic burn, and of course, a stump below his left shoulder. An arm that still tingled with the presence of its own ghost, sometimes painfully so, just to remind him of its loss all the more. All these scars no longer hold his warrior’s prowess or his long lost love of battle, but rather his failures and punishments for a path he doggedly pursued. He turns away from himself, and lets his mind wander to the little pool just for him.

The fort’s sanitary amenities left much to be desired, as the bath consisted of a single well-used bar of soap and an equally well-used wooden tub. The tub itself was a tight fit for Ephraim as he was sure it was a tight fit for most soldiers, but the fort was mainly an outpost and not some lavish lord’s castle. Still, it was a much nicer bath than what Ephraim had been using for months: rain, rivers, and seawater. Ephraim let out a sigh as he gradually lowered himself to the waters below, a loud creak eking its way out of the tub’s wooden paneling. He let himself sit there for a while, closing his eyes and just basking in the warmth. 

Castle Frelia’s bath is a nicer and much more luxurious experience than the bath he had taken at the Eastern Front. Servants bring out different sweet smelling oils and soaps, filling the room with a pleasant fresh aroma amongst the steam. The tub itself is a larger porcelain one with golden feet that properly accommodates Ephraim’s frame, submerging his whole body with no dubious creaking. At the time, he thought the dingy used bar of soap was a godsend in cleanliness, but the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and products he honestly didn’t know the use of had made an actual dent in the grime he had lived in. Where the bar soap had been troublesome, slipping between his fingers and being difficult to apply with one hand, the bubble bath made things much easier, all he had to do was scrub what couldn’t simply be soaked. The handmaids at his side made for a much more thorough clean as well, albeit a bit of a painful one. They lathered up and painstakingly combed out the tangles and mats in his hair, a gruesome process that gave him a headache from the sheer amount of pulling. Some of it had to be cut, having been too far gone to be saved, though Ephraim needed the trim anyway. At last they brought out a razor, sculpting the overgrown bush around his face into something more presentable and dignified. The girls actually giggled when they were finished, seemingly satisfied with the work they had done in making him look like the prince he truly was beneath the beast. 

A terrible mistake he made when he initially tried to cleanse himself, was holding on to his old clothes and armor. Gilliam insisted on letting him keep a clean pair from the fort, but he refused and tried to diligently clean what he had brought with him. He didn’t want to burden the commander further, and while the armor and bits of cloth were old and rotting, he was still deeply attached to them. They were far beyond saving, at least three or more washes could not rid them of their embedded grime, but he chose to wear them nevertheless. When he gazed into the mirror at Mulan before he left, he looked exactly the same as when he had when he arrived— by which he looked nothing of his former self. Tonight he stares at a man he almost recognizes, the clean slate he had been begging for. He picks up the collar of his shirt and lifts it to his nose, the smell of fresh pressed linen with a hint of lemon was incredibly pleasant; there wasn’t even a whiff of blood or sweat. The servants had provided him with a few light linens, as well as something more formal for the morning. He was simply glad that a simple nightshirt was easy to get in and out of, though tying the left sleeve so that it didn’t dangle about was always a challenge.

In this moment he should feel most pleased with himself, he is finally back in familiar territory and looks more like himself than he ever has in many many years. But he doesn’t—it’s worse— his deep sense of self loathing rises again like an affliction. The trim the girls gave him is good, dashing even, he thinks. His hair comes to his neck rather than shoulder length and his beard actually sharpens his jawline instead of hiding it. He almost looks just like his father now, a fact that has his skin crawling looking into the eyes of some wreck so undeserving of the late Fado’s face. The only real difference is that same scar shooting across from cheek to cheek, proof he is the damaged version of a great man. He hates to admit it, but there was something comforting in the filth and dirt. He could bury himself in it until he was near unrecognizable to anyone, but most importantly, to himself. He shakes his head before forcing a smile to the mirror, it comes out crooked, but tenacious. No, he’s not here to hide any longer, he needs to stop running away. He would grow into this look, he could grow into the process of healing.

Chapter Text

Innes knows ghosts aren’t real, knows they’re a figment of some childish imagination, but even he cannot deny Castle Frelia isn’t haunted. Despite how large its structure or the numerous wings and doors it houses, one room goes entirely untouched. Its miasma remains palpable through the door, even approaching or passing by still fills Innes with a deep sense of sorrow and loss no matter how many years go by. He often seeks remedy in the royal wing’s main portrait, as a symbol and well-crafted image of an adoring family. Its proud king sits between his two young children, who stand on either side of him. He is tall and poised next to his daughter who beams a smile, while his stone-faced son rests a hand on his shoulder. The king looks wise beyond his years, healthy too, and exudes a paternal pride and joy from just a few paint strokes. In spite of the painting’s presence and the ease it gives him, Innes nevertheless catches glimpses of a sick spindly creature wandering his castle and wearing his crown. Two memories at equal odds with each other. 

Sometimes it’s easy to envision the man on his throne, his image never faltering, his face remaining statuesque. The perfect image of stoicism, wisdom, and nobility; the perfect image of a king and father. But sometimes when Innes lies awake at night in the dim light of his quarters, when he tosses and turns unable to rest, he finds himself lying next to a corpse. Its skeletal hand grips his own in iron, keeping him rooted and stuck staring into glassy eyes that pierce straight through his soul. Innes struggles to break free but it begs him to hold on, to stay still, to never leave his father’s side. He’s paralyzed, despite every part of his very being rejecting the stranger in his bed. The nightmare only ends when Innes gives in to its demands, when he brings his ‘ father ’ into his arms and feels the chill of death seep through his bones. Only when the apparition passes entirely through his body does it vanish into the cold quiet of the night. Innes avoids his bed even to this day, though he would never care to admit to such cowardice. When he does find rest, it is in an armchair or at his desk, paranoid like a child hiding from a monster lying in the bed. 

Ghosts aren’t real but doppelgängers are. There’s a young man he can still hear practicing in the training grounds, he notes the familiar echoes of a bow string snapping followed by the resounding thunk of an arrow shot clean. But when he gazes out the balcony, just above the courtyard there is no archer in sight. The pegasi in Walles Forest are as beautiful as they always are, Innes hopes at least. With the distance to which they take to the air he can scarcely see them from the castle walls, but when he closes his eyes their grace is as vivid as he recalls. Ethereal and near angelic pegasi as white as the moon, dancing high above the verdant forest in perfect unison. He rarely sees his own steed, Tana takes care of her for him most days. Despite the years he spent stubbornly getting thrown off and back on again, the pegasus tamer is just as distant a memory as the rest of who he was. Sometimes he doesn’t even recognize himself in the mirror. The man dressed in full Frelian regalia whose crown weighs heavy on his head, whose face is plastered with a weary worn look, is certainly recognized as the King of Frelia. But where is the crown prince who laughs in the face of a challenge? The master hunter with sharp eyes that could see in crystal clarity? The narcissist who ensured his image was well maintained and perfectly groomed? The boy who tackled his life with a readiness for anything it had in store for him? There’s a king now, sure… but Innes wishes to find a prince in that reflection.

The closest Innes ever finds himself in, is the portrait with the monstrous creature he avoids. He sees himself in the lad of thirteen standing beside his even younger ten year old sister. He holds a serious expression, mature and refined for his age; a stark contrast to the little girl beaming a toothy grin. In spite of this eternal facade, Innes swears he catches the blur of that same boy rushing past him in the hall, giggling and making arrogant declarations. Acting as a child ought to in defiance of his position or heritage. Following close behind is another slightly shorter boy, one whose height would be held over his head until the two became men. Until they no longer share a history together.

It’s easier to turn a blind eye to the phantom of Renais, its presence is not nearly as apparent within the castle walls. There’s no portraits or personal belongings clinging to the building’s history, at least nothing so obvious as its other ghastly inhabitants. In the training grounds are dummies with varying degrees of wear and tear, one such dummy in particular garners all of Innes' attention amongst the rest. The badly beaten wood splinters into a deep hole plunged right at its center, formed from consistent regimented damage like it had been stabbed through the heart repeatedly over and over again. It was the mark of none other than the boy he used to know, a reminder of his existence as clear as day. Visits to the infirmary often evoke the scent of strong antiseptics and scenes of bloody knees, Innes can still envision the act of gently patching each other’s wounds whilst arguing who was victorious the previous round. What’s worse is the way his chest still tightens over the few times the blue-haired boy dared to kiss his bruises as he would have for his sister, not fully realizing the difference of intimacy within the simple gesture. The warmth present in both the memory and his heart equally fill his mouth with something bitter and foul. By now Innes should be over childhood crushes and irrational yearnings, especially over someone like him .

So for a time, Innes ignored him . He pinned every butterfly that dared to flutter about in his stomach to its lining, held his heart as closely as his cards, and refused to lose to a distant memory. Unfortunately for Innes, it would take an exorcist to completely cleanse himself of this heartache. A man who he no longer recognizes resides within his walls, something he regrets that he even allowed. He thought he’d be alright for a night, but the arrival of the long lost prince sends him miles back from where he had forged ahead. Yet, at the same time laughs in his face for holding onto someone who doesn’t even exist anymore, as much like Innes, his first love is near unrecognizable to the man he used to be. One good look is all Innes needs to mourn the other all over again. To know they are still worlds apart despite their reunion. To know that Innes bleeds from wounds that should’ve healed over a decade ago. Of all the creatures to rise from the dead and drag Innes back down to hell, it had to be Ephraim…

Chapter Text

It’s not that bad, he thinks. His arm is numb, mottled in violet reds, puffy. It is painful to stick his fat fingers into his gauntlets like he used to. It’s fine, he’s taken his vulnerary, spent extra on an elixir just to be sure. It will stave it off, he doesn’t need to seek a healer. Doesn’t need to place the burden upon someone else. He can barely move his fingers, his arm feels heavy against his side, completely useless at grasping his lance. It feels like dead weight, weak and unable to lift the world on his shoulders. 

His bandages come off with a sick sensation as he unbinds them. Gelatinous sticky flesh peels away alongside the dirty brown gauze, revealing a fresh angry red expanse pulsing with pain. He pours medicine, alcohol, anything just to clean the damn thing, but it stays irritated and crimson. Drinking his own fill, he hopes simply to numb himself of the ever constant throbbing in his limb. But just as it had been with his arm, the substances offer little relief to his ailing mind. Finally, he places his arm in a makeshift sling, the best that he can with only one working and limited supplies. It can breathe and rest in the cool air now, but it still radiates with a searing discomfort.

It’s pretty bad now, far more painful too. The infection has reached his upper bicep, like a poison taking over his body. Claiming his arm as its own in swirls of purple pain and festering putrid air. The stinking mass near resembles that of a revanant’s, minus the claws. He swears he can see bare bone peaking through the fetid rotting sinews that flay away in strips like old paint. He cannot save his arm. Cannot kill this demon that inhabits his flesh. He must sever the blight from its source. 

He bites down on a leather belt and wraps it tight just below his deltoid. Taking a hatchet in a shaky palm he wills himself to stay still, and braces for the impact as he lifts the axe head just above the wretched corpse of his arm. A gut wrenching howl tears its way through his lungs, rough and twisted, no different to the sharp spike of pain moving its way from his shoulder to the rest of his body. He is trembling, head pounding, vision blurring. What’s left of his arm is dangling, as decaying flesh and old blood is splattered in gruesome splotches around him like some sick painting. The bone, to his compounding horror, is not fully disconnected. He steels himself again, as tears well up in his eyes— it is pure agony. He raises the hatchet and lets it down with all his might, hears the resounding crack splinter through the air, and the thud that follows. He’s wailing and writhing and contorting and dying. Full sobs wrack his body as every inch of it throbs with unimaginable anguish. 

He drops to the dirt below, alongside the hatchet and the limb that’s no longer his. He should’ve taken care of it sooner, should’ve addressed it sooner, should’ve prevented this sooner. He could’ve saved it if he had just done something sooner . It’s all his fault. It’s always all his fault.

Stupid, stupid fucking Ephraim.

Ephraim wakes barely able to let out a breath, his whole body tense and unmoving. He grasps his sweat soaked nightshirt in a death like grip, the erratic beating of his heart pounds through his chest and into his fingers. It takes him a moment to remember how to breathe and to focus his eyes on the room around him. He is not on the ground lying in a pool of his own blood. He is in bed, and his arm is— his arm, or the uncomfortable aching sensation of it, is there. The ever excruciating constant reminder that his recurring nightmares are just his reality. 

But, he’s alive. Ephraim is alive, in spite of all his foolishness or his faults.

Though his ghost still throbs with sparks of intangible pain in a space that lies empty, dead and somewhere far beyond his body, he himself is alive. He finds a fraction of comfort in that thought. The remnant is always most painful after a dream such as this one, like it too holds the same memory despite no longer being there. At least focusing on the ache in his long gone limb has eased the rest of his body, his thoughts grounding him and slowing the drum of his heart. He takes a few more deep breaths until his body completely unfreezes, an exercise that feels like hours instead of minutes.

Getting up is an equally arduous process, even after his mind and body have caught up with reality. He’s sluggish, still a bit rigid after coming down from the adrenaline pulsing in his veins, and his legs feel as heavy as his arm once did. Eventually, he manages to stumble his way out of bed to take a few shaky steps towards the bathroom. A rough start to what should have been a pleasant morning, but Ephraim can make do. He splashes a bit of water on his face to cool himself off, then shakes the excess off as a dog would after being caught in the rain. Patting himself dry he nearly startles himself by his own reflection. This new look certainly was going to be something to get used to.

Ephraim had to admit his face looked brighter in the sunlight of morn, than the candlelight of the prior evening. He smiles— still a bit crooked— but it looks passable under these conditions. He runs his fingers through his scruffy bed head, a first in which they haven’t been obstructed by ratty mats, and uses a bit of the sweet smelling oils from before to style it how he likes. He pats a bit around his chin for good measure; also a first, but he might as well get reaccustomed to proper living. Ephraim was never one to enjoy the frivolities of preening, but there was something about seeing himself well taken care of now that he began to appreciate. There’s still a glimpse of his past, of the ghost of his father, but oddly he’s not as upset as he was the night before. He felt fresh and weightless, seemingly free of the sin he bore for the past ten years. Perhaps today was going to be a good day, he might even get used to making himself look pretty if his mood continues to improve. He had learned a fair share of what it was like to lose something only to realize too late how important it truly was, but he didn’t think he’d ever feel that way about something like grooming. In fairness, he wouldn’t allow for a repeat of last night either, when he showed up looking like a rat crawling out the gutter. Once he’s completely satisfied with himself, Ephraim moves on with the rest of the day.

He dresses carefully, one hand doing all the work lifting and pulling and buttoning. He huffs every time he has to readjust a sleeve or the waistband of his trousers, as they started falling before he could properly tie them in place. Using his teeth he tightens the drawstrings and loose ends to the best of his ability, but the knots come out lopsided and uneven. His entire morning has been slow, something difficult for a person impatient by nature, but the result is worth the hassle in the end. The light loose fitting seafoam-green tunic was neither too stuffy nor too plain for his liking, and he was in awe of how white and unwrinkled trousers could be. The last item was a thick unfrayed navy half cape he ended up placing most of over his shoulder, as he had done for some time now. The fright he must’ve given Tana still weighs heavy on his mind, both for scaring her and the humiliation that rises hot in his cheeks. As long as he looks at himself now, clean and well-kept, he can ignore the shame behind the curtain. At least now he is ready to start the day, and hopefully at a pace he prefers.

Today Ephraim would be meeting with Tana for breakfast, a good opportunity to catch up and maybe apologize for last night. Much of his return hasn’t been going as planned, though he did not exactly plan it well. At least getting into Castle Frelia had been somewhat easier with his formal letter of introduction getting him past another set of skeptical guards. The Frelian princess herself had also aided in the process, recognizing him almost immediately and demanding they let him through without hassle. She was as peppy and talkative as ever, but the pegasus captain’s garb and the tight braided bun her azure locks were done in, told him that she had taken to new responsibilities. A princess as strong as any knight, and far more refined than the girl she still was years prior; Tana had clearly flourished in his absence. Despite her new position and the time that had gone by, she took Ephraim into an embrace that squeezed the dear life out of him. He had prayed to the gods that she not notice the absence beneath his cloak, and for just that moment they answered. Ephraim could barely hold her back, but it was welcome all the same to see her again. She asked him a myriad of questions, often interrupting herself with another before he could even answer. He was just happy that Tana switched gears into the perfect host when he relayed how weary he was from his trip. At the drop of a hat Tana’s questioning went from: ‘How have you been? When did you get that scar?’ to ‘What room would you like? Would you prefer duck or ham for dinner?’ She was always rather perceptive of people's moods, though— to her credit— her brother was Innes, Ephraim considered her an angel for being able to understand that man at all. Speaking of, the devil himself had appeared to them after only moments of waiting in the great hall. Where Ephraim had remembered Hayden upon the throne, there was Innes, a reality he had been told but one that he was not accustomed to. 

Innes looked the shining example of a good king, it nearly left Ephraim speechless at the time. He stood with the confidence he always held, but with a reverence that made him shine like gold. Innes was always high and mighty, but in that moment he seemingly knew exactly who he was, and fulfilled that role flawlessly. Barely a hair out of place, a sharpened glare that could cut glass, and an aura of confidence that seemed unbreakable. Ephraim felt almost as if he were before a god, and the throne room his chapel. Had it been so long that Ephraim could be awestruck by his old rival’s mere presence, or had he fallen so low he no longer considered himself an equal? Had Ephraim lost his own glimmer? His thoughts came to a halt when Innes opened his mouth, and instantly Ephraim no longer saw a god. Bitterness spread through him like oversteeped tea and he finally recalled why it was so damn hard to get along with Innes in the first place. How someone could capture and inspire the veneration of those around him, yet be so entirely aggravating in only a few words, was a paradox Ephraim never had the brainpower to even remotely understand. But these obvious cracks in Innes’ flawless facade gave Ephraim’s dignity just enough time to recover, and reminded him that the king was still no more than a mean-spirited-grudge-bearing asshole who always hated him. Unfortunately, in contrast to years prior, Ephraim could barely bite back, his meager attempt at a retort was the only thing he could come up with to contend with the man’s displeasure. If anything, for once the resentment Innes held had merit to it, all of the king’s words had some level of reasoning even through their callousness. Why should Innes welcome him back? With the way he was now Ephraim could barely be called a worthy opponent, and beyond that they were never close. Objectively, he should be back in Renais anyways, and Innes could easily send him back home if he wanted to. 

But Innes didn’t.  

The final hurdle of getting into Frelia had almost been the easiest. Ephraim had been accepted into the castle with little more resistance, the shock of which persists even now. Perhaps, he was so lowly he wasn’t even worth acknowledging beyond an inflammatory greeting. Something about that irks him, to be disrespected by Innes was one thing, but to be not worth the time it took to be insulted was another. Ephraim feels crazy for even wanting such a thing, but if anything was certain, he was definitely feeling better if he wanted to prove Innes wrong.

Tana cheerfully set her table with a variety of food and drink for the two to partake. A fine china tea set was placed between them, amongst a copious amount of food and breakfast options. There was a selection of fresh fruit and veggies, baked goods from rolls to loaves, and several spreads to pair them with. Sweets and pastries still seemed to remain in Tana’s diet, and quite favorably too, by how many she placed on her plate. In contrast, Ephraim’s plate was piled high by a sizable portion of meat, eggs, and other protein options to his liking. 

“My, Ephraim, and here I was worried your diet might have matured.” She jests.

“I could say the same to you. Actually, I can still eat ten plate pulls of just this if I wanted to, you know?” He makes a point to stuff his mouth with a sunny side egg in one bite, which elicits another giggle from Tana. A smile etches its way from cheek to cheek as he wipes his mouth of the spilled yolk. Something about a meal with Tana feels easy, like he’s still seventeen, like nothing has changed at all. “I have to thank you again for inviting me, Tana, as well as for allowing me to stay.”

“Well of course, you are my guest and I—” Her smile somehow seems even wider, even warmer, than before. “I’m still so very glad you’re back, Ephraim.” 

“Mm.” He nods, taking another bite, he recalls again the events of last night at the word ‘still’ and his chewing slows to a grind. After a rather strained swallow he finds his words again. “I’m sorry about last night, I should have told you.”

“Nono— I should apologize for crying out so rudely. It must have frightened you as much as me.” It's not perfect, but Tana’s words do ease some of the tension he had been feeling since he went to bed; it makes his coat feel just a bit lighter on his shoulders.

“How have you been, since I’ve been gone? I didn’t get a proper answer yesterday.”

“Well if you hadn’t noticed, I was officially promoted as Captain of the Pegasus Knights a few years ago.” She sits a little straighter, proud of her accomplishment. The curious look Ephraim gives her while his face is stuffed, prods her with a silent question she readily answers. “See, Syrene married Ky—” She stops herself, but Ephraim could already make out who she was referring to. It doesn’t dampen the mood, but he swears his food tastes a little bitter now. “She got married and took it as an opportunity to promote her little sister, Vanessa. Syrene’s still a knight, mind you, but she has a bit more free time now that she’s no longer commander… Buuut, since Vanessa was promoted I took her role as captain! Of course I had to argue with my brother over the role, but thankfully he has a hard time saying no to me.” She beams at her victory over Innes, and her promotion with a rightfully earned sip of her tea.

“I’m glad, you’re a warrior fitting of the title, Tana.”

“Oh, Ephraim, stop, you'll make a girl blush!” She waves her hand to his flattery with false modesty. “Or you can continue, I don’t mind hehe… Actually, I have a question for you.”

“Mm?”

“May I ask, what made you decide to come back to Magvel?” Ephraim knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid this question, but it's still difficult to answer all the same.

“Well, my arm it— er, it affected my employment rate. No one wanted to hire a one armed spearman, and if they did they paid me half as much as they had done years prior. A few friends I made there also begged me to retire after I lost it.”

“I see… So if you hadn’t lost your arm you’d still be far away then…”

“No, that’s not—“

  It was.

Ephraim fought and killed and bloodied himself over and over again. Battle could no longer give him joy, yet it was what he devoted his entire being to. To lie amongst the corpses he piled high, to feel their pain and anguish as much as his own. He chose himself above all other things, chose to be a drawn blade on the verge of breaking. 

Until, finally, he broke.

He was no more than a lance snapped in half, useless and dulled. His fire burnt out with that lost limb, its severance forcing him to come to a halt. Ephraim could no longer battle day and night, lest he truly wanted to face his final duel, lest he was brave enough to throw himself into the coals of someone else’s kiln. And with his flames dwindling, so too was his employment. How quickly was he was abandoned by the lords and employers who once sought his blade, too worthless and unfit for their armies, and too costly to remake anew. 

But even before that, before it sunk in how difficult fighting would become, before he was left for scrap by the lords of his patronage, he knew it was over. As, for the first time in years Ephraim did not wish to die. Seeing his left arm lying in a bloody puddle next to him, as his body writhed and grew colder and colder, Ephraim fought against death. Countless times did he throw himself into the fray wondering when he would be bested, but in the moment in which he was closest to his end he refused to surrender. A path he chose to throw his life away, yet one he could not follow to its natural conclusion. His arm was too far gone to be saved, but it wasn’t too late for the rest of him, he didn’t want it to be too late. In his weakest moment, he found the strength to push beyond his cowardice, and by fearing death he regained his courage.

“It’s not the whole story…” He finally gets out.

“It’s alright, Ephraim, no matter the reason it is a joy seeing you back safe. I’m sure Eirika will feel the same way when she sees you…” Tana pauses and in the exact same moment Ephraim loses his appetite and that courage. “She does know you’re back, right?” 

He meets her with a deafening silence, mouth shut firmly in a tight line. As much as he had recovered his resolve the mere mention of Eirika was enough to break it. The guilt comes back full force and begins to gnaw away at what he had tried so hard to cultivate over the months at sea, the night he spent here, the moments they spent chatting and eating away. He picks nervously at his food, eyeing the tomato that rolls in between the prodding prongs of his fork, never putting too much pressure to actually puncture the fruit.

“You mean, Eirika doesn’t know you’re here?!”

The tomato slips away from his fork, bounces once off the plate and to his dread begins rolling away and off the side of the table. Now he’s lost the ability to face Tana, though he can still see through his periphery the grave expression plastered on her face. She’s disappointed, and Ephraim wants to curl up and die.

“Gods, no wonder you’re stopping here instead of just going home! No wonder she didn’t write, Eirika would’ve told me before you even arrived, she—” She stops mid–rant, and carefully, gravely, firmly does Tana address him next: “Eirika needs to know you’re back, Ephraim.”

He remains silent. Ephraim thinks to protest, but can’t find the words. Tana is right, Eirika should know, he can’t continue to keep that away from her. He’s kept far too much from her— taken far too much from her. This was the least he could give her while he tries to gain the strength to do more.

“Ephraim.”

“I know— I know she does, I just—” He takes a breath to collect himself. “I just can’t face her yet, Tana. Not like this, not with what I’ve done.”

“But you will come to me after all you’ve done, after leaving without a word!?” Tana looks like she’s about to blow a fuse by how red she is. “Ephraim, do you have any idea what I would do for your sister, what your departure had done to us? Her pain is as much mine, as it is her’s, and you think to come to me before going to her?” 

“I’m sorry—” Tana would be hurt, she treasured both of them deeply, Eirika especially. Ephraim scrambles to find the right words, to bounce back from the thoroughly deserved retribution. “I tried going back to Renais, truly!” He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but his plea comes out shaky and defensive. “But when I arrived at the crossroads, when I made it to the border, I— I froze.” His tone falls soft again, barely a whisper at the admission. “I didn’t know where else to go, I just knew I didn’t have the strength to see her… I’m sorry, Tana.” He finally looks up at her again, her face no longer painted in disappointment, but in pity. It was a patronizing ugly feeling, the same look he received when she saw the state of his arm, but it was better than her shame for him. He could live with her pity.

Tana’s sigh is deep and tired, but she grasps the situation with a gentle hand. “Alright, I understand. You can stay here, and recover until you can head back home.”

“What about Inn—”

“I’ll deal with him, don’t worry. Please, at least write to her, Ephraim— it's the least you can do. I will write to her as well, and we shall get this all sorted out for the better, okay?”

“I will. Thank you, Tana.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I want you to know.” She reaffirms her tone from earlier. “I expect you to see her within the year, Ephraim. You have spent long enough away from her, a year is all I will give you.”

“I see…” A year feels like both enough and not enough time, but Ephraim is grateful she’s even letting him scrape by with more of it. “Thank you, for your generosity again, Tana.” 

“Alright, I’m holding you to your word. Don’t you run away again now.” She shifts back a little more teasing, but the edge tells him she’s not joking. “Is there anything else you’d like to know about how Magvel’s been doing? There’s a lot to catch up on, and I don’t want to remain upset with you.” She softens again, and Ephraim breathes relieved he has been released from his first trial.

“Yes, please tell me about—”

Chapter Text

As the sky settled with an orange glow outside the window of Innes’ study, so too did the bird he was gifted stir with its song. The rhythmic cheeping bouncing off its gilded cage could not be muffled even through the tarp Innes had thrown over it. Like an alarm the king bolted up at the sound, his face no longer planted firmly in letters of interest. A stray envelope still clung to his cheek while he blinked the short lived sleep off deliriously, until he tore it away annoyed with the merchant seal that imprinted itself upon his skin. Innes sighed before rubbing at his temples, surveying the work he had left before his little nap: the letters and unopened gifts still piled high upon his desk amongst his other papers. His study had become more of a storage unit as of late, surrounded with bolts of fine silks, jewelry and gemstones of varying high quality, great bows, shortbows, and longbows made with intricate detailing and craftsmanship cluttered one corner, while a full highly detailed bust of himself stood in another— and of course the nightingale that had woken him, sat perched inside its shrouded enclosure. A whole boatload of unopened gifts still remained on the other side, and Innes felt like he was drowning in Carcinan generosity and opulence. It was election season, a busy time for Innes, and the only time in which he despised receiving anything. 

Relations between Frelia and Carcino became and remained rocky since the aftermath of the war. While Klimt and the pro Frelia faction were cooperative, Hayden did not take kindly to the majority of the senators betraying his trust, let alone attempting to kill his only son. Though Pablo’s rise to power was one paved in blood, blackmail, and butchery, Carcino as a whole would pay for his sins. And a great debt those sins were, Frelia was due hefty reparations that Carcino was still paying for to this day. Furthermore, to quell any potential rising disloyalty, Frelia would oversee directly on senatorial elections, while its spy network would take care of any potential threats to the kingdom. Carcino was little more than a vassal state to Frelia now, a meager shadow of the former mercantile behemoth that it once was. And while it had certainly recovered over its many years of service to Frelia, its wounds ran deep beneath the facade of wealth and freedom it tried so desperately to keep up.

Innes took up the duties of managing Carcino after his father, but while it gave him peace of mind to know the inner workings of his neighbor, it was also a giant headache. Surveillance on Carcino was progressively cooling down, though tensions seemed higher than ever between the citizenry and his people. As much as the network kept Innes informed, and in his eyes the insurance of Frelia’s safety, the iron grip he had over the trade nation made it aggravated as a wasp’s nest. Protests had risen, and fallen, and risen back again over the years of Frelia's occupation, like a shifting tide of his own control, a shift that had increasingly favored the Carcinan independence over his propaganda and good image over the years. He especially felt his hold slipping during election season, the most difficult time to keep his footing. 

The first major Carcino election was in his father’s time, during the early years after the war. Power needed to be restored and Hayden had made sure each candidate was up to par with his standards, whether they be genuine, like Klimt, or Frelian plants. Lifelong positions meant that he could control the senators for as long as they stayed loyal and within Frelia’s interests. Innes had only dealt with an election once before, when Klimt had unfortunately passed away from the same illness as his father. The ordeal of doing background checks, interviews, and sponsorships for candidates was extensive and equally exhausting. Discerning friend from foe became harder when each candidate kissed the ground on which Innes stood. Each tried desperately to escape the legacy Pablo had left them, fearing that they might end up with an arrow between their eyes if they didn’t. They did well to remember their place, but the bribes and saccharine flattery had the opposite effect to their desires. The more eager they were to prove themselves the deeper they dug their grave, solidifying Innes’ distrust and sickening him by their hapless behavior. He eventually chose to sponsor a rather lax representative that followed orders like an old dog. The future senator went on to win by a landslide, but by continuing to butt into Carcino electoral affairs, Innes riled its people up all over again. It was a surprise to no one, that after years of humiliation and sycophancy the Carcinans would eventually lose their shame, and in doing so grow bitter and resentful of their old ally. But in spite of the warranted growing animosity towards him and his people, Innes still refused to soften his grip. He was not going to be caught and ensnared like an animal ever again, especially not while he was king. Innes was a paragon of great leadership to his people, and the bane of Carcino’s, but all that mattered to him were his Frelians. He was never afraid of looking like the bad guy.

And so, through his own stubbornness, Innes found himself toiling away with the current Carcino election, among his many other foreign and domestic affairs. The apparently loyal old mutt he had put in place years before retired, but more importantly, without warning Frelia first. Had the senator at least announced it to the Frelian government they could have found a replacement to invest in before he went public, but of course it had to become a hectic scramble to find a new top candidate. Innes truly believed it was intentional, a personal jab, an insult to his leadership, but if Carcino wanted to oust his control he would not go down without a fight. While his advisors and spies looked for an alternative to back, Innes was tasked with accepting the current candidates as they were. If they could not make a senator, Innes could surely find one. Which brought the king back to his current predicament. Along with vetting the five candidates for any potential scandals, corruption, or extremism, there were the bribes. Well, that’s what he liked to call them anyways, but as formality each candidate sent him something of some sort as an act of goodwill for his support in their campaign. Surprisingly it was only something that arose when he took the crown, Innes could never discern if it was a matter of the candidates thinking him more easy to manipulate than his father, or if they did it to ease the age-old scar Pablo had left on the current king. Either way, Innes despised the copious amount of gifts the merchants sent trying to one up one another and would not be swayed by a few luxury products. Innes relied on facts, the biographies of his candidates, where they were born, their wealth, station, criminal history, what they ate on a given day, how many kids they had, medical records, down to the count of hairs on some of their balding heads. It was thorough, invasive, but thorough. A lot could be hidden without being given the full picture of any given person. A whole person’s life dictated their worth as a leader, Innes understood that more intimately than anyone else, having been groomed for such a position since birth.

Greed and poor business management had already struck two of the candidates from Innes’ choices, if they could not even keep their line of work afloat, they surely couldn’t do the same for an entire nation— and Frelia would not be blamed for that. Though the candidate’s backing was never subtle, Innes preferred if they were already popular within their constituency. Finding common ground and common goals between himself and Carcino had the benefit of cooling down some of the more outspoken slander against Frelia. Though few liked pro-Frelian candidates, they could still get behind a senator who had their best interests at heart. Unfortunately for Innes, the most popular candidate currently was his biggest political opponent in Carcino. Owner of the extremely popular Shoreline Paper and resolutely against Frelian occupation, Francine Eberhardt was a force to be reckoned with. An older lady who had fiercely ran anti-Frelia stories for the past nine years, her paper and political activism had made her a pillar of the Carcinan community, and the bane of Frelia’s. She contended with Innes’ own propaganda, and while some of the stories she ran were exaggerated, most were not exactly wrong when it came to his manipulation of Carcino. Innes thought to mark her off his list as quickly as possible, but found that she may be exactly who he was looking for. If he could convince her to his side, he would have both a senator and control over Frelia’s image in Carcino, two birds with one stone. It would be a tricky negotiation, potentially lethal to his image if he misstepped or underestimated her, but it was a gamble he might be willing to take. Perhaps, Joshua had been a bad influence on him as a friend. 

Innes huffed a heavy sigh sinking deeper into his chair, he was going to have to think up an impossible to refuse offer if he was to somehow gain Eberhardt as an ally. She was certainly not one of the fools to lavish him with gifts begging for praise or approval. Or was she? Innes checked off and went through the pile of unopened gifts he still had to go through, how five people could possibly send so much was beyond him. And though he doubted he would receive anything from the woman who so clearly hated his guts, lo and behold was a quaint little blue box wrapped in a cream colored ribbon addressed to him by the lady herself. A note attached read: ‘To Frelia’s king, I hope you like magic.’ Unsuspecting but furthermore, unsettling. She couldn’t possibly have sent him anything on just courtesy alone, politeness and following the status quo didn’t exactly fall in line with someone who had been an activist nearly all her life. Innes was rightfully wary of the gift, if only his caution hadn’t been held back by his own growing curiosity. What did she mean by magic? Like real true magic, the kind of spells that could create fire from nothing or summon lightning from the heavens above? Was this an assassination attempt, had the gifts not gone through the due processes before they landed on his doorstep? Or was the magic just the foreign or exotic, in the same way the other merchants brought him spices and beautiful birds? The questions ate him alive, who knew he’d actually be dying to see what’s inside. Innes reasoned if it was dangerous he could easily call for aid; he had guards on standby and all sorts of antitoxins and medicines sitting in his office if there was a poison. With those fears settled, he pulled at the end of one ribbon just until the little bow came undone and— 

Whoosh. 

Right on cue some kind of wind spell sigil activated from within the confines of the small parcel, whirling around and scattering the contents of the package all over Innes’ already cluttered study. Papers rained from high floating down and landing on every inch of the room, including right smack in the middle of the king’s face. Innes tore the paper away from his obscured vision, until he was met with highlighted big bold letters that read: 

Frelian Tyrant, Stay Out of Our Politics!

He whipped his head around to the rest of the room, greeted by a similar sea of ire, pages upon pages of headlines and articles of varying degrees of ridicule. Nearly every paper something he had already read in the past couple years or new ones that had not seen print yet. Each mocking his image or criticizing his Frelia with every line and every letter blurring together until Innes only saw red. The mess. The insult to injury. The surprise immature prank he absolutely fell for. Innes had been caught with his pants down and he was furious about it. On any other day he would deem all this beneath him, cool himself down, clean up the mess and plan a retaliation. Act like a king ought to in a situation such as this. But in the privacy of his own study, away from prying eyes who could write more tabloids like these, Innes went ballistic. He had already grown tired of the deterioration of his own personal space, and being cooped up had the effect of making one go a little mad. If it didn’t already look like a storm had blown its way through his study after that little magic trick, it sure as hell looked like it did now that Innes was through with it. He tore through each paper with a storming fury, his cool collected ego fully snapping and lost to his rage. He read through some articles (most where he was directly mentioned), ground and crumpled others, and shredded the rest. But he did not stop with the papers, no, no, no, no— Innes was an unruly hurricane and nothing would escape his wrath. Everything in the room had at least one thing or another that he despised, all collecting into one great big eyesore the longer he spent day after day in it. To hell with the study or his other gifts, this was a rage room now. He took one of the greatbows in hand, and swung it like a bat against his own stone head. Then picking up the remnants of the broken marble, hucked huge chunks at the remaining unopened boxes, reveling in the sound of shattered glass when it rang through his ears. He flipped tables, he snapped strings, he tore through perfectly crafted satin sheets. The only thing he left untouched was the nightingale, who’s panicked squawking was enough to break him from his berserk spell after he nearly brought the cage up to smash it into the wall. He set it down, quietly shushing the bird through his lingering fury and shaky adrenaline filled fingers, perhaps more in an effort to calm himself than the bird. 

When he finally felt like himself again he surveyed the mess he had made, and felt a deep shame condense and ease some of his lingering flames. This was undignified, childish, not only unbecoming of a leader but of a man— exactly what Eberhardt likely wanted he surmised. Smoothing his hair out and picking up the box from the wreckage, Innes got back to what he should have been doing: planning. After close inspection of the box, runes at the bottom indicated both foul play and wind magic, as he suspected. This being an intentional slight against him with evidence could provide him with an angle. If he wanted to, he could charge Eberhardt with something as high as attempted murder, even if it was a harmless prank it was dangerous magic in disguise, a ruse that could have— No, she would put out another piece against him, say he planted it or if he didn’t, that he was making a fuss over something that brought him no harm. Tricky, clever, infuriating, she must’ve planned this all with every aspect in mind. Innes resigned himself to his seat thinking of any way in which he could gain the upperhand and seek his revenge. Though, one thing became clear, this was a declaration of war, and Innes would answer.

Getting some fresh air was the only thing that was going to help distract Innes from his minor outburst. At the very least, he was not getting anywhere with his plans with the coals of his lingering rage and humiliation clouding his judgment. Everything that seemed to grate against him or agitate his flared nerves increased tenfold afterwards, even while he stepped angrily through his halls. No matter how he vented his frustration he could not expel the rage boiling from his wounded pride. The training grounds will help, they always helped, at least staring off into them would dull the turmoil into something melancholic and empty. He would take a bit of wistful longing over an undignified inferno that made his cheeks hot and his mind too frazzled to think straight. But as Innes approached the balcony that overlooked the grounds, just to the left of the gray brick lined hall, another figure had a rather similar idea. 

Ephraim.

‘Anyone but fucking, Ephraim, right now. Please.’ Innes silently begged the gods. Even if he wanted to pretend to be nice he didn’t know if he could, just being within a ten foot pole of Ephraim used to shorten his temper. But as Innes drew closer his traitorous heart caught in his throat, no matter how his insides burned with contempt. Perhaps he didn’t completely regret running into the other. Ephraim had cleaned up, and castle Frelia’s amenities had clearly been flawless and up to par at making him look just as stunning as the Ephraim from his memory, perhaps even better (that is to say if perfection could be improved). Ephraim’s body was slack, relaxed against the railing, his good arm propping his chin up as he leaned over the edge. He always gave off that kind of nonchalance, always without a care in the world despite the crown that once laid heavy on his head. The navy blue half cape complimented his eyes as it swayed lightly in the breeze, picked up by the wind but never enough to reveal what was underneath. But oh, his eyes— Innes had forgotten how the exact shade of aquamarine made them sparkle like tiny sapphires, far more precious than any gem Innes could ever receive from merchants vying for his favor. Now reflecting off the warm pinkish hues of the setting sun and free from the jungle they were hiding behind yesterday, Innes swore they still had their sheen even now. What he hadn’t recalled, what seemed so new, was the age that seemed to smooth out and refine everything else he once treasured. When last he saw him, Ephraim could still be considered boyish, his cheeks still a bit soft, his lithe and still rather short frame at the time, betraying the power in his form. When he last spoke with him, Ephraim was hiding, obscured by poor posture, a lingering sadness, and an unkempt appearance that made him look more like a beast than a man. This Ephraim hid nothing now. His jaw and cheekbones sharp, his hair groomed and trimmed to compliment his age. Dashing and princely, compared to the stranger who had wandered in yesterday. And to Innes’ dismay, Ephraim’s newfound height and fully filled out figure was sturdy with the kind of strength that came off of him with every breath. Ephraim was a man, well and truly a man, and Innes had missed it when it had happened. That filled his mouth with something foul again, but the bitterness was numb compared to the intensity he had felt earlier. Who knew being captivated by Ephraim would actually work just as well, if not better, than eyeing the grounds themselves. To think even now, Innes was still weak to his face. But after a solid minute of Innes gawking at the man from the opposite pillar of the balcony, Ephraim spoke up.

“Are you going to just stare at me, or are you going to get over here?” He didn’t even look away from the grounds, didn’t have to, he always had a sixth sense for Innes’ glare.

Heat rose back up in Innes' cheeks, having been caught off guard again, and though he’d like to put up a front he had simmered down considerably after swimming through daydreams of Ephraim. Daydreams he shouldn’t be having and should be upset over, but he would let exhaustion win for now until he could beat it over the head with a stick later. But while the last of Innes’ defiance died out, he took the last few steps to meet and stand side by side with Ephraim, doing his best to gaze at what he had come here to look at, and not the man to his right.

Ephraim remained silent afterwards, continuing to stare listlessly on the balcony and eyeing the grounds with a hollow expression, off in his own little world. Though, how dare he barge back into Innes’ if he was still going to be light years apart. Especially, on the king’s damn balcony, where he would like to stare longingly at his training grounds alone! But Innes supposed it must be the same for Ephraim in some sort of way. Longing for a past that you cannot possibly get back. Longing and knowing full well, for one reason or another, you can never have what you truly want. Even if Ephraim hadn’t left Magvel, the end result would surely be the same: Staring but never sparring.

“What about you? Are you going to go down there, or just staring?” Innes finally asks, copying Ephraim’s phrasing in a half attempted joke, while he tries to fill the air searching for his favorite target among the blurred blobs.

“Mm, no. Just reminiscing…” he spoke softly, the way he always did when he wasn’t in the ring. “I don’t much like sparring anymore.” 

Innes barely hides his surprise as he turns to face Ephraim, eyes wide and eyebrows arched, caught between shocked and disturbed. Innes always thought it more likely for a wild hog to grow a pair of wings and join the pegasi in flight, than for Ephraim to ever dislike sparring. But hes probably should have suspected it, Ephraim had been living a mercenary’s life for the past ten years, and Innes knew enough warriors who tired from their battles. Despite the incredulous stare, Ephraim continued to pay him no mind, still focused to the grounds below. Innes settled back as well, turning away to stamp out his concern and sympathy, to think of a time when Ephraim did enjoy the thrill of the fight. When Ephraim shone like the sun itself.

“What about you, do I get to see your bow arm again?” Ephraim finally turns to look at him this time, but it’s Innes who does not face him in turn. Comfortable where he is in their company, and also not ready to meet the slight smile he could just make out on the other man’s lips from the corner of his eye. That smile would surely bring him far too close to the past, and Innes wasn’t ready to go down that far.

“No, just— reminiscing…” he pauses, thinking of his own excuse. “I just don’t have the time for it. Real work doesn’t include much combat training, unfortunately.” He doesn’t mean for that to come out as accusatory as it sounds, but if it’s soured Ephraim’s expression, he’s not looking.

“It’s not suitable is it? I mean, in times of peace, anyway.”

Innes blinks twice, registering the question. Then turns to meet Ephraim, the first time in which their eyes have met. He wore a weary but knowing expression on his face, something that only came with a bit of age and a life that whittled away at your enthusiasm for it. Innes wasn’t expecting Ephraim to understand what he meant at all. He wasn’t expecting to be reflected back by those cracked sapphires, wasn’t expecting to share the all too familiar resignation to life’s burdens with the other. Ephraim, no matter his indifference, should be smiling, he shouldn’t even be trying to wrap his head around concepts fit for kings. But he was, or rather he had, and they left him just as beaten and empty as Innes. Well, at least they could now mourn together, sharing in the loss of what once was.

“No, I suppose not.” He doesn’t turn away, but casts his gaze to the balcony wall, fidgeting at the inside of his sleeve. “I always believed it was a king’s duty to be prepared for all manner of trials, but at the moment being combat ready myself just simply isn’t feasible.” 

Ephraim nods a final acknowledgement, before he turns back to look over the grounds. Innes does the same finally, and side by side they stare out in shared silence. Despite barely being able to make out the equipment lining the walls, or the distinct disciplined footprints in the dirt, there’s something comforting in the memory alone. A simpler time, when Innes wasn’t bogged down by his work, but could enjoy his youth. The quiet reprieve was much less empty with company who clearly understood the weight of their current life, as much as the nostalgia for their past. Innes had nearly forgotten how upset he was earlier, or even that part of his grief had come from the man next to him. Life had punched out his ferocity but for once he didn’t mind. As the last light of the setting sun finally fell over the castle walls and blanketed the sky in night, a yawn escapes him reminding him of the much needed sleep he needs to catch up on. Though he’d never admit it, Innes feels grateful that Ephraim is here with him now. 

Chapter Text

Eirika killed the Demon King. 

The final battle was the first time Ephraim had ever hesitated, for once he had not the strength to face his foe head on. He hated the creature that desecrated his friend’s body, that used it like a puppet, yet still he could not bring himself to draw his lance against his face. But Eirika, who had been lied to countless times, who had been played a fool by the wretched beast, fought with a righteous fury that Ephraim had never seen in his sister. She ran in with a reckless abandon, more familiar to his own, determined to bring an end to the nightmare even if it killed her. It was through her that Ephraim found the resolve to support his sister in the fray; he could fend off and take a few hits, keeping the demon king focused solely on him. It was hubris on the old god’s part to assume Ephraim was the stronger of the two when it came to matters of the heart. Fomortiis didn’t see it coming, in the blink of an eye Eirika swept in like a bolt of lightning, and slew him of her own merit. War had taught her much, much more than Ephraim had when they were young. 

Their friend’s corpse had been freed from the horror that rose from it, as Ephraim caught and coddled the lifeless body in his arms, Eirika led the army back out of the decrepit temple and into the woods. Like the moon guiding those lost in the dark, she remained resolute and dependable as she brought them back into the light, and she would continue to in the years after the war. Ephraim didn’t let go of the body for even a second, his steel grip was firm compared to the way his legs dragged on every brick and tile. Internally he begged the gods for an ounce of mercy, but the slack form in his hands had been dead for far longer than when it took the appearance of hell itself. Ephraim could scarcely recall how long it took them to leave the temple, he could neither remember the shifting scenery, nor the soldiers that marched beside them. Everything around him was inconsequential to the man resting in his arms. All was a blur aside from Eirika and their best friend, the last day in which all three of them would be together.

It was over, they were victorious, they had pushed back a world ending evil, so why didn’t it feel that way? A victory celebration was held just outside of Darkling Woods, reward for their trials and hard won battle, but to Ephraim much like everything else, the feast was a vague and muddy memory. He didn’t eat or speak, just shambled around the celebration empty. Seth had to tell him to sit down somewhere quiet, the most polite way he could relay to Ephraim that he was bringing down morale when they should have been at their highest. Ephraim took the opportunity to continue staying beside the body, lifeless and cold, tucked away in a tent for the wounded and dying. He did not let go again, his hand firmly intertwined with the other. Eirika was with him later in the night, it was the only time Ephraim noted in which she allowed herself to cry as she used to. When the weight of responsibility and appearances no longer mattered in the privacy of their shared grief. She held them both tightly then, but where her grip slackened, Ephraim’s remained. 

For days Ephraim stood beside that hollow vessel, traveled with it during moves, slept beside it when night fell, he didn’t leave his side even when they arrived in Grado. To leave was to concede to his death, to accept a life without him. Ephraim watched the dull glassy eyes sink into the sockets of their skull, as the flesh turned from pale white to a sickly green. He kissed lips that brought no warmth, no breath, no color; and clasped frail fingers with blackened nails as delicately as he could manage. The morticians didn’t touch the young emperor, for fear he was cursed with an evil that would destroy them and their families as it had their country, abandoning the body and leaving it to fall to ruin, rather than preserving the memory. But the funeral was delayed more so by virtue of Ephraim, who could not bear to say goodbye and who needed neither ambrosia nor nectar to safeguard the emperor’s lasting image. It worked out somewhat in the end, post-war Magvel left very little time for customary rituals like funerals. Grado was caught in panic over the earthquake, and suffered considerable damage on top of what it had sustained during the invasion, with so much on the line, Ephraim was allowed to hold on as long as he needed. Though by dedicating himself to the body he neglected his own duties in the restoration efforts, and most especially, himself. He didn’t eat or bathe for days, he remained present, always beside the other. Sometimes he spoke to it, in casual conversation as they had years before, but most times he remained silent— simply staring and drinking in the empty company. Ephraim was as dead as the bloated thing he held onto. Eirika, Seth, and others tried to pry him from his spell, but his mind and will were elsewhere, and unattainable at the time. He would have been useless as he was then, more useless anyways, if he was to fulfill his role as a leader. Ephraim only came to, after a particularly gruesome night. When the cold of the mortuary crept in and froze his breath, latching on like the death surrounding him. Desperately did he seek warmth in his companion, lying close beside him, yet finding nothing of the sort. Ephraim reached out, brought the other close as he had when they were boys, and— 

Crack. Squelch. 

The sounds, the smell, the way the body collapsed in on itself in his arms, deformed and barely recognizable— whether it had always been or was worse now Ephraim could not say. It was of no concern either way, he rose up in terror covered in blackened decay and rot. For days he had become numb to the sight, to the putrid scent that hung in the air like a suffocating smoke cloud, numb to his own body dying, but all at once did the sheer state of decomposition hit him with an intensity that left him with buckling knees and screams that echoed through the chill. Ephraim’s lost will woke up that night, retching bile in between sobs that only made his face an even bigger mess, intimately aware of everything he had stopped himself from feeling. He went through bouts of what felt like pure madness, covering himself in more of the viscera as a last ditch effort to seek any comfort and keep the memory alive. A twisted perverse form of skinship, Ephraim wanted the rot to seep into his skin until he too decayed from the inside. Wanted to wear the flesh and feel it contort and scar like his own, the sinews to cling to his bones and flex with his own muscles, the dark blood to leave stains on his heart until it pumped with his companion’s long lost life force or until it stopped beating all together. Ephraim had convinced himself that he could be a vessel for the dredges and scraps of his best friend, just as that man had convinced himself to be a vessel for a dark god. And much like that god, this man would surely consume Ephraim until there was nothing left. 

Clarity would eventually come back full circle to make Ephraim vomit and cry out again, as his consciousness caught up with how wrong all of this was. The sickness spread and caused wave after wave of nausea as his body rejected the idea of being a host. He stumbled away from the mess he had made with the world spinning around him in his delirium. Fear gripped him, and then sorrow, frustration, anger. All of his mind was scrambled and lost to the tidal wave of pure unrelenting feeling, which made him as ill as everything else in the room. Like an animal he thrashed and broke cots and various medical supplies in a blind rage, lost to his confusion and pent up energy, and no longer thinking but simply acting. 

It wasn’t fair. How dare fate be so cruel? He should still be here.

Ephraim used his body to vent and excise the storm within, breaking what was already broken and beyond repair. But then the visions came, visions of defacing that body, every splintered piece of wood— a bloody wound or bones tearing out of their shell; pain caused by Ephraim’s own hands. When he finally took in the mortuary again, panting hard with ragged breaths, it looked as recognizable as the body itself. Nothing Ephraim did would allow him reprieve, everything led back to mutilating that which he loved most dear. For a moment he swore he saw the lumpy fleshy splotch on the bed he had stayed beside for so long, pulsate weakly, the ribs expanding with breath and blood. His own heartbeat thrummed to a seemingly connected pulse, like their hearts were still in tune, like there was still a song to be sung. He bounded back to the corpse’s side, dropping to his knees and holding what he thought was still a hand in his, the grip breaking the bones between. He cried out a name like a plea, repeated it, screamed it till his ears rang with only that name. 

No response came.

No movement, save for the escaping fluid’s drip drop either. It was just his imagination, or the warping of his vision, or perhaps the body was indeed cursed to haunt and taunt him for all eternity. Ephraim slumped down again defeated, until the barest of a chuckle slipped between his lips. Then it became a giggle, rising and bubbling in his chest. Finally crescendoing into a loud hysterical laugh that broke its way through his newly renewed tears, the irony hitting him that he was no different to that traitorous son of a bitch Orson. That he could only repeat the name of the dead off his lips, that he had devoted himself entirely to someone no longer there, that he was beyond sick with grief or love. What did Ephraim feel back then? Horror? No, it was pity for the knight who yearned for his wife so fiercely that he committed crimes against nature itself. Monica almost seemed like an angel at this point, especially compared to the fleshy mass of organic rotted matter Ephraim gazed upon now. For the remainder of the night he let the waves of emotional unrest crash and sweep him away, being pulled along by the undertow and never fighting back. Ephraim felt he may surely drown in his anguish, unable to weather the storm of his own body and mind. And when he finally came down from it all, when he reached the shore battered and broken, only then did he make his peace.

Lyon was dead, and Ephraim had killed him.

In the morning it was Eirika who had found him, informed of a commotion that scared the servants so bad they didn’t dare check, for fear of a ghost or curse. He was still slumped over below the bed, head firmly placed against his knees as he held them close to his chest. He kept his eyes closed, unable to face what he had done, sick of looking at what he had spent months doing no other thing. With a gasp Eirika was beside him in an instant, covering her nose with her cloak and checking her brother for any injuries. When she was sure he was fine, gently did her fingers grace his cheeks, trying to lift him back out from the wall of his knees. It took a bit of effort to coax him out, but when his eyes met hers, he thought he’d go blind then and there from how they shone with the deepest of affections and concern. She looked him up and down, biting lightly at her lip, a little thing she’d always done when figuring out what to do. Ephraim couldn’t blame her, what was she supposed to do with someone who had practically crawled out of a corpse? But wordlessly, Eirika took her cloak, licked it once to Ephraim’s surprise, and brought it to his cheek. Before it could meet between a section of caked blood and his red rimmed eye, he grabbed her wrist.

“Stop, it will stain.”

“Then it will just have to stain.” She muttered softly, pushing past his grip and wiping away. 

He could only imagine that it wasn’t doing much, but allowed her to clean his face up until she was satisfied. With each swipe he watched Eirika’s eyes well up, but even as a tear slid down her cheek she smiled seeing more and more of her brother again. Eirika still smiled at him, after everything, she could still smile at him. She was particularly thorough with one spot, scrubbing until Ephraim couldn’t help but smile back while she manhandled a stain he could not see. There was a giggle and a sniffle from her, and the briefest chuckle escaped between Ephraim’s exhale. To find amusement in any of this was so very strange, morbid, but oddly sweet. Ephraim needed something oddly sweet at the time. When she was done, she surged forth and drew him into a hug that squeezed the wind out of his lungs. Despite the blood and grime that was absolutely still there, she brought him into her arms. Her grip tight around his shoulders, patting his head softly as he would have done for her when they were young. He brought his own arms up and around her waist, feeling for something real and there, something that wouldn’t collapse beneath his strength. Not some cold or unresponsive vague form, but a person warm and so very present. He cried again, voice still hoarse from the previous night, but the relief that spread over him was just as overwhelming as the harsh reality he had succumbed to the night before. He finally left the mortuary that day, having been saved by Eirika. Again .

Another quill snapped in Ephraim’s firm and unmoving hand, blotching ink all over the blank sheet of paper, the fifth one he had broken and the seventh sheet he’d have to scrap. Despite meeting with Tana and Gilliam, despite the legitimately pleasant evening he had with Innes the night prior, he still had no idea what to do about Eirika. He had written letters to Forde and Kyle, thinking it adequate preparation for the daunting task ahead. Forde and Kyle, who he had forced to abandon their positions when he declared his departure. Kyle, more so than Forde, was insistent on following him to hell and back. Forde was more intent on trying to get him to stay, wanting to remain by his lord’s side but not wanting to leave his brother’s. Either way, at the time Ephraim had desired no company from them. He could not bear to lose them too, nor could he take away two perfectly good knights from Renais and its people again. No matter how Forde or Kyle protested his worth to Renais, Ephraim found it pointless. He had come out of war victorious and still failed his people, unable to pick up the pieces without being coddled. He couldn’t justify continuing to be a burden upon those who made actual efforts to support the country. But despite the stubborn way he had ended things with them, despite coming back a coward, he was still able to put pen to paper for them. He was a fool to think he could inform Eirika of his return, when he still could not bear to face her.

He hated how much he relied on Eirika during the war, and well after it. How he stopped being the strong dependable brother he always was, the shoulder to lean on in his sister’s time of need. How he could barely accept that she had become that for him, his pillar, his rock, the one thing keeping him from sinking. He was always proud of her, but he struggled being anything less to her— less than her. He had failed her just the same, and had burdened her with far more than what he had put on his knights. Without fail she would put him back together, no matter how he still crumbled at the seams or that she was burdened to do the same for an entire two countries. She wasn’t always patient with his outbursts, or his refusals of her help, or his general piss poor mood, but she always let him come back to her when he needed to. And that just made it worse. Despite how deeply Ephraim deserved to be resented by his sister, she never did. Even while he began to feel his inadequacies and insecurities spoil and twist into resentment and envy, she had the emotional maturity to either set a boundary between them or give him some much needed space. Which, while it helped, also meant she often took up his responsibilities as he was unable to rule properly during the worst of his fits. And that just fed further into the spiral of self loathing Ephraim found himself going round and round in. He didn’t aid with the earthquake, upset over the late emperor’s seemingly meaningless sacrifice, he barely showed up for his meetings or public appearances, his own coronation speech he fumbled through having lost his speaking voice. And while he withered away in his people’s eyes, Eirika blossomed into the leader that they needed, that they wanted. Like an angel sent from above she offered them their much needed salvation; his too. Yet, after all of it, he still refused to be saved again. 

How was he supposed to tell her now? To tell her out of everyone, she couldn’t have done anything more for him because he had grown to despise her love. To tell her that while he was back he could not bear to see her, and to somehow explain that that did not mean he hated her. To show her the wounds and age he bore that she was robbed of experiencing with him. To tell her despite all her effort cleaning the blood from his cheeks, he had spent years wishing, hoping, praying he’d lie in the ground embracing a corpse all over again, than to spend another second with her. Even if Eirika, in all her wisdom and endless mercy, somehow understood each selfish complicated intricacy in Ephraim’s emotional complex, would that not make him feel worse? There was no doubt in his mind that Eirika didn’t want to see him again, it was that she did at all that hurt more. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to face the rightly earned fury his sister was very much capable of, or the weight of his own heart crushing him beneath the guilt from her absolution. He was trapped by the consequences of his own actions, a prisoner to feelings that couldn’t be sorted by an easy solution no matter how badly he wished there to be one. But he couldn’t just give up here, not again, not when Eirika had put in so much effort, not when Tana had too.

Oddly enough, he found himself thinking back to last night, the time he had spent briefly in Innes’ company. He thought for sure that when he felt eyes on him the king would sneer out something distasteful, at least chase him off for using his favorite viewing spot. But Innes hadn’t, they just stood there, thinking of the good old days. Understanding the present now, but appreciating the time that they had spent, perhaps even the time that they missed. Innes didn’t vocalize it of course, but Ephraim felt it, if only a little. He had been drawn to the balcony caught by training dummies that still seemed reserved for him and his sister. Ephraim’s dummy barely recognizable from the patchwork of splinters and deep cavities carved into the wood, and right next to his was Eirika’s who had pinpoint accuracy for the few deep holes she riddled into the dummies vitals. He was still fond of that memory, of teaching Eirika swordplay and the pride of watching her grow into an excellent swordswoman. Of a time when he had been her strength as much as she was his. Ephraim still didn’t know how to handle all that was said and unsaid, or every scenario his mind made up, but he was tired of focusing on the relationship with his sister that was complicated and messy and present. And instead of thinking of how he could never go back, he just appreciated that he had experienced it at all. That there was a time when it was just him and his sister, inseparable and always sharing in everything. Through their best days and their worst, they had stuck through it all together. Then finally, after much deliberation and multiple attempts Ephraim began putting pen to paper. The fond memories he had of their childhood guided most of his writing, but he did eventually confront the elephant in the room. Perhaps vaguely put, but in a form that Ephraim could swallow, and one he believed Eirika would understand. 

In the simplest words he ended his letter with:

I miss you, I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough for you ten years ago. I’m still not strong enough now, but give me some time and I will catch up with you. Promise.

Love,

Eph 

Chapter Text

Tana left on an impromptu trip to Renais early that morning. Innes was surprised that Ephraim did not go with her, but assumed the man just didn’t have the heart for flying. He saw his sister off of course, as an older brother ought to do, and told her to stay safe, say hi to Eirika and L’arachel for him, the usual pleasantries. It was when he jokingly asked when the queen was going to take her stray sibling back, that Tana shifted uncomfortably, like the flight winds had already begun to bristle her back. Innes noted it but did not comment, and as soon as it came it went, with Tana picking back up her typical cheeriness like nothing had happened.

‘We should all go together sometime!’ She answered in parting atop her winged steed, then took to the air and flew off with one last wave goodbye. And for the first time in a long time a genuine smile cracked itself across the king’s rigid features. A proper reunion between the four of them, he would most certainly cherish something like that… 

Except, he wouldn’t because that was five hours before Innes happened upon a certain lovely little letter. A clean cut, crisp letter emblazoned with an all too familiar, blue as the sky itself, family seal. Its contents were not so lovely, and if Innes hadn’t just finished cleaning his study of the night’s previous mess, he might’ve thrown another fit out of frustration and a still simmering decade’s long betrayal. Instead, with a cold steely glare and a voice both low and threatening, he requested for prince Ephraim, much to the detriment of his poor page’s heart.

Despite the death glare searing into the ex-mercenary, Ephraim remained unbothered as he entered the lion’s den, with the kind of nonchalance only a man who believed he wasn’t guilty could pull off. He stepped into the pristine study without any fear or hesitation, even saying ‘hi’ to the nightingale before he greeted the very man who summoned him. The nightingale was the only gift that survived the storm, and as an apology for frightening the poor bird, Innes placed its gilded cage nearest his window – uncovered, with some extra bird seed for good measure. With an annoyed sound caught between a cough and clearing his throat, the king was able to take Ephraim’s attention away from the creature and back to him. After a minute too long, the prince was finally seated across the king, with only a mahogany desk to keep him from the claws. Though, he remained distracted and seemingly disinterested in the threat right in front of him.

“Woah, what in the world is this?” Ephraim blurted, interrupting their meeting for the second time in under a minute, and picking up the object of his interest: a hastily made corkboard of incredibly obsessive and unnerving red lines of yarn and tacks, connecting a magic sigil, defamatory article titles, and information pertaining to a certain senatorial candidate. “Frelian Tyrant? Jeez, how’d you get on their bad side?” Ephraim looks back up at Innes with a crooked smile, friendly and trying to defuse whatever state the king was in. Innes only hardens his glare further in response to the weak ploy.

“An attack plan, it's none of your concern.” He yanks the board away from the prince like a man taking a toy from a petulant child, and lays it against the side of the desk. Ephraim huffs and deflates into the chair, his lazy posture and continued lack of concern further aggravate the pulsing vein in Innes’ temple. “Is there anything you want to say to me?” A question Innes can only grit through his teeth, lest he lunges across the desk for Ephraim’s throat.

“Um, I’m not actually sure what’s up your ass this time around. Care to enlighten me?”

“This.” 

For once he doesn’t deign to answer Ephraim’s vulgarity with a response. Instead, Innes slams the letter down on the desk to punctuate his point, and slides it in a similarly forced staccato motion towards Ephraim. The prince takes a moment to realize what exactly ‘it’ is he has received, but as soon as his eyes meet the seal a visible panic rushes to his features and in his now trembling fingers. Ephraim gives the letter a quick read through.

Then another.

And another. 

His eyes never cease darting up and down the page over and over again, as creases steadily start forming in the once pristine paper from his white knuckled grip. Midway through a line his eyes dart back to Innes with a fear buzzing around the aquamarine pools. Once, Innes might’ve said such a thing like fear did not belong in Ephraim, but in the current situation, after prior insolence and betrayal… Was Innes not due a little respect?

“Tana said she was going to talk to Eirika, that’s why she flew off today!” Ephraim’s words come out quick and more like a half assed excuse. None of which appeases the king, nor will he stand for them.

“Oh, and you did not think to go with her? You would relegate the duty of justifying yourself to your own sister unto mine instead? You have no shame, Ephraim.”

“I sent a letter with her— for my sister. She’ll understand when she receives it, she’ll understand why I cannot return to her, just yet.”

Innes raises a brow, “Excuses. You could’ve written to her months, no, years before. If you cannot acknowledge her with your presence, you must surely be able to in mine. Now that you’re back, why can’t you return to her, Ephraim?”

“I’m just— I’m not ready.”

That brow falls almost instantly back into an unimpressed scowl, “So, you continue to run even when you return to home with your tail between your legs. Did you think I would continue to offer shelter to you?”

“Tana said—”

“Enough about whatever ludicrous thing my sister promised she’d do for you this time. Did you really think I’d allow you to stay in Frelia indefinitely, after lying and using my generosity to continue avoiding your sister?” That shut Ephraim up quickly, leaving a sense of satisfaction in Innes, but not enough to quell his next provocation: 

“You left a coward, and you return a coward.”

At that, challenge sparked and lit a blue flame in Ephraim’s eyes. Innes had to fight a shudder at the unrelenting gaze. It had been so long since he had seen it, that he forgot exactly what it did to him. The way his skin prickled in anticipation, despite the warmth and buzzing anger still roiling beneath.

“Your generosity never exactly lasted very long.” Ephraim finally bit back. 

“My patience runs thin for the undeserving.” Innes responded evenly without missing a beat. He couldn’t quite hide the slight smirk that lifted up the edges of his mouth into a sneer. 

Ephraim remained quiet for a long moment, though he filled the silence with that same searing glare that seemed to be yelling in Innes’ own ear. They were locked eye to eye in a contest that spoke a thousand more words than their mouths. After another beat, Ephraim huffed, having found words to say aloud and losing the battle of stares.

“Fine. Then I’ll leave. That’s what you want, right? You wanted to insult me one last time, before kicking me out. It’s pretty typical of you.” 

A full blown retreat!? No, Ephraim would not be allowed to do that again. Innes had failed to return him once, failed to make him stay here on Magvel. Innes would not fail again, and besides he was well acquainted with how to drive the man away far better than he knew how to keep him. But driving Ephraim off would be on his own terms this time.

“Hah, I think you misunderstand, Ephraim. I’m doing what needs to be done, some of us have a duty to Eirika. Perhaps, not a familial one, but a political one.”

“What do you mean?” Trepidation was notable in Ephraim’s tone. Good, Innes had his full attention and his full concern again.

“I’m sending you back to Renais, as per her request in the letter.”

“No, wait. She didn’t request that!”

“She didn’t have to. It’s implied in the letter and the ten years of neglect you put her through. Besides, I’ve already made plans for you to be escorted back to Renais.”

“You. Did. What.” 

All the color seemed to drain from Ephraim, he rose, and then fell back into his seat. Still, his eyes flickered with residual defiance. Back when they were young, this would have been expected, but now? Ephraim fought a losing game, with a king who he resided in the kingdom of, Innes had every advantage imaginable at the moment. Ephraim loved to come back from unfair odds, but this? Uneven ground was never the purpose of these games... Though, the king had to admit these were no longer games, they were adults, and they had learned their places as adults long ago.

“You can’t do that.”

“Oh, but I can. You are within my borders, Ephraim. You have about as many rights as if you were an exiled fugitive from Renais.”

“I’m not going back.”

“If you continue to refuse, I will simply send you back to your sister in chains.”

Ephraim goes frigid, face contorting into one of fear and confusion. The final light dies, and dulls to pale grey. It should be a welcome sight, proof of Innes’ authority and the respect due to him. Instead there’s a disquieting sense of unease gnawing at his insides, guilt clashing with his resolve. He would sooner allow it to consume him than go back on his word.

“Please, don’t make me go back. Not yet I—”

Ephraim’s expression shifts again into a look of betrayal, his dull eyes like cracked sapphires nearly begging Innes to tell him this is not true. Innes swallows hard in an attempt to not falter, and thanks the gods those stones harden back into blazing contempt. He could not handle a pleading Ephraim, his resolve would surely break if met by a softer kind of resistance. The kind of method little sister’s used to get their way, the kind that teasing old mercenaries used to get more vacation time, the kind of thing only the people Innes loved could get away with. The kind of tactic that pierced even his cold heart. 

“You are a tyrant.”

 Ephraim spoke with venom back in full force. The insult stuck that time, before Innes brushed it off with a quick recovery. It was a dirty move, but it told Innes that Ephraim was aware of his surroundings.

“At least I still wear my crown.”

“You wear it with cruelty.”

“No crueler than what you deny your sister, no crueler than the crown that you placed on her head.”

“You think I don’t know what I did to her? Why do you think I am here and not with her?”

“As I said, because you are a coward. And I will not cater to a coward any longer.”

Ephraim goes quiet again, though this time even the spark of determination falters, as his eyes fall towards his right instead of meeting Innes head on. He looks like he’s out of retorts, excuses, anything else left to say, but he drops three final words under his breath. With an almost cold, calculated cruelty, Ephraim hits Innes with something he’s never once told him before. Not in all their time spent genuinely antagonizing each other.

“I hate you.”

“Goodbye, Ephraim.” 

“What do you mean he’s gone, Innes?!” 

It was late evening by the time Tana got back from her trip. And she was absolutely not happy, looming over Innes’ desk with fury in her eyes and cheeks already beat red in frustration. Innes' only response is to stare from his seat unamused.

“He was never meant to be here for long, Tana. You should be more worried about yourself,” he puts on his best reprimanding older brother face, though it resembles his father more than it suits him. “I was informed you were partially involved with tucking Ephraim away from Renais, care to explain?”

“I was going to sort it out with Eirika myself, in fact I did— I just flew back from Renais!” 

“There’s no need to raise your voice with me, young lady. Why did you even go to Eirika before you came to me?” 

“Better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.”

“Well I forgive you, but Ephraim is already on his way back to Renais whether he likes it or not.”

“Ugh you are so— Eirika is going to send him back you know! She would not want to see her brother against his will.”

“She will be happy to see him at all, besides I’m not taking any strays back.”

“That won’t matter. I bet he’d never want to come back now, after what you’ve done.”

“Good, I never wanted him to come back at all, Tana!”

Before she can retort or chew him out further, a knock rings from the otherside of the oaken study door. A small timid voice calls, none other than the king’s own page. Tana sighs and gets up to let the boy in, she does her best to look friendly, while her brother continues to shoot daggers from his place at the desk.

“What is it boy?” Tana’s head whips around so fast, she might have been mistaken for a fluffed up angry owl. Innes made no indication he would be changing his tone of voice anytime soon.

“Um— Prince Ephraim fled during his escort, injuring two of his guards and stealing a horse…”

“Oh great, he ran away. Again. Wonder how that happened.” Tana scoffs, folding her arms and coming back around to mockingly lean against the desk.

“The knights want to know what to do about the fugitive, s-sire.”

Oh gods, he ran away. Again. Oh gods, Innes actually drove him away, potentially off the continent. Again. Panic rises like alarm bells in his ears, his breath squeezing tight trapped from within the confines of his lungs. 

“Um sire? Should we send the knights to search—“

“No. Absolutely not. He’ll be on high alert and unlikely to go down without a fight. Post border patrols to ensure he doesn’t flee the country. Send someone to keep an eye on him at a distance, but don’t force him into custody, and don’t get caught. If he does escape we’ll have to make it so he can’t hitch a ride out of any of our ports.” Innes tries to think of anything he can do to at least bring Ephraim back. The only one who can apologize for this whole mess is him, but to meet Ephraim at the crossroads again. To fail to bring him home again, Innes’ wounded heart aches at the thought. He can’t bear to repeat his losses. But dammit, who could help with— “Is the commander still out in the field?”

“Are you really sure he can help with Ephraim?” Tana questions, brow raised in slight confusion.

No of course he’s not, but he has no idea who else to rely on. He can’t rely on himself, and he’s not sure if Ephraim will be pleased with Tana after lying to the both of them. There’s only one man Innes has ever relied on more than himself. Besides, the commander is the only familiar face Ephraim knows who he wouldn’t think is directly associated with Frelia or Renais. And Ephraim had once held a deep respect for the once famous mercenary, the Desert Tiger. If he can’t do it, then Innes has exhausted his options. He will be as useless as he was ten years ago, and ultimately the cause of it.

“He’s never failed me once, Tana.” He turns back to his page, stern in his voice but breaking from within. “Now is he out in the field or not?”

“Still running exterminations, sire.”

“Good. I will send word to him and explain the situation, he might know what to do. At the very least he was a mercenary, Ephraim will likely feel more comfortable with him than any knight. Alright, that’s all until further notice, dismissed.”

“I’ll relay to the knights and get you a messenger hawk for the commander, sire!”

With a final confirmation the boy turns and leaves to fulfill his duties. Innes’ fingers find purchase in his bangs, as he tries to literally wrap his head around what happened.

“Innes?”

He doesn’t register the voice, only how loud the ringing in his ears is. He failed, again, in every sense of the word. No matter Innes’ approach he could not keep, nor convince, nor beg, nor force Ephraim to come back home. He meant so little in the grand tapestry of Ephraim’s life, and yet the very same man seemed to define an embarrassingly large portion of his. Innes was loathed with no double meaning and no contradictory complications. He should’ve just stayed out of Tana’s way— out of Ephraim’s. He should’ve known better than to think he could make things better. They fought their whole lives, there was nothing more between them. His posture falters as the king slumps defeated, the whole world seems to be moving rapidly, yet Innes remains grounded in place. Like an old rotting tree that can only spread its poison to the ever changing earth around it.

“Brother…” 

A featherlight touch settles on his shoulder, before it sinks down into a firm grounding grip, bringing him back to the present. The ringing stops, he finally catches his breath and the world stops spinning. Bringing up his own hand he rests it against his sister’s, finally noticing how shaky his palms are. He weaves his fingers with Tana’s, before leaning his head against her touch and shutting his eyes until all that’s there is just the two of them. Tana shifts against his touch, moving closer until she can bring him into an embrace. Silently Innes reciprocates, wrapping his arms around his sister and pulling her closer to himself. His grip is desperate as he holds onto whatever he can in the dark.

“He will come back.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ll give him a beating if he doesn’t.”

“Tana…”

“I’ll drag him back and force you two to make up, just like what father did when you were young.”

Innes recalls a particularly mean spirited training session that had turned into a full blown fist fight. Ephraim had run off into the woods, and at the time Innes was far too young to know them like the back of his hand. It was his father’s careful eye and years spent as a ranger that had found the lost renaian prince, and forced the two into some kind of agreement. They were young then, young enough to form begrudging truces. Young enough to act as childish as they had.

“Why can’t you take him to Eirika instead?”

“He needs time to recover, brother, he has spent it all in grief. He will see her when he is sure he won’t hurt her again.”

“Mm, I see…” Perhaps Innes should keep his distance too, until he knows he will not regret whatever it is he does to his loved ones, “Thank you, Tana. I will… apologize next we meet.”

Tana lifts her brother’s head up to face her, her kind eyes seek to discern the truth of that statement. After a beat or two of studying him, she softens into a smile, having found the miserable honesty plastered on the king’s face, and swoops him right back up into her arms. “Good! That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Chapter Text

‘Damn him.’ Ephraim thought, as he slammed the door of the king’s chambers, storming all the way back to his room with bitter frustration still clinging to his bones. To think he thought that age would mellow or even humble that ego driven megalomaniac. Innes was nothing if not consistent— that stint on the balcony meant nothing, it was stupid of Ephraim to have convinced himself otherwise. To have thought that Innes might understand him, that maybe there was a place for hope in the long distant past. Foolish, really, their past was one of sharp teeth, blackened bruises, and chiding remarks. It only made sense that their future would be too, not like Innes was happy to see him when he first arrived, either. But to be looked down on, to be so wholly unwanted, to be pitied… if Innes would abandon him, then there was no one Ephraim could reasonably convince himself who would be willing to take him. He felt confined to the decisions of others, a prisoner of his own failings, but a prisoner nonetheless. Eirika’s kindness and Innes’ disdain, rulers who trapped him in the same wretched cycle he always found himself going around in circles. A coward, a sorry excuse for a prince, a broken blade with a dulled edge. Eirika kept him out of sentimentality and familial obligation, but of course Innes would be the first to throw him away with no remorse. To take out the trash – the very burden of Ephraim – and place it back onto some more willing victim. It didn’t matter how he tried to repair or clean or sharpen himself, Ephraim was surely fated and bound to be broken forever.

Ephraim spent no time to pack his belongings well, he didn’t have much to begin with before he left for Magvel. He grabbed his sets of clothes, including the rags he arrived in, and a dagger he had taken with him for the journey. Where he was going to go, he didn’t know, just that he had to get out of Frelia. It wounded him to no end that Innes was right, that his sister was just waiting on him, that to run now would be the same thing he had done ten years prior. But what did it matter? Ephraim gave it a shot, and nothing came of it. He could not bring himself to face either of them, the wandering suited him better. But as he arrived in the castle courtyard, prepared to go at it alone once more, a pair of castle guards greeted him instead. 

“Good day, Prince Ephraim, are you prepared for your journey home? There is a carriage and guiding party at the ready for you.” One of the guards informed, he seemed to stand taller and more confidently than his partner. Assured of himself, his position of authority, and his orders.

“Thanks, but I don’t need the entourage.” Ephraim tried to brush past them in an effort to escape, but the first guard caught his arm.

“Look, we’re real sorry about this Prince Ephraim, but please give me your hands. It’s king’s orders.” The second one chimes in, a little more laid back, attempting to put on the facade of a friendly face.

He begins whipping out some rather hefty looking iron handcuffs, and Ephraim hesitates for a moment, bewildered. The shock runs its course through his veins, and in its wake is incredulity and blazing resentment. Of course Innes actually meant it, as he’s absolutely meant everything else about this whole fiasco. Ephraim works his jaw a bit before tearing his single remaining arm out of the other guard’s grip and presenting it to his colleague.

“Oh, huh, this uh… We may need to modify this, huh?” He dangles the cuffs waiting for his partner to assist. 

“Give me that…” scolds the more assured man.

With one cuff around his wrist and the other cuffed tight around his backmost belt loop, Ephraim could only move his arm about three inches off his tailbone. The metal and chains were thick and sturdy, even with all his might he may sooner break himself than the shackle that binds him. They actually chained him, as though they were preparing to pack and ship cargo safely off to Renais. Treated like little more than a caged dog, an animal, somehow less than the prisoner he had felt like before. He’ll have to get out of the capital first before he can plan any sort of escape. Ephraim may not have had the will or determination to fight for himself, but when it came to proving Innes wrong, he could certainly muster the courage. He refused to let Innes of all people treat him like this. Refused to bend the knee to someone else’s ego.

Ephraim leaned heavy against the carriage door, slumped over and staring out the side window in irritated silence. Comfortable plush seating, and cream colored panels with gold trimming made up the interior of the luxurious ride, Innes seemed to spare no expense on him, despite the hostage situation he was caught in. The only indication of which were the shackles round his wrist, and the unwanted guest who sat across from the prince in the other seat, idly whistling awkwardly away. Unfortunately, the laidback guard was here to keep… well, guard over Ephraim, and ensure no escape attempts. After a few friendly attempts at diffusing the unease or starting a conversation, the guard ceased any more small talk. He was met with brooding silence each time, and decided he wasn’t going to get much worth the effort. Ephraim preferred it this way, it gave him time to think, to plan.

He bided his time, it couldn’t make his attempt too soon or he’d be recaptured almost immediately. Too late and he would be far too close to home for comfort. He just needed to find the perfect opening. Finally, out of the tall brick buildings of the castle walls, or the quaint little houses and cobblestone roads of the nearby city, the Frelian countryside came into view, in all its vast verdant planes. Just a little more ahead and they would arrive in the forest that steadily grew across the horizon line. Ephraim’s ticket out. 

As the carriage breached into the foliage, the ray of sun peering through Ephraim’s window became dappled with the shadows of leaves and woodland creatures moving high in the treetops. He listened closely to the bird song and the trickling of a nearby stream, to distract him from the monotony of clopping horse hooves or the long drawl of the carriage wheels. The party stopped exactly once for lunch, of which sat like mud in his mouth and stomach. No matter how good the sandwiches and little pastries were, none could coax his appetite from the jaws of his indignation. The guard seemed to be having a pleasant afternoon, almost as if the luxuries and novelties were meant more for him than for the escortee. About halfway into the journey just as they were deep enough into the woods for Ephraim’s liking, and the setting sun began to blanket the sky in the coming night. Ephraim chose now to make his move.

“Stop the carriage.” He ordered, finally turning to face the guard in front of him.

“What’s wrong, sir?”

“Have to take a piss.” 

Perhaps it was the bluntness of his delivery, but the guard went slack jawed for a solid minute before recomposing himself, “Uh-uh, can’t you hold it?”

“No, not really.”

“Damn, ugh alright…”

Well that was easy. The guard, having given up rather quickly, tugged on a thread that ran from the top of the carriage’s interior roofing. The vehicle came to a stop as the horses slowed, an escort knocked and popped into the carriage to ask the other what was up. After exchanging a few brief words, the guard ushered Ephraim out and away from the travel party. Leading him a little off from the main road but not too far. Ephraim was brought to a few paltry shrubs for privacy.

“Well uh, go on I’m not looking.”

“I can’t exactly get the drawstrings open like this.” He emphasizes with his arm’s limited distance behind his back.

“Oh, right, erm.”

The guard looks to be caught between wondering if he should uncuff Ephraim or help him with his business. The latter thought seemingly flustering the young man silly, as pink dusts the tips of his ears.

“We’ve made it this far, you can uncuff me. I promise no funny business from me.” Ephraim reassures with a smile, trying to ease the tension and embarrassment.

The guard gives him a questioning look, before eventually relenting and whipping out the key to the shackles. Perhaps he believed that since he had a weapon he could still overpower Ephraim, or perhaps he truly took him on his word. But as soon as Ephraim felt the metal clamp release his wrist, he socked the poor guy right in the nose. The force, strong enough to knock the guard out cold as he fell to the ground below. Ephraim leaned down, and patted his escort on the shoulder with a mocking:

“Look, I’m real sorry about this.” 

It couldn’t be that easy though, as Ephraim tried to swipe whatever was on the poor guy, a javelin sailed through the air landing right beside his newly freed hand and the other man’s arm. Ephraim looked up to see the victim’s more self confident partner, barking some orders to the party as he readied his lance. Whistles and calls were made, but no warning would deter the peerless warrior prince. Grabbing the javelin still stuck firmly in the ground, Ephraim hurled the thing right back at its previous owner, knocking the lance he was readying to the dirt road below. Shocked, the guard scrambled for his weapon, but not before the renaian bolted towards him, quick footed like he was carried on the wind. Just as alarm began to sink into the poor man tasked with being Ephraim’s keeper, the prince delivered yet another swift full knuckled blow, that knocked the man off his feet as it had his partner. Uninterrupted, Ephraim picked up the new weightier lance, a much more suitable weapon to the prince’s liking. 

He looked up to see the driver and three servants cowering behind one last guard, who held onto his spear poorly, like a farm boy grasping a pitch fork. His stance was far too wide for proper stability, and Ephraim could count ten different ways to disarm him instantly. But before resorting to further violence, Ephraim bellowed out a warning.

“Do you know who I am, boy? Yield, or perish.” He punctuated, pointing the spear dangerously close to the tip of the guard’s nose. 

Ephraim wore his legend like a mantle and his scar crested face as one would a war helm of fury. The last of the guard’s courage crumbled to dust, as he dropped his spear and bolted with trembling legs. He was first to run, with the other servants following close behind. Ephraim scoffed and began gathering around the now empty site, though he did not stay for long, not wanting to deal with the other two when they woke up. He grabbed another pre-prepared meal, what must’ve been for breakfast, and attached the lance to his back before untethering one of the horses that had been pulling the carriage. Having successfully escaped his captives, he made his way out into the dead of night.

As the first light of dawn breached the horizon line, and the cuckoos of crowing cocks could be heard throughout the mist laden air in the town over, so too did a traveler emerge from the neighboring brush and woods atop a fine steed. Ephraim had spent the night moving slowly through the forest, using the cover of its dense greenery and the cloak of night as camouflage from his pursuers. He doubted news of his escape had travelled too far, but to be safe he did not make a run for the border between Frelia, Carcino, and Renais. They would have been expecting his party, and the delay or the appearance of one lone traveler would’ve set off alarms to those posted. Besides, Ephraim still had not chosen where to roam to next, if he should even stay on Magvel at all. Perhaps, the best thing to do was to lay low in Frelia before taking a trip to the other side of the continent. Rausten was home to the Darkling Woods, and Ephraim was sure Myrrh would be happy if he paid her a visit. Yet another promise he neglected, he had failed to see her after the war was over… For now he could take refuge in town, and—

A scent like brimstone and sulfur assaulted him, carried on the breeze just north of Ephraim, as he quickly covered his nose. There was no mistaking it, denizens of the hells here? But how? To his horror, emerging from the same woods a few meters away, were the unmistakable pale bones and staggered limps of the shambling dead. Revenants and bone walkers made their slow march towards the village ahead. There were maybe about a dozen of them, more revenants than bone walkers. The animated skeletons carried ill taken care of hunting bows and pitchforks, a far cry from the venin weapons and dark magic blades they had been fitted with during the demon king’s war. Well, it mattered not why or how they ended up here, Ephraim was not going to allow them to wreak havoc on any civilized land. He readied his lance and charged into the fray.

Launching himself off his horse and barreling into one of the skeletons, Ephraim was able to knock the creature so hard the magic holding up its limbs collapsed. Bones cracked and flew off, its skull hitting one of the revenants smack in the jaw, as its ribs broke and splintered to the ground knocking against each other creating a sound almost like a grim xylophone. The party of undead was thrown off, it took each zombie a solid minute to process what had even happened with their maggot filled minds. The bone walkers were faster to respond (despite their empty heads), each aiming their bows and pitchforks at the prince, one even picking up its comrade’s fallen femur bone to use as a club. Ephraim deftly dodged the arrows as they fired, lancing one of the skeleton’s right through its eye socket and popping its head off with the same swing, as he crashed it into its friend. Its skull spun around on its vertebrae like an owl, before coming clean off along with its flying jaw and fallen teeth. Three bone walkers not necessarily down, but relatively speaking incapacitated for now. Ephraim readied his lance once more, lowering into a defensive stance as the revenants finally caught on, their claws gleaming in the light of the morning sun. Ephraim had found himself surrounded, and in front of impossible odds for lesser men. Inch by inch, a devious upwards twitch pulled at the corners of his mouth. For as much as he hated it now, instinct always seemed to kick in and claim him in the throes of battle. This feeling was still… wonderful…

A gut curdling whinny broke him from his bloodlust spell, as he whipped his head around to see his horse being accosted by a revenant. She reared up and tried to stomp the thing, but it would not yield in its slow lumbering pursuit. The momentary distraction had caught Ephraim off guard and he felt his blood go cold as that bone walker with the femur held the limb high over its head, he braced himself for the impact, but it never came. Instead a great axe cleaved through the exposed shoulder blade, leaving a garish diagonal cut all the way to its hip bone, the walker crumbling to the dirt beneath, before it ever had the chance to swing. In the blink of an eye, the other dead around him dropped like flies, the only indication anything had happened was the whistling wind and a crimson and magenta blur. When he turned back to check on his horse it had trotted a considerable distance away, while the zombie that had targeted her was now preoccupied, uselessly slashing away at a dancer light on her feet. She gracefully wove and looped her silk ribbon round and round the beast, until its limbs were fully ensnared. With one good tug, it tripped and fell over flat on its face, wriggling in its bindings, but otherwise subdued. Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his lance. 

The old mercenary sheathed his axe back into its shield and slung the whole thing over his shoulder. He grinned wide at Ephraim, the curl of his lips uplifting the scar that crested his face from cheek to cheek. As his compatriots, a woman of short pinkish hair and blank eyed stare, stabbed the still wriggling dead caught in the dancer’s coils. She cast the black blood from her blood red blade and sheathed it, while the dancer retrieved her rings from the ruined silk, discarding the fabric and making an audible complaint about replacing it later to the swordswoman.

“Commander Gerik?! What are you doing here?” Ephraim exclaimed.

“Well jeez, I could ask the same to you. Long time no see, prince.”