Having too much and too little time simultaneously

Despite the large vaulted ceiling, the room seems to shrink and leaves me with no air to breathe, no taste to wet my chapped lips with except the cursed iron tang of blood. Not mine. The aching exists only in my head, and although my muscles respond with unusual sluggishness, I can drag myself from the cold marble and to my feet.

Validar’s disgusting narrow face has vanished; the throne at the head of the hall sits there abandoned. The enemy defeated? The battle won?

This does not taste like victory. A quietness enwraps the pillars and marble tiles, the quietness of a tomb, devoid of the cheers of my comrades, devoid of the clangs of combat even. Only this single voice laughs.

“Chrom?”

Speaking worsens the pain. The fog attacks my vision with full force. Darkness coats my eyesight, my focus breaks. I clutch my head, press my fingers against the skin, and stumble. Soon my skull must burst under the pressure.

A curse? Likely. A last parting gift from Validar, assuming he did in fact die.

But where is Chrom?

When my gloves slide across my temples in another futile attempt to stifle the aching, they leave behind a slippery sensation. The tang of iron increases tenfold, and I retch.

Blood on my hands. Not mine. But not Validar’s either.

I turn. Despite the headache that attacks my inner balance and tilts the floor like a Plegian war ship in a storm-lashed sea, I turn.

It’s like waking up from a dream. The fog retreats, the puzzle pieces click together, and absolute clarity allows me to witness what I have dreaded to see all throughout the past years, the sight born from my worst nightmare. But this is no dream. The blood on my hand proves it.

Grima laughs.

I scream.

Our voices are one and the same.

I drop to my knees next to Chrom, breathless, dizzy, robbed of all logical thought. No, please. Anything but this. I had so many strategies to avoid this scenario, so many plans written and crossed out in the light of a lonely candle, so many hours spent studying – all for nothing. My hands are cold.

In the far distance and yet right beside me, the Fell Dragon Grima laughs. He allows me to search Chrom’s body for signs of life, and he relishes in the cries with which I again and again and over again call out to Chrom. My heart throbs. His remains silent.

With empty eyes, he stares at the ceiling, and maybe he is looking for the future that will now never be. I claw at his cape, hammer against his breastplate, press my mouth to his to transfer breath and life from me to him. He remains still. From the wound at his side drips blood, but the stream runs thin; there is no longer a heartbeat to supply the body. The flesh around the wound is scorched and smells of burned skin.

This isn’t your fault…Promise me you’ll escape from this place…

His face comes back to me, twisted in agony. But not the slightest feeling of betray hardens his gaze as Chrom falls. His hand still expects to find mine.

This isn’t your fault…

Liar. The grisly outcome of my deed stares me in the face. The traces of thunder magic still flash across Chrom’s wound from time to time, in synch with the breath of its spellcaster. My breath.

“CHROM!”

I shake him. He cannot hear me. He is gone.

It’s over. Everything. If this were a chess game, our side has lost their king. The very reason to fight. But one of our pieces landed the killing blow, kicked the king from the board, and now cries over the loss with a voice that grows weaker every minute. Without Chrom’s hand to wield Falchion and banish Grima from this world, what hope is there?

None. I have no strategy to turn the tides of war this time. No trick to shake out of my sleeve to dazzle the enemy. I am the enemy.

“I’m so sorry.”

My words fail to call him back. Nothing will reach him now, not my hands, not my screams, not my pleas.

The stench of smoke mingles with the omnipresent odor of blood. Fires crackle outside, the abhorrent breath of the castle grounds below the Dragon’s Table.

The Dragon’s Table, yes. Where Chrom and I were supposed to fight the last battle and end the war, rid this world of Grima once and for all. As one!

And I was naïve enough to believe him.

My legs tremble as I stand, my chest constricts as I swallow another lungful of the toxic air. Still I stumble towards the balcony windows to the right. If I look at Chrom for longer, the last embers of my strength will die down. Grima’s whispered mockeries already grow louder. My hand leaves behind a bloody sign as I grip onto the pillar that frames the exit to the balcony. Still I stumble forward.

Sparks tumble across the clouded sky. I have to shield my eyes from the bright orange raging out there, but I force myself to look.

The castle stands in flames. Everywhere I turn my eyes, fires are consuming buildings, structures, hopes alike. The battlement where I have stationed Virion is a pile of crumbling stones. There, the yard where I ordered Sumia to hold open a path to retreat has vanished in a storm of flames, and the tips taste the nearby houses, hungry to devour them too.

I claw at the pillar, but the stone offers no support. The Shepherds have scattered. How many share Chrom’s fate? I hate myself for thinking of the statistics of my loss. For thinking of the people down there, my comrades, as pieces on my chessboard for a heartbeat.

How presumptuous to think this chessboard was mine to begin with. All this time, I only played Grima’s game. I was, I still am his piece to control at leisure.

He cackles as I reach this conclusion, but it is my voice with which he laughs.

I make another step towards the chaos below. Stone crumbles, the fire roars, the wind tears at my coat as if to drag me with it. How long before I lose control again? How long before I kill another one of my comrades, Lissa, Lucina, every last member of Ylisse’s bloodline to ensure Grima’s permanent victory?

I make another step. From the balustrade of knee-height, pebbles rain down, and they clatter as they strike the buttresses of the palace wall on their way. A long fall yawns below.

“I’m so sorry.”

Grima hisses. He tugs at my muscles, he assaults my mind with burning daggers, attack after attack against my fickle mental walls. My ancle creaks, then snaps under the pressure of the tug-of-war I play with a god. One leg gives in, but it’s alright, I have reached the edge.

You told me we were two halves of one whole, didn’t you Chrom? But with one half gone, the other has no purpose anymore.

Before me, the castle aches under the fire. Behind me, the man who pulled me to my feet and gave me the strength to walk lies dead. I have all but one strategy left.

I’m so sorry, Chrom. I have to break another promise I made you.

Grima howls, his claws tear at my mental walls, his fiery breath scorches and corrodes and devours my body from the inside, and my weak survival instincts scream at me to give up to end this pain.

But I refuse to listen.

Grima roars. “NO, YOU FOOL!”

I make the last step.

 It’s like spiraling into a nightmare. Grima’s heart is still beating. It hammers against the bruised ribcage and sounds the drums to announce my final failure. Grima’s chest rises from the unforgiving cobble stone that should have killed him. And when he draws in a breath tasting of dust and ash and doom, his laugh returns and he raises his hand towards the dark clouds to squish the entire world in his fist.

I want to scream. But I have no voice.

I want to pray. But to whom? To Naga? There is no point in trying. Despite the shattered legs and despite the broken ribs, I am alive. Or rather, Grima is alive.

With the hand that used to be mine, Grima follows the contours of his new face.

“Yes,” he says, “now you finally realize what a fool you were to resist me for this long. A noble attempt to alter the future. But your little stunt will not change the inevitable. What do you think, how much time did you buy your pathetic friends? A month? Maybe two? You actually thought you could sacrifice yourself like the last Exalt. Pitiful. What was her name again?”

Emmeryn.

“Well, it makes no difference either way. You couldn’t even do that right. This body will heal. And if I have to knit together every bone and every muscle with dark magic, so be it. Unlike you, I can take my time. And when the right moment comes, I will devour this world.”

I huddle in the small corner of this body that still belongs to me. I cannot move. Darkness wafts to all sides, and the Fell Dragon encircles me, an amalgamation of massive wings and greedy fangs that swallows me whole.

Grima knocks against my makeshift fortress. “What, you don’t want to annoy me with senseless curses? Not even one of those pretty phrases about hope you Shepherds like so much? It almost seems the only thing you managed to kill with your little trick is your fighting spirit. Ironic.”

The darkness pulsates, and I sink into it.

“All the better,” Grima says. “Then we can finally become one. Let me devour you, my sweet vessel.”

My vision is fading. The view Grima and I used to share is slipping from my grasp, and soon the dancing sparks are nothing but a memory. The sounds of distant war echo out. I no longer feel the rough stone pressing against my back nor the needle stitches of agony whenever my broken legs twitch. This sensation, every sensation now belongs to Grima.

The game is over. The pawn has played its part. In stupid ignorance it walked among the chess pieces from the other side, believing it might fight and love as one of them. But the dream is over, the nightmare has dawned, and the pawn has returned to the hands of its master.

Why delay the inevitable any further?

Come on! That’s no reason to give up!

Chrom, you liar. Two halves of the one whole – then why won’t you let me follow you?

I huddle deeper into my corner. Chrom’s voice rings all the more loudly. How strange. Despite the shadows all around, he is still here. Maybe this goes on for only a moment, maybe the month of reprieve has already passed, and Grima destroyed the world without my notice. I have lost my sense of time.

Giving up becomes my best strategy, my only strategy.

No. You’re more than this. You’re stronger than him, I know it.

But I killed you, Chrom. When you counted on me, I was too weak to resist. Besides, you are an illusion of my consciousness, a fabrication stitched together out of memories because the real you lies dead at the Dragon’s Table. I have no more strength to stand and fight. My hands are cold.

If I were in your place, you wouldn’t give me up so easily. This isn’t the end. Grima thinks you’re defeated, but you only stumbled. Prove him wrong. Fight back.

I cannot move. My legs are awfully far away, and all around me drift Grima’s shadows. But from somewhere in this darkness, a hand reaches out to me. It cannot be real; this too belongs to a memory. And yet, the hand waits there, the familiar fingers invite me, a light in the dark. I hesitate. But I could never refuse a request from him.

Despite the shadows and despite the faint rumble of Grima’s heartbeat, I grab onto the hand, and a strong arm pulls me to my feet. I stand.

Chrom smiles. This smile of confidence and understanding, the smile that makes you believe in yourself almost as much as you believe in him. That’s more like it.

And as his fabricated face fades into light, I can see with my own eyes.

The sparks still flutter across a smoke-darkened sky. Grima is still waiting for one of his underlings to drag this body to a healer. Bit by bit, he crumbles pebbles in his fist.

I move my thumb; a pebble slips from Grima’s grasp, clacks onto the cobble and hops out of reach.

Grima growls. For a moment, his suspicions are raised, and the poisonous shadows around his arm pulsate. But he thinks nothing of it. A momentary clumsiness allowed the pebble to escape, nothing more. The wielder of Falchion is dead, and no pathetic bond between him and the former owner of this body prevents Grima’s absolute control over these hands, hands that will soon spill the last drops of Ylisse’s exalted blood.

Or so Grima thinks.

Purple bursts of dark magic emerge to my right, and out of them steps Validar. The burns covering his arms hinder him little as he bows to his master. Not even the satisfaction of his death remains; that too was snatched out of my grasp. With a hand practiced in alchemy and curses, poison and murder, Validar sows Grima’s vessel back together. He repeats the procedure many times, first on the steps before the Dragon’s Table, then in the dungeons underneath his palace. His abhorrent face bends over me as he breaks bones back into place. A most loyal servant to Grima.

And as this body heals, Grima awaits the day where he can finally begin his conquest. The wielder of Falchion is dead. Soon the month of reprieve ends. By then, Grima rarely wastes a thought to the former owner of his body.

But I stand. I don’t know for how long I will hold on, nor do I have a way to tell if my efforts will amount to anything at all. But terrible odds have never convinced the Shepherds to quit the war, right, Chrom?

I stand, and I will fight. Against the strings that bind me, against my cursed blood, and against fate itself if necessary. Let me fight my own small war against a god.

 The battlefield of our war has more in common with a prison. Shadows and blindness construct the walls of this prison, and for long stretches of time, I hammer against the barricades without finding a way out. But sometimes, Grima’s shackles loosen, the walls fissure, and a hole opens for me to peek through.

Then I can see.

I see the deserted fields of Ylisse, dried and poisoned until no seed of corn can hope to sprout from this soil. I see the floods of undead wash into villages and castles alike and tear them to pieces. I see my comrades fight, and I see them fail.

Each sight drives another dagger into my core, and sometimes I cannot bear to look anymore. Then I sink back into my prison and allow Grima to direct his most valuable chess piece whichever way his bloodlust drives him.

But these phases never last long. A voice, far stronger than Grima’s whispered mockeries, urges me to devise a new strategy and do better next time. Again I stand, and again I fight. And sometimes Grima wallows in the despair of the people at his feet, he relishes their hopeless struggles, and in his self-confidence, he forgets to lock the doors to my prison for me to slip through.

Then I can move.

A slight turn of the wrist here. A delayed burst of Grima’s destructive breath there. A missed attack from time to time. Never much, rarely enough, but these actions are my small victories in the war against a god.

I can prolong Frederick’s life for five seconds before a lightning bolt tears through his chest.

I can restrain Grima’s hand long enough for Cherche to say her goodbyes to her husband.

I can buy Lissa the time to save her son.

Grima curses each time, his rage sends tidal waves of dark magic through my veins and burns me from the insides until flames instead of shadows make up the walls of my prison. Then I perform a tactical retreat and leave the battlefield to him for a while. He tramples a few villages in my absence. With a sick grin, he lets lighting sparks burst about his fingertips, unmatched and undisturbed. A false sense of security lulls Grima, makes him careless, and when he lowers the barricades of my prison, our war resumes.

He hunts down my comrades. One by one until no one remains.

He hunts down their children. Again and again they slip through his grasp, and I allow myself a relieved breath. Validar vows time and time again to satisfy his master’s wishes, but the children escape his traps and outrun his assassins. A nervous twitch befalls Validar’s left eye whenever he brings news of his most recent failure to his master. Grima’s patience runs thin. I cannot deny my satisfaction whenever Validar struggles for excuses.

His forehead all but kisses the marble floor. “I’m inconsolable, master.”

Each of Grima’s steps likens to a burst of thunder as he traverses the length of the hall atop the Dragon’s Table. The darkness floating around his figure reflects onto the polished pillars, and Validar twitches.

“I’m getting tired of your excuses,” Grima says. “How difficult can it be to capture a handful of children?”

“They have capable allies…”

Grima silences Validar with a wave. “All I ask is for the head of Chrom’s daughter. Does such a simple request outclass your abilities?”

“Your wish is my command, master, and I will not stop until you are satisfied. Have I not placed the heads of countless other Shepherds at your feet? And haven’t I thought up the trap that killed Chrom and gave you your vessel? The child cannot hide forever. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I shall hope so.”

“But… is she truly that important?”

“Fool. The exalted blood runs through her veins. And each day you fail to capture her is another day she might perform the Awakening ritual. Need I remind you that this ritual is the only threat to my eternal reign?”

“I have hidden both the Fire Emblems and the gemstones with utmost care in the most impenetrable Plegian fortresses. The child will never obtain them, you have my word.”

“Your word is no longer enough.” Grima stops in front of Validar. The latter fails to uphold eye contact and drops lower on his knees. Grima comments the display with a chuckle. “Tell me, Validar, how many times did I order you to bring Chrom’s daughter to me?”

“Master, I—”

“And have you even once brought something to show for your supposed devotion to me? All these pitiful humans you have tugged away in your dungeons, and not one of them has spilled where she is hiding? Either your torture methods have rusted or… Or your heart’s not in it.”

Validar’s eye twitches. “Never, master, that could never be the case. I’m only loyal to you.”

“Yes, that’s what you like to tell me. But I believe defiance runs in the family. It’s like an illness tied to your blood. Like a weed that keeps infesting the garden no matter how often I cut down the trees. The owner of this body is resisting me even as we speak. Although I must say, the resistance is rather lacking when your life’s the only one at stake.”

“I have no ties to my traitorous child! My life only belongs to you.”

“Indeed it does.”

Grima lunges forward and grabs Validar’s face, squeezes a little. Stifled gasps for air fill the hall. Validar doesn’t even think to defend himself.

I cannot deny my satisfaction.

“The blood connection between you and the former owner of this body gave you power,” Grima says. “You were quite useful for a while. And let’s not forget that without your generous aid, Chrom would still be alive, and this body might have remained beyond my grasp. But I have a tool that serves me better than you ever did. We are almost one. All it needs is a final nudge in the right direction.”

“Please, I can still be of use!” Validar cries. His hands try to loosen Grima’s grip in vain.

“Oh, you will be.”

I stare at the man who fathered me. His skull creaks under my fingers. All I feel is satisfaction when the thunder magic blossoms in my palm.

“The reward for your efforts,” Grima says.

“For Chrom,” I say.

Our voices are one and the same.

Lighting illuminates the farthest corners of the hall for a moment. The burst can be seen all the way in Ylistol, and whispers of a bad omen travel between the handful of soldiers on the battlements. When the brightness fades, so does Validar.

The heap of ash before my feet soon scatters with the wind howling from the balcony.

This does not taste like victory. But what does it matter at this point? I sink into the darkness, enwrapped by the Fell Dragon’s wings. My body is cold.

The net tightens. The end approaches fast.

 Grima’s eyes turn to Mount Prism. The ash of burnt grass crumbles under his boots, and where waterfalls used to bathe the mountain in gentle mist, now the stench of the undead fills the air. Ylisse’s remaining forces have fought valiantly to protect Naga’s sanctuary. But Grima has armies to command and discard at will, and the lightning bolts tearing through these poor, blue-clad soldiers leave them no choice but to retreat.

I can only watch.

When Grima descends from Mount Prism, the deed is done, and Naga is dead. A little of her light remains, a sprinkle of magic in the muddy ponds amidst the hills, but it is not enough to enable the Awakening ritual. My war has amounted to nothing.

Grima knows this. I know this.

But the same cannot be said about all of Ylisse’s fighters. Although at this point the mere thought of resistance equals folly, and although Grima proved his unmatched power when he killed Naga, one brave moron jumps at Grima from behind when he is climbing down the steps below Naga’s crumbling sanctuary.

The sword strikes the back of Grima’s skull, and even I, from the depths of my prison, hear the dull echo of the impact, the shock that tips Grima’s sense of up and down.

I thought it impossible.

And yet, for a moment, Grima commands neither his surroundings nor this body. His permanent victory, a moment ago so certain, is escaping his claws, and I almost dare to hope that at last I can trade Grima’s darkness for a different, final one.

Of course, the moment ends long beforehand.

With an inhuman roar, Grima whirls around and seizes the attacker by the throat. He kicks himself free, lands lightly on his feet, and charges Grima a second time.

“Brace yourself, evil doer,” he says. “This time you shall not escape my steel.”

The sword in his hand dances and twirls through the air, whirrs with the call for Grima’s mortal flesh, and against any other opponent, he would have succeeded. Here he slices Grima’s coat, there he scratches the skin underneath. But a few sword slashes, no matter how well timed, are no match for a god. Thunder crackles, darkness erupts from Grima’s body and scorches what little plant life has survived the poisonous steps of countless undead. The burst rips the lonely warrior from his feet. Blood drips onto the steps. As he struggles to stand and as he throws a last, unrelenting glare at Grima, I recognize his face.

Owain.

Lissa’s son.

He has aged, has almost reached adulthood, and the years on the run from the undead has hardened his features. But I still see the boy who cried out silly attack names as he challenged his cousin Lucina to stick duel. Too young to throw his life away. Yet he does exactly that.

“This is for my parents,” Owain says and pounces.

Grima has no mercy. The surprise attack to his skull still upsets his balance, but this trifle will hardly stop him from devouring his prey when it came so willingly to the slaughter. Flames encircle the battlefield, sparked by Grima’s destructive breath. Owain advances, one flawless technique after the other, but when he fights this battle alone, when the air becomes impossible to breathe and his opponent is a god, how can he hope to succeed?

The door to my prison stands ajar; Grima’s focus rests on the battle outside. Maybe I could intervene and prolong Owain’s life by a minute or so, maybe even offer him an opening to escape.

But I only watch and taste the sulphur all across my mouth. This war is already over and lost. Why delay the inevitable any longer?

The flames burn higher, Owain staggers, stumbles, and the next burst of magic will kill him. Grima raises the hand that used to be mine… when a throwing axe collides with the back of his skull.

Everything tilts. My prison walls shatter, and Grima’s howls ring from all sides, furious, disoriented. I can no longer tell to whom this body responds, in one moment Owain’s surprised expression reaches me with full clarity, and in the next total darkness collapses over me. Inigo dives into the circle of flames, or so I think, a second axe readied for the throw. My veins burn as Grima’s shadows leak from them; again darkness instead of sight. I squeeze my head, or maybe Grima does, and surely Brady and Yarne are no more than specters amidst the tumbling sparks as they help Owain back to his feet.

“You guys…” Owain’s voice sounds far away amidst the storm raging in Grima.

“Idiot!” Brady punches Owain’s arm. “You wanna die here?”

“That wasn’t part of the plan!” Yarne’s eyes dart across the raging fires. “But, err, can we please discuss this somewhere else? I can already hear the undead.”

“No,” Owain says and struggles out of Brady’s grip. “We can finish Grima! Once and for all.”

“Forget it,” Inigo says. “I’m too young and, frankly, too charming for that kind of sacrifice play. Besides, we have a different mission, in case the blow to your head made you forget.”

Brady nods. “Lucina is counting on us to find the stones. On all of us.”

“But—”

“I said forget it! And if I have to knock you out and carry your sorry skin all the way, you’re not dying today.”

“Guys?” Yarne points at me – or at Grima. No, it is Grima. The shadows that so often waft around this body pulsate, he writhes, I dig my nails into my temples, a soundless cry hangs on these lips.

“Do you think he’s going to explode?” Yarne asks.

Brady coughs against the smoke. “I’m not waiting here to find out.”

“My, my,” Inigo says, “and all that trouble just to save you from your own stupidity.”

“Then why did you come?”

“A bad habit; my parents were Shepherds just like yours, you know. Now do me a favor and move those feet.”

Owain takes a last look over his shoulder. “I almost had him.”

“Sure you did.”

As these words echo out, the four figures vanish within the smoke screens, alive to fight another day. No thanks to me. But I have no time to form apologies. The throbbing in my head persists, worse than ever, Grima roars, and out of every pore his shadows seep outwards until my skin stands aflame with agony.

I want it to end. Desperately.

All of it.

Grima screams, I scream, and in a tidal wave that sweeps across Mount Prism, a wave to overrun the stooping trees and extinguish the fires, in a wave that leaves no ant alive Grima’s darkness breaks from his vessel. The taste of sulphur disappears.

Then it is over.

I still breathe. And in some corner of this body, Grima breathes as well. A disappointment, no doubt. But for the moment, Grima has exhausted his magic, and the net around me hangs loose. This body is wholly mine for a short while.

I owe Owain my thanks for this brief sip of freedom. Because as I take in the air, even though the stench of the undead tarnishes the taste, even though my throat burns with each gulp, I have time to realize my newest failure.

My lack of initiative almost ensured Owain’s death. Just another drop of blood on my hands, sure, just another name on a growing list. Another helpless stone in Grima’s path, kicked aside without a second glance. And yet, someone came to save Owain despite the impossible odds. Naga’s death decided the future, a future entirely shaped by Grima’s dark wings. No hope and no salvation wait at the end of this nightmare. And yet…

I wander across the mountain slopes. The trees are leafless, and winds howl through their broken crowns. The breeze cools my aching limbs, the blood on the back of my head dries. I kneel down amidst a burnt meadow, and when I stroke away a covering of ash, patches of green reveal themselves. A few grass blades have survived. They shrink under my touch, but they are alive nonetheless. I feel the fine contours under my fingertips.

This is where I find Tiki.

She looks the same as when I last saw her, before the battle at the Dragon’s Table. Although she must sense Grima’s darkness flowing through my veins, she comes closer, and her steps stir clouds of ash to expose the living grass underneath. In the rare sunlight peeking through the clouds, the green teems. One could almost think we have travelled back in time before the war conquered this hillside.

“Naga is dead,” I say.

Tiki lowers her gaze. “I know.”

“You should go and warn Lucina. I don’t know how long before he – before I make it to Ylistol. I’m sure she has people she wants to say goodbye to.”

“You make it sound as if the fight were already over.”

“It’s not?”

“Not for Lucina. She has Chrom’s determination. You more than anyone else should know how far such willpower can take you. Even in the face of impossible odds.”

“I thought you might say that.” I try to recall Lucina’s face from when I last saw her. The young girl with the scraped knees, all too eager to follow her father into battle. How many years have passed since? I have no answer.

“She reminds you of him?” I ask. “Of Chrom?”

“Yes. It’s easy to believe her when she talks about hope. You should see her friends look at her with awe. They would do the impossible for her.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Whenever we suffer a defeat, she nurses their fighting spirit back to health through her words alone. I think I’ve been roused by her speeches once or twice myself.” Tiki smiles. “Lucina has this look in her eyes you only see once in a millennium. This warmth amidst all this strength. Marth had the same eyes. In her devotion to her task, she resembles him.”

“She’s been that way since the first day Chrom put a wooden sword in her hand.”

“And still, in her quiet moments, she reminds me of you.”

My fingers have no hopes of nursing the wounded grass stems underneath my palm back to health. I was never good with plants. I leave it to someone else to secure their future.

“If that’s your attempt to reassure me,” I say, “you need to change your strategy. Marth, yeah, maybe he could have fixed all this. I still remember how you compared me to him all those years ago. Quite the ego boost to be compared to the legendary hero king. Quite the impossible expectation to meet.” A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “You made a mistake. The same one Chrom did.”

“I don’t see a mistake. You are here now, aren’t you?”

“And for how long? It’s over. Without Naga, Lucina can’t perform the Awakening ritual. Grima has won. I just did my very best to help him along the way.”

“Then your strategy is to give up?”

“There is no strategy. Not this time. You don’t know half of what I did. What I failed to do.” I bury my head in my hands. “I’m so tired…”

“I understand.”

“Hard to believe.”

“What else would you expect from someone who has lived for three thousand years? This isn’t the first time I have to say goodbye. But I hope it can be the last.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I forgot. You were connected to Naga, weren’t you? Connected in a way I probably can’t even begin to understand…”

“Yes, in a way we were connected. Through me, she influenced this world. But although I sometimes acted in her interest, I didn’t let our connection control me. When I compared you to Marth, that was me and me alone. And I stand by my words.”

I rise to my feet to meet Tiki at eyelevel. My legs are heavy. “Why me?”

Tiki smiles. “I don’t have an answer to everything. But Naga’s death isn’t the end of all things. Victory is still in reach. We are still here, aren’t we?”

“For what it’s worth…” I pause. A strategy takes shape in my head, no, less than that, an idea not yet ready to sprout. “You said it yourself, you two were connected… Her magic lives on in you…”

“You know what that means?”

“It could actually work…”

“It will. But I have a favor to ask of you first. We need a new sacred ground so that Lucina can perform the ritual.”

I gesture at the scorched trees and ashen slopes. “Mount Prism doesn’t meet the criteria anymore, I figured as much.”

“You cannot simply wish for a sacred ground to appear. Magic, even magic as powerful as Naga’s has rules to adhere to. I would not ask if I knew a different way. And I’m afraid you will hate me for it.”

I frown. But the pieces to the riddle are all there, and Tiki’s face spills the answer. Disgusted, I take a step back.

“No! I can’t go through that again!” I stretch my empty palms towards her. “What you’re asking – forget the impossible logistics of it, I won’t even entertain the idea. Anything but that. I couldn’t even hide myself behind excuses, that it’s Grima’s doing, that none of it is my fault – if I do that…”

“It would be you and you alone.”

“And you call that victory?”

“I call it a favor. And a small step towards victory, yes. It’s not a burden I would like you to carry, but you are the only one who can. When the time comes, you have to be ready.”

Tiki exchanges a glance with me. I know. And I nod.

“One more fight,” I say.

“One more fight.”

Tiki turns and leaves. With her, the last glimmers of Naga’s magic seem to dissolve, carried away by the wind that brings heavy clouds and once again the stench of the undead. Shadows creep in my periphery, they twist and they grow, and I sink back into my prison. My body is cold. And then it isn’t my body at all, and Grima regains control.

The net tightens. The end lies ahead.

 Grima drags this body to Ylistol. Clouds gather around the familiar towers, heavy with impending rain. How wonderful the blue shingles shone when I first walked through the marble archways of the city. Little of that splendor remains. Holes disfigure the walls like battle scars. I refuse to calculate how many lives the Ylissean forces offered to reclaim these ruins from the undead. While her comrades search Plegia’s fortresses for the five gemstones to complete the Fire Emblem for the Awakening ritual, Lucina waits alone in the halls of Ylistol. Unprotected. When she dies, the blood of the Exalts dies with her, and Grima’s reign will find completion.

I struggle. More than ever before, I throw myself against my prison walls, I curse and I beg and I dig my nails into the shadows, everything I didn’t do for Owain on Mount Prism. But my shackles hold me tight. I am no more than a pawn. And Grima pulls this pawn towards the royal chamber.

Lucina has grown to resemble her father. The likeness to Chrom almost pains me more than what these hands will do to her. The sword underneath Grima’s cloak jingles when he steps into the light of the chamber’s chandelier.

Lucina whirls around. “You… How did you get in here?”

No fear. Like her father, Lucina faces her undoing without fear.

Tiki stands next to her, bathed in what little light the candles offer. I exchange a glance with her. She knows. And she nods.

Then Grima wrestles back control, and in the blink of an eye, he reaches Lucina. Orange flares dance across the blade as he aims for the killing blow. The taste of victory prickles on his tongue, and drunk from this sensation, he loosens my shackles. Only a little. But enough to twist my wrist by a degree or two.

The blade tastes flesh. Blood runs down the ridge and splashes onto the floor.

Lucina screams.

The slash that should have killed her cut through Tiki instead. This time my hand guided the blade. I have no excuses. Only unheard apologies. As Lucina cradles Tiki in her arms and presses her hand against the fatal wound, Tiki looks up to me. Not to Grima. To me. Again she nods. And I repay the gesture. When the time comes, I will be ready.

Grima lingers in the shadows of the chamber for a moment longer. Lucina’s pleas while Tiki says her dying words spark a sick grin on his face, and he runs his tongue across his lips as if to savor the taste of the appetizer before the main course. He knows I’m watching from the depths of my prison.

Sparks of thunder magic swirl about his fingertips as he raises the hand that used to be mine.

“What pretty tears.” Grima’s voice rumbles through my head. “It’s a shame Chrom didn’t have the time to weep for you this way. And how alike they look… What do you think, shouldn’t father and daughter finally reunite?”

“She doesn’t matter,” I say.

The shadows around my prison walls pulsate. As Grima leans in, the pressure rises. “Is that so?”

“That’s why you struck down Tiki instead of her, right? Naga is dead, her Voice is dead – the exalted blood has become useless. You followed the most tactically sound path. Tiki’s death ensured victory.”

“Victory, yes.” Grima tugs at my shackles, iron-fire pain shoots through my mind, but I make no sound. “But would you say it was my victory?”

“Rather our victory.”

“Oho? Then are you finally willing to become one?” Grima laughs. “Not that it matters now. You already belong to me. The single purpose of your birth was to become my vessel. All your struggles in the end only led you back into my grasp. What an exhilarating feeling to finally become whole, wouldn’t you agree? It may have taken you a few years, but here you are, finally accepting the inevitable. Do you think Chrom would weep for you now if he had to see what you became?”

“I wouldn’t know. He’s dead.”

“Indeed he is. Thanks to you.”

“I only served my part.”

“And how beautifully you played that part. Worthy of my best pawn. Maybe even worthy of a reward… a chance to escape this prison and this world altogether. Isn’t that what you want?”

“You’re offering me freedom?”

Grima tugs at my restraints, and I writhe, soundlessly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I still have uses for this body. It’s true, I like the idea of letting the girl mourn the last remaining person of her father’s world. She cries such pretty tears. But I like the thought of devouring her so much more.”

“Because she inspires hope in the hearts of the people.” I pause. “Like her father. Once she’s off the board, you will have won the game.”

“…Yes. I see you haven’t lost your passion for strategy. A most… useful quality. Of course, the hope she elicits in the hearts of her followers, that is the reason why I want her dead.”

“Of course.”

“Then you know why I still need this body. My generals should have gotten rid of the other children by now. I would have disposed of the four pathetic fools back at Mount Prism, but so much the better. Now they will meet their end with the stones almost at reach. Their screams are so much more delightful when there’s still a flicker of hope in them. But Chrom’s daughter will die by my hands. I will watch the light leave her eyes when I cut her open with these hands until the exalted blood runs down the steps of Ylisstol’s throne room. Then and only then will I have won the game. You won’t deny me the satisfaction, will you?”

“I will be ready to do my part.”

“Good,” Grima says.

And with a snap of his fingers, the chamber vanishes, and this body teleports many miles north, to the ash-covered top of Mount Prism. Grima’s new throne. The rolling hills below ache under the boom of uncounted boots as legions of undead march south.

“Yes, you will do your part,” Grima says as I sink deeper into my prison where I can neither see nor move. Only listen to the rumble of war. “Because you want it to be over. I’ve seen through your little game. You never wanted to accept me as your master, that was just a lie to get me to promise you a way out. You would never become one with me. Not willingly. Your dead friend spoiled you with his pretty phrases about friendship and comradery. Like a stupid child, you listened to him until you believed the lies. But you can’t fight the inevitable for long. Serving my command is all you can ever do. You’re mine. I move the strings, and you follow. Now dance a last time for me.”

Nothing but shadows and a greedy dragon exists. My world is cold.

The net tightens. The end has come.

 Smoke swirls around the battlements of Ylistol. Far below, hundreds of undead tramp towards the castle walls, clawing at the stone as if to raze the building itself. Lucina stands atop the commotion, Falchion in hand and ready to fight against the odds. The howling winds fail to weaken her battle stance. Her opponent is none other than Grima.

The Fire Emblem and the singular gemstone Lucina’s comrades have obtained help them little to win this fight. Against the might of a god, Falchion’s light pales. Against Grima, Lucina’s trust in her friends cannot endure. Her three comrades jump in as her shield, but neither their attacks nor my struggles prevent Grima’s deathly breath from sweeping across the battlement and corroding their skin and spirit until all four of them balance on the brink of death.

They sway and clutch their sides in an effort to rise back to their feet. In each of them, I see my comrades, the friends who have died, the friends I have killed. Chrom’s determination continues to glister in Lucina’s eyes. Even as she spits blood.

I hammer against my prison walls, I scream and I lunge at my master, but I have neither voice nor hands to fight with. Grima barely notices my pathetic attempts. He will relish to squish these four nuisances under his thumb. Already his laughter echoes across the cloud-laden sky. His hunger burns through the veins that once belonged to me.

I stand, and I fight, but it matters nothing. How foolish to think I could revolt against my master. How foolish to believe I had a chance to win the war against a god. Without a hand to pull me to my feet, how can I hope to stand?

Tiki made the mistake to trust me a second time. Chrom made the mistake to forgive me. Now I will repay them both by killing Lucina. And then Grima’s victory will be complete. Maybe then, at last, he will have no more use for his best tool.

Lucina stumbles. Her hands hold onto Falchion in vain. Soon it will all be over.

The darkness whirling at the edges of my vision grows.

I sink into the depths.

Ceaselessly.

A flash of light illuminates the battlements. But it is not my thunder magic as it plunges through Lucina’s chest. When the light weakens, Grima’s laughter has died. Even the growling undead have fallen silent.

Amidst the torn battlefield stands Chrom. Heroic, alive, the most magnificent of mirages. His comrades, our comrades, the people I thought dead form up behind him. Often they look younger, a little different, but the will to fight reflects onto their raised swords and lances all the same. Chrom extends a hand towards Lucina, and with the smile of confidence and understanding, the smile that makes you believe in yourself almost as much as you believe in him, with that smile, he helps his daughter to his feet.

I don’t know how. Nor do I care.

He is here.

That’s all I need to know.

And as Grima curses, and as the undead scale the walls, and as Chrom rallies the knights and mages and friends under his command, I find the strength to stand. I couldn’t save Chrom last time. But now I have the chance to do better. Now I will keep my promise.

Let the war resume.

Grima fights a battle on two fronts. Chrom and his comrades slice through his army; undead go up in smoke left and right. Swords jingle, flames erupt, and bowstrings hum until not a single opponent remains on the battlement. Grima grinds his jaw, but he can only watch as the Shepherds tear his certain victory apart. So far, he doesn’t worry. The other gemstones are still missing, Mount Prism is far away, and if all else fails, his magic will tear these pesky humans apart before they can perform the Awakening ritual.

But his strategy doesn’t work out.

Mine does.

Chrom slays the last undead in Lucina’s path. No more than an armlength separates us. And as Grima prepares to strike him down, his hand remains frozen. Grima curses, but he has no hands to strangle Chrom with and no vocal cords to cast a spell.

My voice, not his, calls out to Chrom. “I can’t bear to watch you die again. I won’t. Promise you’ll escape from here… please.”

Surprise flashes across Chrom’s face, a hint of recognition. “I know that voice…”

His hand reaches out more out of reflex than any conscious decision. He will fight all the harder now. That’s the kind of man he is, no matter what dimension he comes from. But you’ve done enough, Chrom. Your half of the work is done. Let me handle the rest.

I raise my hand as if to wave. The magic prickles at my fingertips. And in the light of my teleportation spell, Chrom disappears.

The strength he gives remains.

In his stead, Lucina approaches Grima. All according to plan. Against the impossible odds, her friends arrive with the remaining four stones, and together they complete the Fire Emblem. Tiki’s spirit reappears as intended, bathed in Naga’s glow. Blinding light particles twirl about the battlement, and the smoke recoils. Even Grima feels the divine magic blossoming underneath his feet, in the chamber in Ylistol where in ignorance he struck down Naga’s Voice, and for perhaps the first time, panic squeezes his dark core.

He struggles and writhes, he threatens and curses, but he has lost the war. I stand triumphantly.

And it is I and I alone who nods to Lucina. “I’m ready.”

Falchion glows, a light that captures the entire battlefield. In Lucina’s hands, the sword fulfills its purpose. The dawn of a new day breaks through the smoke and chases away the last shadows clawing at Ylisstol to allow a glimpse at the future yet to come. It looks promising…

Grima dies alone. His best tool has long since severed the connection.

 It’s like spiraling into a dream. White wafts at the corners of my vision, and the taste of a meadow of sweet cow parsley overwhelms my senses. Soon the white grows to swallow everything. But there is warmth too. A touch, a laugh, a helping hand, a group of people united around a camp fire amidst a sea of tents.

The moans of the survivors had followed Meliodas into his dreams for the past restless nights. When he closed his eyes, the sickly-sweet iron taste in the air around Stigma’s destroyed headquarter resurfaced until it suffocated all other thoughts under a thick blanket.

Elizabeth squeezed his hand. But the encouragement she wanted to transmit never reached the blue of her eyes. The tears from yesterday and the day before had dried up, but the well of sorrow still held another wave. Once realization would hit her, truly sink its teeth into her, her walls of composure would topple. Meliodas had given up the construction of walls like these. They had little point to them with how little time was left.

Beyond the forest’s borders, beyond the tapestry of light and shadow cast in deep green hues, the plains of northern Britannia stretched to the horizon. The slender grass blades danced in a wind filled with blissful ignorance of the fires yet to come. War would soon consume the peaceful scenery, its bloodstained fingers stretched towards these hills already. Towers of clouds, dark from the smoke rising into the air, filled the sky, and the sun remained hidden behind the tall walls.

Meliodas stole one final look over his shoulders. From here, the leaves of the Fairy King’s Forest looked almost untouched. Only a tiny layer of ash covered the green here and there. If he had cared to listen when there had still been someone to listen to, Meliodas could have associated names to the individual trees, to the shape of their leaves or the contours of their bark. But he had paid the trees no mind. And as he did now, blankness filled his mind instead of their names.

Gloxinia had shared his passion for the tiniest plants so often. Yet it seemed Meliodas was forgetting already.

From the shadows of the last outer tree, two Fairies and a Giant followed Meliodas and Elizabeth with their eyes as they departed. The last embers of Stigma. They bared the expression of the hopeless. Their loss and their injuries had stolen the energy from their posture, and the younger Fairy stared at Meliodas as though these eyes alone could pull him back.

And for a moment, Meliodas hesitated. He imagined to turn around and hide in the forest and pretend the world was intact, pretend the hammer blow of war hadn’t struck already.

But the moment of weakness passed when he remembered Elizabeth’s hand in his own. They had agreed to fight their parents and win the war. Even if one of them died. Holding onto this promise was the only directive Meliodas had left to follow.

He fastened the grip around his sword and called forth his wings. The obsidian manifestations of his Demon magic swallowed what little light had been left. With a last look of confirmation at Elizabeth, Meliodas kicked from the ground and pivoted into the high heavens above. Hand in hand, Meliodas and Elizabeth rushed towards the cloud fortress where the last battle would take place.

Thunder growled. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. Heaven and hell collided and combined their forces into an unstoppable maelstrom in which the only escape routes read victory and death. 

The Demon King and the Supreme Deity awaited the return of their children. Awaited their surrender.

Or one last stand born from the desperation of defeat.

Meliodas had made his decision long ago. And judging from the bright light of the Goddess triskelion in her eyes, so had Elizabeth.

Even if one of them died.

They were about to find out how far this vow alone would take them.

 Light and darkness rained upon the sky island. Each blow shook the stone, the cracks grew, and more and more boulders broke from the very ground Meliodas was standing on. Or, rather than standing, he was barely holding on.

With one hand clawed around the bloody hilt of his sword, Meliodas glared at the towering shape of his father through the fog of near-death. The Demon King had waved aside any and all of Meliodas’ attacks like humans did with flies, unworthy of his effort. A mere turn of the massive hand sent a black tidal wave towards Elizabeth.

The white orb of her Arc looked laughably brittle by comparison.

She deflected just as a volley of divine light spears bolted towards Meliodas. One of them pierced his leg. He lost sight of Elizabeth.

Blood clogged his throat, roared in his ears, and rushed through his seven hearts; each of them struggled to keep going and defy the power of gods.

To no effect.

White feathers drifted into his shrinking field of view; Elizabeth had taken a brutal hit. She trembled, barely stood upright, and crimson discolored her hair. But the resolve in her eyes burned on.

They had sworn to fight. For the friends they had lost and those who still struggled against the flames of the Holy War. For Merlin, for Gowther, for Dahlia and Gerheade, for Jenna and Zaneri, and everyone else on the forsaken ground of Britannia below, for them they would fight and maybe even win.

Even if one of them died.

Meliodas stumbled to Elizabeth’s side and they joined hands. Despite the thunderstorm around them, she sent him an encouraging smile. He would go to any lengths for this smile. And although he stood on death’s door, his own mortality seemed like a matter of secondary concern, little more than the life of a butterfly on some nameless hill.

If he faced the end, at least it would be with her.

He squeezed her hand, and she returned the favor. How very selfish of them to drag the other into this hell.

“Do you regret it?” Meliodas asked between haggard breaths.

Elizabeth shook her head. “Not one bit. All this gave me the chance to meet you.”

“I love you.”

“And for this sin you both shall pay. For all eternity,” the combined voices of the Demon King and the Supreme Deity roared, a sound like organs and bronze bells in a twisted heavenly orchestra.

Another tremor rocked the floating island and pebbles flew high into the tortured sky. To the right, a miasma of darkness swirled around the Demon King’s claw. To the left, a blinding light escaped the Supreme Deity’s fingertips.

After all the slaughter, heaven and hell had united for a shared goal. The irony could almost make Meliodas laugh.

The air crackled with energy, and the heat from the magic forces at display scorched the skin of Meliodas’ bruised forearms. But he stood his ground, side by side with Elizabeth. And if his final moment was with her, could he really call himself misfortunate?

The last thing he felt before the combined forces of their parents struck them down was the softness of Elizabeth’s slender hand in his.

For how long have they played this game now? How many years, decades, and eons have passed since the curse pulled Meliodas into Purgatory?

He doesn’t know. The creator of this ugly fusion between a glacier and a volcano hasn’t bothered to install a clock.

Ash flakes tumble from above and leave black scars on the back of Meliodas’ hand. The forefinger twitches in a desperate struggle to hold onto life, hope, anything that will help him stand again.

“Elizabeth…” he whispers.

“Will you die with the witch’s name on your lips too?” The Demon King’s voice thunders in Meliodas’ head, and a fiery eruption from the nearest volcano punctuates his words.

Meliodas pushes himself on his forearms. “You made sure I can’t die, remember? You’re getting rusty, old man.”

“Your insolent tongue is just as worthless as the entirety of your emotions. They only hinder you from becoming my successor.”

“I’ll gladly take my insolent tongue over a world where I become like you.”

The Demon King points a finger the size of a grown man at Meliodas. “There is no stopping it now. As we speak, my loyal subjects are gathering the Ten Commandments, and your body will soon fuse with their magic. Then neither the Seven Deadly Sins nor your dear goddess will be able to stand against the reborn Demon King.”

“Then I guess I just have to find the exit before that happens.”

The Demon King’s laugh rings for a long time between the twisted rock formations. Meliodas climbs to his knees, but his shell of a body refuses to support the weight of his worries. More ash under his fingernails, another lungful of distillated fume eager to kill him. Another century gone by without a glint of success, without a glimmer of hope.

Purgatory may never kill him. But to survive in this world is to endure endless suffering where despair gnaws at him with every step until he loses himself in shapeless shadows, destined to wander the lava riversides and blizzard-coated mountain peaks for the rest of time.

Meliodas takes another step.

For her. Elizabeth.

He has to return to Britannia before the Demon King can reach his horrid claw around her. Before the curse claims her life anew.

Her face, in the variant as princess of Liones and all the incarnations before her, keeps Meliodas upright and pushes him to scale another cliffside, even as his field of vision shrinks and the shadows at the edge take over.

Golden Warmth. A liberating breeze. Puffy fine-weather clouds as far as the eye can see, an entire ocean of them. And in between these white waves float islands with alabaster towers and grass so eternally green it can only exist in a place far beyond all destructive influences. An endless summer sun caresses his neck.

Meliodas digs his fingers into the ground where he fell, although he hardly feels the sharp pebbles anymore.

Why do the memories of the Celestial Realm return to him now? Elizabeth, the very first incarnation he fell in love with, took him to her home once. They played a dangerous game of hide and seek with the countless Goddess warriors there. If even one of them had seen through Meliodas pathetic disguise, at least one of the parties involved would have lost their head. Despite the threat of discovery, Elizabeth dragged him to all her favorite places with a cheer she rarely allowed herself to show. A vast field of golden wheat hems. The top of an abandoned tower, half destroyed and seized by ivy tendrils.

Amidst the bloodshed of the Holy War and despite the feud that divides their clans, Elizabeth offered Meliodas a hand. With nothing but a smile and her belief in the good in others, she pulled him out of hell. Shoulder to shoulder with her, he saw heaven for the first time.

“Elizabeth,” Meliodas says. He hardly recognizes his voice. “I let you down again. If it’s always ending like this, why’d you take my hand that day? Why didn’t you give up on me?”

The warmth of her presence is so very far away. Where she used to stroke his arms, only freezing numbness remains. Where she used to kiss him, his lips only taste the burning aridity of Purgatory.

But even if she is so very far away, an incarnation of Elizabeth is still out there, alive. Maybe she is standing amidst the chaos of magical and hellfire explosions and leads the war against the cruel fangs of darkness as she always did. Maybe she is gazing into a star-sprinkled sky and waits for his return. Maybe she still believes he will fulfill his promise and free her of her curse.

A blood-red vail has overtaken Meliodas’ vision. When he struggles out of the dust to his feet, he has lost his humanoid shape. A shadow stands in his place, a perversion of the dragon creature with which he shares the name of his sin. Wrath.

Somewhere hidden in the smoke screens, the Demon King triumphs. At last, his son’s emotions have given into hopelessness.

But in a place deep in the insides of the shadow dragon, Meliodas keeps a flame alight. Elizabeth’s face kindles the spark, her gentle hands shield the candle against the hurricanes and hailstorms, and her voice, filled with tireless encouragement, nurtures the beacon.

She fought for him during the Holy War. They fought for each other against the overwhelming might of gods. Even if she is so very far away, Meliodas will fight for her.

As the shadow to her light.

Scorching heat. Blistering cold. Claws that dig into the most treacherous slopes carry him forward, step by step. He tears through Purgatory’s pitiful inhabitants and shreds any creature that hinders his search for the exit. For a moment, he may lose himself and taste this senseless wrath the Demon King wants him to dissolve into. But the flame inside endures.

Years, decades, and eons go by, glaciers melt and magma chambers freeze, while Meliodas fights. For her. Elizabeth.

The dragon creature which serves as Meliodas’ shell roars and bares its teeth. His current opponent is of the nasty type. He doesn’t yield. Neither does Meliodas.

They slam each other into the rock formations, break each other’s bones, and throw themselves at the other as though this brawl is all they’ve ever known and all that ever mattered.

Meliodas should hate his opponent. After all he, aside from the Demon King, stands as the only one with the power to deter his escape. And yet… this gritty, pesky bastard he crushes and is getting crushed by has the air of familiarity to him. Meliodas knows his fighting style. Furthermore, he knows all too well the flame that convinces his opponent to strike blow after blow until they collapse into a heap of limps and shadows.

They both feel the exhaustion in each haggard breath. And yet they both won’t die.

Meliodas’ opponent mumbles something. His words have never quite reached through the shadows clogging Meliodas’ senses, but they gain a new clarity now that the frenzy of battle flees him.

“…holding out for you in the land of the living,” a familiar voice says. “And I… want to see the woman who means the world to me.”