oli/madi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
runawayballista) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
keith_ltd2022-02-06 06:26 pm
runawayballista) wrote in keith_ltd2022-02-06 06:26 pm
A Rogue Friend Is a Wild Beast: Unshakable Faith
Fandom: Fire Emblem Awakening
Title: A Rogue Friend Is a Wild Beast: Unshakable Faith ♪🎵♪
Pairings: Owain/Morgan, Owain/Inigo
Summary: Owain didn’t understand what special hold Grima had over Morgan, but whatever it was, it wasn’t absolute.
Other: it's Future Past 2 except gayer, have some moderate angst with a side of gentle h/c, this is what i call Comfort Food
Notes: I wrote the initial scene when I was stressed out and wanted Owain/Morgan content to soothe my soul, and then it just kind of kept going, and then it turned into a whole thing and now I'm invested
Shoutout to Tama for giving this a read-through before I posted it and also for their uplifting encouragement!! Thank you Tama!!!!
※ Each story is titled after a song from another Fire Emblem game, with a link to the track. Highly recommend listening to the music while you read for the Maximum Experience
AO3 mirror
“Are they gone?”
Inigo’s voice sounded muffled even from just a few feet away. The rain whipped at Owain’s face as he peered across the yawning gorge, swirling through the air and obscuring his vision. He squinted, trying to shield his eyes, but all he could see was fog and rain and the hazy darkness of shapes in the distance.
“I think so,” he said. Even through the clouds, the light was plenty enough to make out the shapes of the oncoming Risen, a much smaller distance to close than the gap where the bridge had been. “The bridge should’ve bought them a good head start.”
“Then we’ll buy them a little more time, as much as we can,” Inigo said with a tight smile, adjusting his grip on his shield. There was a particular way he flexed his fingers when he was nervous that Owain caught out the corner of his eye. They’d been fighting together so long that it was impossible not to notice those little things. Owain had to quash the entirely situationally inappropriate urge to reach for Inigo’s hand. Inigo had his hands full with sword and shield, and at any rate they were in the middle of battle—nay, facing death itself—and he probably would have just slapped Owain’s hand away and told him to be serious, this was serious. He probably would’ve been a little red in the face even as he said it, though.
Inigo shifted his weight slightly onto his back foot as the cavalry approached, raising his shield. He looked white-faced even in the driving rain, afraid to falter, but he managed a smile anyway. “One last dance, then?”
Owain smiled back without hesitation. “Now you’re talking, my fated brother-in-arms. Together, we’ll join our swords—no, our very souls—and smash through the ranks of the undead as though our very blades were aflame with the righteous fury of the gods!”
Inigo’s lip curled back in a cringe. “Stop it. You’re ruining the moment.”
“No way! You’ve gotta lean into it, or it’s totally moot.” Owain readed his sword as the shadowy horde marched ever closer. “Brace yourself, my truest of allies, here they…come?”
This wave of Risen didn’t lead into another charge like the last few; the cavalry stopped just shy of attacking range, and though the archers behind them were well within range, they were still standing at the ready, holding their fire. Out from between two heavily armed paladins stepped a hooded figure, heavy tome in hand. Owain felt his stomach go cold with recognition even before the hood fell back.
Owain always thought that a proper face-heel turn ought to come with a costume change. It was practically a given, right? A hero’s image was a reflection of his inner self, and if he wasn’t a hero anymore…well, he should at least have traded in that old coat for something slicker, something more sinister, something in all black or—or something. But by all appearances, Morgan didn’t seem to have changed all that much since the last time they’d seen him. That had been part of the problem, in hindsight—that Morgan never seemed to change on the outside, and by the time they realized he’d changed on the inside, it had been too late.
But even though the face and clothes were the same, there was something different about the Morgan standing in front of them now, staring unflinching through the howling rain. He seemed to have lost the levity that had defined him once upon a time, his old bright, buoyant self sunk underwater. He didn’t look furious or moved to tears or even full of wicked mirth. Owain couldn’t read his expression at all.
Inigo tensed, raising the tip of his sword. “You!”
“Yeah, me.” That was supposed to be a chipper little return greeting, punctuated with a laugh. The smile on Morgan’s face was only a shadow. “This has been fun and all, but I think it’s about time we call it a day. I mean, you know you can’t win here, right? Your backs are up against the wall. Well, in a manner of speaking.”
Jokes. Those were supposed to be little jokes, stupid ones, accompanied by Morgan’s unselfconscious smile, the one that made Owain all wobbly inside. But this Morgan dropped words like stones from his mouth, unpunctuated and unqualified, hard and cold in places where he’d once been warm and welcoming. Morgan held his free hand out, a tiny sigh escaping him, but his expression was set.
“So you might as well hand over Argent and Sable now. Your odds of getting out of this alive at this point are infinitesimal.”
Inigo bared his teeth in a grin. “Ooh, sorry to be the one to break it to you, but I’m afraid we don’t have Argent and Sable. They made a neat little escape along with our comrades back there. Too bad the bridge is out of service now.”
Owain let out a choked noise. Inigo looked over to see him with his mouth agape.
“Seriously?” Owain hissed. “You weren’t supposed to play that card right away—we’re supposed to let him think we have the Gemstones and hold them off as long as possible! Now they’re going to be looking for Brady and Yarne!”
Inigo looked like he was going to be ill. “Ugh, no, I didn’t—damn it. This changes nothing!” he shouted at Morgan, who was already directing several wyvern riders to take flight and survey the area. “We’re still here to fight to our very last—we’re going to kill you, or we’re going to die trying!”
“Oh, you’ll die trying,” Morgan said, as though in agreement. The tome in his hand fell open along a familiar crack in the spine. “If you don’t have Argent and Sable, then I’ll just have to kill you here. Master Grima has been wishing for your death for some time now.”
“Do your worst.” Inigo was summoning every last ounce of bravado he could scrape together just to hold him through this moment. He hated that Owain had been right about stupid mental warfare, that fights like these were all about the theatre. You had to keep up the act or risk faltering. “If an entire army can’t do the job, what makes you think you can?”
That was where Owain was supposed to chime in with an embarrassingly overwrought but heartfelt agreement about how their friendship was so strong it would smash through the heavens or whatever. But no such quip came. Instead, Owain lay down his sword and took two steps forward, his hands turned palm-out.
“Owain,” Inigo said through his teeth in a low voice, “what are you doing?”
If this was more of Owain’s mental warfare, it was on a level Inigo did not comprehend. There must have been a secret manual somewhere that he’d never managed to find, doubtless even more embarrassing than the first. But Owain didn’t respond, just quirked a little smile at Morgan. And when Inigo followed his gaze, he saw that Morgan looked almost as unsettled as Inigo felt. Morgan seemed to falter for just a moment, and then his expression shuttered, his hand tightening over the spine of his tome.
“See, we might be sworn enemies right now,” Owain said, “forced by dire circumstances to cross blades—but these cruel turns of fate are only a detour. Because I know that deep down inside, Morgan, you’re not truly my enemy. In your chest beats the heart of a true hero. You’re my eternal ally-versary, bound by fate to fight side by side with me!”
“Owain, this is not the time,” said Inigo. Owain ignored him; so did Morgan.
“Pick up your sword,” said Morgan, his voice oddly toneless. Owain shook his head, still smiling through the rain.
“Why? So you can kill me with a weapon in my hand? What for?” Owain thumbed over his nose in a familiar gesture. Morgan’s expression didn’t change. “If you truly are a dedicated servant of the fell dragon, you should have no problem striking down an unarmed foe, especially one your master has his eye on.”
He took another step forward, and to Inigo’s infuriated horror, spread his arms wide. “So go ahead. Kill me right where I stand.”
Morgan’s eyes widened slightly, and something like panic flickered across his face, but it was gone in the next moment. His brows drew down, his jaw tightening.
“Pick up your sword.”
“Pick up your sword,” Inigo repeated in a hiss. “He’s going to kill you, idiot!”
“Nah,” Owain said, his gaze on Morgan’s face unwavering. “I don’t think he will. Because the Morgan we know, the old Morgan, he’s still in there somewhere. Not even the fell dragon could quell a hero’s spirit like his.”
Morgan bared gritted teeth, and it looked more like anguish this time, that little blip of emotion. Little sparks of lightning began to gather and flicker in the palm of his hand.
“I said pick up your sword!”
Owain shut his eyes at the blinding flash of light, bracing himself for impact even as the massive clap of thunder shook through his body. He heard a grunt to his left and opened his eyes to see Inigo just barely deflect the shock of thunder magic with his shield. A few sparks made it past his armor, and he flinched, jaw clenched, but he seemed more or less alright. Owain let out a little ha.
“See? I told you he wouldn’t kill me.”
“Well, he’s going to kill me!” Inigo yelped, narrowly dodging another blast of magic. Never in his life had he felt this particularly potent mix of mortal terror and total exasperation.
“Just drop your weapon,” Owain said. His eyes still hadn’t moved from Morgan’s face. There was a growing sense of disquiet in Morgan’s expression. Owain was almost certain he saw the hand holding that tome shake just a little. “See, he needs us to go down fighting, or else he won’t be able to live with himself. It’s actually pretty heroic at heart, if you think about it.”
“Are you insane?” Inigo said, just as Owain sidestepped to shield Inigo with his own very unarmed—and considerably less armored—body. “Oh, gods, you are.”
“Come on,” Owain said, and even though he had to raise his voice to be heard above the rain, it was genial, almost gentle. He reached out a hand, ready to write off his trembling fingers as a good old sword hand twitch, only to realize he was holding out the wrong hand. Well, that didn’t matter. As long as he could keep Morgan listening—
“You don’t belong with the villains, Morgan. You’re one of the good guys, remember? You belong with us. A bunch of undead soldiers seem like they make for pretty dull company. I bet they don’t even know any good games. So—so come on. Ditch these guys and run away with us. With you on our side, we’d have no trouble making it back to Ylisstol with Argent and Sable. We’ll meet up with everyone there and Lucina will perform the Awakening and we’ll send Grima back into the deep abyss of darkness where he belongs, and you won’t ever have to be servant to any god again. All you have to do is come with us.”
Owain fought to keep his smile steady. It was taking real effort now, his heart clogging up his throat. “I miss you, my fated ally-versary. It feels wrong to fight without you at my side.”
It was impossible, at this distance, to tell whether those were tears in Morgan’s eyes or just the rain. Owain was sure he knew the answer by the stricken look on Morgan’s face. He looked like he was about to falter, his outstretched hand wavering. Owain fought not to clench his fists, still holding his own hand out. Inigo seemed paralyzed by the moment too, watching Owain, then Morgan breathlessly, like he wasn’t sure who he wanted to hit first.
Morgan’s mouth opened, and he seemed about to speak—but then his whole body seemed to spasm, nearly shaking the book loose from his grip entirely. His free hand went to his head, his teeth clenched in a look of agony. He was fighting something, Owain knew it. He still didn’t understand the exact nature of Morgan’s betrayal—the finer details of how and why still escaped them—but his heart leapt with painfully fragile hope. He was right. He had to be.
When Morgan’s hand came away from his forehead, he was white-faced and breathing hard, and his expression was one of grim determination. His eyes were fierce in a way that unnerved Owain, if only for how closely it resembled Morgan’s old cheerful determination. It was only missing the light.
“I am loyal to Master Grima,” he said in slow, measured tones. Every word landed like a lead weight. Grima’s gravitational hold on him seemed to have sucked away all his levity. “I know exactly whose side I’m on. I won’t be swayed by grand speeches or mind tricks. My master wants you destroyed, and I was sent here to carry out her will.”
Those were tears in his eyes, no matter how cold he sounded. Owain knew what Morgan looked like when he was trying to hold back tears, even though he hardly ever did—that little crease between his eyebrows, the way he scrunched up his face just slightly. At least Owain would die knowing he was right, even if he couldn’t make the difference.
The air snapped and popped around Morgan as an unseen breeze rustled his coat. He was preparing another thunder spell, and this one, Inigo might not be able to deflect. But the not-too-distant shriek of a wyvern shattered the air, and all three of them looked up instinctively. Whatever allowed Morgan to command the Risen seemed to communicate something back to him, and he sucked in a breath through parted lips, the magic glimmering out. Owain’s mouth went dry.
“Move out,” commanded Morgan, and the wyvern-mounted Risen took flight immediately, as though the words were only a formality. “Make sure they’re surrounded. We can’t let them get away a second time.”
No, no, no—this wasn’t how it was supposed to play out. Owain needed more time, needed a second chance to pry him open now that Owain knew the old Morgan was still in there somewhere. But there was thunder crackling around Morgan again as he turned, and Owain had only a fleeting moment to catch the look of terror on Morgan’s face before he threw a jolt of lightning behind him and retreated with the rest of his army.
Owain braced himself a second time, but the magic hadn’t even touched him. Instead, there was a black furrow burned into the ground just before his feet, smoking in the rain. He tried to remember how to breathe but let out a wheezing laugh instead. Morgan couldn’t bring himself to kill them in the end.
Inigo threw down his sword and grabbed a fistful of Owain’s hair, yanking his head back. “What is wrong with you? You nearly got us both killed just now!”
“Ow—oww!” Owain batted at Inigo’s hand until it released him. “Have you noticed that we are, in fact, not dead? I told you he wouldn’t really kill us.”
“Only because he went off to kill Brady and Yarne instead!” Inigo glared at Owain as he retrieved his sword from the ground, wiping the blade of grime on the wet grass before sheathing it. “And if we don’t get moving, he might actually succeed!”
“Right, and who was it that told him they had the Gemstones in the first place?”
Inigo flushed a deep red. “I—let’s just go and be glad we’re not dead yet, alright? And don’t expect me to thank you for it, because your little speech didn’t do anything to stop him shooting lightning at me.”
“You should’ve dropped your weapon,” Owain said, bending down to pick up his own sword. His gaze snagged on a scrap of paper lying in the grass, already soaked through with rain. It looked like part of a page out of Morgan’s tome, judging by the yellowed color of the paper, but the incomprehensible squiggles didn’t look quite like the usual arcane symbols. Ripped out by the wind, maybe, in that heated moment. Owain picked it up and folded it quickly while Inigo wasn’t looking, tucking it into the folds of his belt for safekeeping. He’d make sure he had a chance to return it.
Brady had to stop and lean against a tree to catch his breath, wheezing and sweating uncomfortably under his robes. Running through the mud in rain-soaked robes really wasn’t in his wheelhouse, and he felt a little like he was going to pass out.
“It should be safe to stop here for a little while,” said Yarne, his eyes darting back and forth, trying to see through the rain. Unfortunately, sight was not among the taguel’s enhanced senses. “I think. Are you okay? You sound like you’re going to throw up.”
“I damn well might.” At least Inigo and Owain’s sacrifice seemed to have bought them the time they needed. Brady wiped the rain away from his face, glad that Yarne (probably) couldn’t tell he was crying. “Oogh. How much farther to Ylisstol?”
“Another three days’ march,” Yarne said glumly. “If we can keep up the pace. We’re close to the border, but—”
His back went suddenly straight, his ears twitching. “Risen incoming,” he said nervously, hovering closer to Brady. Brady groaned.
“You mean the Risen that Inigo and Owain are supposed to be throwing themselves at to let us escape?”
“Maybe? I don’t know! But we have to move now!”
Brady pulled himself upright, leaning on his staff. “Alright, alright, I’m movin’—”
But Yarne was already pulling out his beaststone. “No time! Just hold tight, okay?!”
“Hold tight to—” Brady staggered back as Yarne transformed, and had no chance to react before Yarne nosed under Brady and flipped him onto his back. Brady clutched his staff to his chest with one hand and grabbed at Yarne’s fur out of terrified instinct and held fast, white-knuckled. “Are you out of your damn mind?!”
“Yes, with blind terror! I don’t really feel like letting any more friends die today!”
But Yarne was wearing out too, trying to keep up a breakneck pace after an already exhausting day, and his sprint barely lasted an hour. Brady tumbled off of his back and promptly threw up into the bushes as Yarne transformed back, breathing hard. He could still hear the steady march of their cavalry. They hadn’t managed to gain much of a lead. Yarne’s heart was in his throat. He tried to swallow it down with no success. If Inigo and Owain could be that brave—
“Take Argent and Sable and run. I’ll—I’ll hold them off here.”
“You are off your rocker.” Brady planted his staff in the ground—well, mud, which was diminishing the effect because the tip of his staff immediately started sliding off to the side—and fixed Yarne with a glare that made the taguel actually back up a step. “And what exactly do you think happens to me if I run into any more Risen after I leave you to kick the bucket here? It’s hrrk, splat for Brady, and then the Gemstones fall right back into those undead bastards’ rotten hands!”
“What, so you’d rather die here, right now?” Yarne’s voice was going shrill with panic. He was trying to be brave here, he really was! “How does that help anything? Then we’d all be dead! I’ll—I’ll catch up to you later, okay?”
Brady opened his mouth to rattle off a comeback that was getting a little more emotional than he really intended when Yarne tensed again, straining his ears. He looked less scared than puzzled now.
“Or we could not die. I think they’re…retreating? It sounds like they’re headed in the opposite direction now.” Yarne leaned back against a tree and slid to the ground, his legs suddenly turning to jelly. He buried his face in his knees. “Oh gods, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”
“Brady! Yarne!”
Yarne jumped immediately back to his feet at the sudden voice, and he thought for a second he really felt like he was having a heart attack—but then he and Brady turned to see Inigo sliding on his back foot down a mud-slick slope down to their hiding spot, staggering a little on the landing but immediately righting himself with a breathless grin. Owain followed shortly behind, the both of them soaked to the bone but otherwise looking more or less in one piece. Brady squinted at them, trying to hide his relief.
“Ain’t you two supposed to be waiting at the pearly gates by now, all heroically dead?”
“Lovely to see you again too, Brady,” Inigo said with a strained smile. “It was looking awfully grim there for a bit, yes, but it seems we’ve managed to cheat death yet another day.”
Owain was looking around, his brow furrowed. “Where march the forces of darkness that were encroaching upon this safe haven? Owain Dark’s sword hand is never idle when evil lurks nearby!”
Yarne shrugged with a helpless look. “Beats me. They were headed this way, but just now they turned around and marched off in the other direction. Maybe they gave up?”
“Maybe,” Inigo said, but he looked doubtful. Owain’s gaze had shifted to the skies. There, in the east, between the mountains, he could make out the vague shapes of wyvern riders beating into the distance. Had Morgan retreated to avoid another confrontation?
“Uh, weren’t they supposed to be fighting you guys, though?” The immediate danger was gone, but Yarne still looked uneasy. “Why’d they come after us all of a sudden?”
“Things took a turn,” Inigo said vaguely. He glanced at Owain, half-waiting for to be outed for his role in that particular turn, but Owain was still watching the skies.
“Destiny held another surprise in store for us today,” Owain said in a low voice. “A fated encounter—nay, a bitter reunion with an old comrade of brighter days past.”
“We…ran into Morgan,” Inigo translated, to Brady and Yarne’s white-faced surprise. Inigo felt about as uneasy as Yarne looked, and he hurried to preempt any more Owain exposition. “We can explain more later. For now, let’s just find somewhere dry and make camp for the night, shall we?” Inigo pushed his rain-matted hair away from his forehead, grimacing. “We’ll need as good a night’s rest as we can get. We’ve got a long march ahead of us tomorrow.”
The rocky terrain around here held a lattice of small caves and nooks, and though scrounging up suitable cover was a bit of a trial, they were able to find a hollow large enough to keep all four of them dry. Once they had a fire going and everyone was finally allowing themselves to sit down and stop for the first time today, Owain retreated to a corner and laid out his and Inigo’s swords out for cleaning. Inigo was a good enough swordsman, but he didn’t take nearly as good care of his sword, and they couldn’t afford to let their only weapons rust in their sheaths.
Owain was, physically speaking, exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t stop buzzing, replaying that last flash of Morgan’s face over and over again, that brief look of terror. What had he been so afraid of in that moment? He knew he’d seen doubt creep into Morgan’s face, undermining his mystifying devotion to the fell dragon. He didn’t understand at all what special hold Grima had over Morgan, what reason Morgan could possibly have for forsaking their hope for a better future when he’d always seemed to want it just as badly himself. But Owain knew he’d seen Morgan waver today, and that meant that whatever it was, it wasn’t absolute.
Not that he wasn’t happy to be alive, but he couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if Morgan had struck to kill with that bolt of lightning, if he could have brought himself to kill an unarmed Owain. Would the horror and grief of killing someone he’d once loved overcome his devotion to Grima, and lead him to the path of righteous vengeance instead? Owain wondered if he could die the kind of hero’s death for Morgan that inspired a change in heart of that magnitude. He wondered then if he really wanted that for Morgan.
Owain sheathed Inigo’s sword and rubbed his face with his hands. Ugh. He used to think about this kind of thing all the time, but it was always in the abstract, empty what-ifs. When it came to real people—when it came to Morgan—it was way, way too depressing to contemplate.
He pulled the piece of paper from his belt and unfolded it carefully. It was still damp, but not too badly creased. On a closer look, he realized that this looked more like a page out of a field manual than a tome. The notes in the margin were in a shorthand he didn’t understand, but it was definitely someone else’s handwriting. Not Morgan’s, though. What was a page like this doing stuck in a thunder tome?
He put it away quickly as he heard footsteps approach, and Inigo sat down on the ground next to him with a slight wince. They might have survived the day, but the both of them were a little worse for the wear after that battle. Owain nudged Inigo’s sword toward him.
“I cleaned your sword.”
“Oh,” said Inigo, who hadn’t asked him to and never did, “thanks.”
Owain picked up his own sword, running cloth along the blade. The edge was chipped in places and badly in need of more maintenance than Owain could really administer in the field. Or just in need of replacement. “Did you tell them what happened?”
“Only the broad strokes,” Inigo said. “None of the details of your little fit of theatrics. You didn’t tell them why the army started after them.”
“They don’t really need to know,” Owain said, turning the sword over to inspect the other side of the blade. He could feel a mood coming on, and he really only liked to be moody on his own terms. You know, when it was situationally appropriate. This was an arguably brood-approrpiate situation, but Owain couldn’t find the taste for it right now. His stomach felt filled with lead.
“Exactly,” Inigo said, a little bit of relief in his voice, but he lingered, his gaze falling. “But…while we’re on the subject of those theatrics—that little stunt you pulled with Morgan—”
“I was right,” Owain said. It didn’t feel as triumphant to say it now. “And you know it. You saw his face, too. The real Morgan is still in there somewhere. He’s the same Morgan we’ve always known.”
“Frankly, I don’t know why you find that comforting,” Inigo said, sounding unsettled. “I think I’d rather a doppelganger took his place than live with the knowledge that someone in our fold was capable of—any of that.”
It was true that it was hard to reconcile. He’d looked the same, but still, there had been something so markedly different about the Morgan they’d met on the battlefield, the way he talked, held himself, the grim determination that seemed to cloak him entirely. If Owain hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he might be inclined to believe that had been some doppelganger after all.
“But it doesn’t matter,” Inigo said. Owain jerked his head up.
“Of course it matters! I was getting through to him, Inigo. If there’s a chance that we could help him break free of the fell dragon’s hold—”
Inigo held up his hands to quiet Owain, glancing over at where Brady and Yarne had passed out in a heap from sheer exhaustion. It was unlikely anything would wake them up just now, but they really didn’t need any intruders in this conversation.
“That’s not what I meant,” Inigo said, and he let out a sigh. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right, alright? I did see his face. I saw how he reacted.”
It made him feel ill to think about—ill, and another nasty little feeling he didn’t care to put a name to. “But we were lucky to get away with our lives today, and you’re delusional if you think you’re going to sway him with the power of conversation. The most important thing is that we get the Gemstones back to Ylisstol, right? Nothing else matters. That’s the only way the world’s getting saved. That’s why we put our lives on the line today, remember? Because nothing is more important than ensuring our precious cargo makes it to Lucina. Not even trying to save an old friend.”
Owain didn’t say anything. Inigo glanced down at him, but his face was turned away, his expression hidden. Inigo cleared his throat, wishing Owain would say something, anything, even something collossally stupid. He tried it himself.
“Even a hero can’t always save everyone, you know.”
“Shut up,” Owain said, sheathing his sword. His voice was tight, caught in the throat. Inigo sighed.
“What I’m trying to say is—if they catch up to us before we make it to Ylisstol, you can’t pull something like that again. We can’t afford to.” Inigo bit his lips together, willing Owain to look at him when he was talking, to make sure every word sank in. But there was a little guilty flutter of relief when Owain’s head stayed bowed anyway. “Morgan is dangerous, Owain. He always was handy with a tome, but that magic he was using back there—he must be getting some kind of power from Grima, because that was power I’ve never seen from him before. And I think he can control Risen with his mind. He might not entertain a second attempt at parley for so long. If we run into Morgan again, we…we’re going to have to kill him.”
Inigo buried his face in his hands and let out a groan. “Gods, I hate giving these kinds of speeches. Where’s Lucina when you need her? Better yet, Severa…”
Owain stared down at his hands. Maybe if he’d stepped closer, reached out a little further. He’d been so close. “I have to at least try to talk to him, Inigo. I can’t not try.”
“You did try talking to him, and his primary response was to throw lightning at me,” Inigo said tersely, but his voice softened. “I know it’s different for you, but…I get it. He was my friend, too.”
“He’s still my friend.” Owain couldn’t speak to anything else; it wasn’t like Morgan’s betrayal had come with a formal breakup notice. But he wasn’t going to get a little treachery get in the way of eternal friendship. They’d make up for it later.
He set his sword aside and slumped back against the uneven rock wall. Out of things to keep him moving, he was losing his momentum, and the day’s exhaustion was creeping up on him. A wet chill was settling in as the rain drove into the night, and he drew his knees up against his chest. They’d had to ditch their bedrolls a few days ago, but just having somewhere dry to sleep was good enough for now.
“You don’t get it.” Owain wasn’t used to feeling this unbearably heavy. He was supposed to be a light, a beacon in the darkness for when everyone else felt this way. Even if they thought his over-the-top theatrics were childish and annoying, at the very least, they always seemed to snap people out of whatever mood they were in. “It’s not just about—what if it were you I was up against? Or Cynthia? I’d go just as far to try to get you back. I wouldn’t just—give up on you like that.”
It was only a thought exercise, because Owain really couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Cynthia or Inigo would betray them like Morgan had, or that they would ever be so fargone that his words wouldn’t reach them. Then again, he never could have imagined Morgan would either, not until it had already happened. For the first time in his life, Owain wondered if he had a problem with limited imagination, or if he’d just managed to overlook something so big so easily.
Inigo was staring at his shoes, his face red. A weird little cocktail of embarrassment and guilt was shaking itself around in his stomach. “I—I know that. Of course you would. That’s exactly the problem, Owain, sometimes you just—can’t, alright? If it were me instead of Morgan, you’d still have to—” He let out a breath, feeling stupidly flustered. “It’s not that I think he’s…not worth saving. But we have to put the mission first. That’s all it is.”
It was the truth, but it felt awful just to say it, leaving behind a terrible, bitter film in Inigo’s mouth. It felt just as awful to hear it, and Owain tried to imagine killing Morgan—picture it for real, not a drill, not a dramatic enactment, but a body still and cold on the ground, weight relieving itself of his sword. The dramatic appeal of going into Avenger Mode over a fallen comrade seemed suddenly very distant.
Inigo really, really wished Owain would quit playing the brooding hero and say something, preferably something stupid so Inigo could make fun of him and change the subject to something less harrowing. Trying to hammer the point home any more would only make both of them feel worse. When the silence lengthened, Inigo cleared his throat and patted his lap.
“Oh—come here.” He tried to make the sigh come out fond and not embarrassed, although his gaze shifted the other way. Owain never bothered to ask for help in times like these, and Inigo never quite knew how to offer gracefully. “Lie down for a bit, will you? You look like a marionette about to have its strings cut.”
The first time Owain had lain with his head in Inigo’s lap had been right after his mother died. Inigo had been in the room when the news was delivered, and Owain had been in such primal distress that all Inigo could think to do was something he remembered his own mother doing for him once upon a time. It had been the only thing that quieted Owain, for a little while at least, curled up on his side with Inigo awkwardly patting his head. It was the same now, his face buried in Inigo’s stomach, though Inigo could tell he was crying.
Maybe they’d be so fortunate as to run into Morgan again without Owain present. Maybe fortunate wasn’t the right word, because Morgan was a hell of a lot deadlier now than when he’d left them, but at least if they emerged victorious, Owain wouldn’t have to have a hand in Morgan’s death. Maybe they could spare him that, at least, because there really wasn’t any other way this could play out that ended well for them. Most of the things they fought were already dead; Inigo was sickeningly squeamish about the idea of killing someone he’d once called friend. But if they couldn’t stop Grima, none of it would matter in the end.
“He was so good at coming up with cool names for stuff.” Owain’s voice was muffled against Inigo’s stomach, which tickled just slightly. Inigo sighed.
“I know. You were insufferable together.”
Owain let out a noise that wasn’t out of despair or misery, and Inigo’s spirits dared to inch a little higher. His fingers worked idly through Owain’s hair, smoothing out the mats and tangles, just to give his hands something to do. It was irritating how Owain had such nice hair when he did absolutely nothing to take care of it. Inigo made a face to himself.
“Would you…” He heaved a massive sigh. “Would you like to help me name my shield?”
“Really?” Owain sat up so fast he nearly clipped Inigo under the chin. Instead, Inigo knocked his head back against the rock wall in an attempt to avoid it.
“Yes,” he said crossly, shoving Owain’s head back down, “but only if you take a nap first. We are, might I remind you, still fleeing for our lives. You need to get some sleep. I’m not carrying you and the Gemstones all the way back to Ylisstol.”
“I shall take deep thought on a suitable name in the realm of dreams,” Owain said, his head settling back in Inigo’s lap. “I come up with some of my best material in my sleep.”
“Of course you do,” Inigo muttered. He combed his fingers through Owain’s hair until he could hear Owain’s muffled snoring, then, finally, laid his head back against the rock wall and closed his eyes.
Title: A Rogue Friend Is a Wild Beast: Unshakable Faith ♪🎵♪
Pairings: Owain/Morgan, Owain/Inigo
Summary: Owain didn’t understand what special hold Grima had over Morgan, but whatever it was, it wasn’t absolute.
Other: it's Future Past 2 except gayer, have some moderate angst with a side of gentle h/c, this is what i call Comfort Food
Notes: I wrote the initial scene when I was stressed out and wanted Owain/Morgan content to soothe my soul, and then it just kind of kept going, and then it turned into a whole thing and now I'm invested
Shoutout to Tama for giving this a read-through before I posted it and also for their uplifting encouragement!! Thank you Tama!!!!
※ Each story is titled after a song from another Fire Emblem game, with a link to the track. Highly recommend listening to the music while you read for the Maximum Experience
AO3 mirror
“Are they gone?”
Inigo’s voice sounded muffled even from just a few feet away. The rain whipped at Owain’s face as he peered across the yawning gorge, swirling through the air and obscuring his vision. He squinted, trying to shield his eyes, but all he could see was fog and rain and the hazy darkness of shapes in the distance.
“I think so,” he said. Even through the clouds, the light was plenty enough to make out the shapes of the oncoming Risen, a much smaller distance to close than the gap where the bridge had been. “The bridge should’ve bought them a good head start.”
“Then we’ll buy them a little more time, as much as we can,” Inigo said with a tight smile, adjusting his grip on his shield. There was a particular way he flexed his fingers when he was nervous that Owain caught out the corner of his eye. They’d been fighting together so long that it was impossible not to notice those little things. Owain had to quash the entirely situationally inappropriate urge to reach for Inigo’s hand. Inigo had his hands full with sword and shield, and at any rate they were in the middle of battle—nay, facing death itself—and he probably would have just slapped Owain’s hand away and told him to be serious, this was serious. He probably would’ve been a little red in the face even as he said it, though.
Inigo shifted his weight slightly onto his back foot as the cavalry approached, raising his shield. He looked white-faced even in the driving rain, afraid to falter, but he managed a smile anyway. “One last dance, then?”
Owain smiled back without hesitation. “Now you’re talking, my fated brother-in-arms. Together, we’ll join our swords—no, our very souls—and smash through the ranks of the undead as though our very blades were aflame with the righteous fury of the gods!”
Inigo’s lip curled back in a cringe. “Stop it. You’re ruining the moment.”
“No way! You’ve gotta lean into it, or it’s totally moot.” Owain readed his sword as the shadowy horde marched ever closer. “Brace yourself, my truest of allies, here they…come?”
This wave of Risen didn’t lead into another charge like the last few; the cavalry stopped just shy of attacking range, and though the archers behind them were well within range, they were still standing at the ready, holding their fire. Out from between two heavily armed paladins stepped a hooded figure, heavy tome in hand. Owain felt his stomach go cold with recognition even before the hood fell back.
Owain always thought that a proper face-heel turn ought to come with a costume change. It was practically a given, right? A hero’s image was a reflection of his inner self, and if he wasn’t a hero anymore…well, he should at least have traded in that old coat for something slicker, something more sinister, something in all black or—or something. But by all appearances, Morgan didn’t seem to have changed all that much since the last time they’d seen him. That had been part of the problem, in hindsight—that Morgan never seemed to change on the outside, and by the time they realized he’d changed on the inside, it had been too late.
But even though the face and clothes were the same, there was something different about the Morgan standing in front of them now, staring unflinching through the howling rain. He seemed to have lost the levity that had defined him once upon a time, his old bright, buoyant self sunk underwater. He didn’t look furious or moved to tears or even full of wicked mirth. Owain couldn’t read his expression at all.
Inigo tensed, raising the tip of his sword. “You!”
“Yeah, me.” That was supposed to be a chipper little return greeting, punctuated with a laugh. The smile on Morgan’s face was only a shadow. “This has been fun and all, but I think it’s about time we call it a day. I mean, you know you can’t win here, right? Your backs are up against the wall. Well, in a manner of speaking.”
Jokes. Those were supposed to be little jokes, stupid ones, accompanied by Morgan’s unselfconscious smile, the one that made Owain all wobbly inside. But this Morgan dropped words like stones from his mouth, unpunctuated and unqualified, hard and cold in places where he’d once been warm and welcoming. Morgan held his free hand out, a tiny sigh escaping him, but his expression was set.
“So you might as well hand over Argent and Sable now. Your odds of getting out of this alive at this point are infinitesimal.”
Inigo bared his teeth in a grin. “Ooh, sorry to be the one to break it to you, but I’m afraid we don’t have Argent and Sable. They made a neat little escape along with our comrades back there. Too bad the bridge is out of service now.”
Owain let out a choked noise. Inigo looked over to see him with his mouth agape.
“Seriously?” Owain hissed. “You weren’t supposed to play that card right away—we’re supposed to let him think we have the Gemstones and hold them off as long as possible! Now they’re going to be looking for Brady and Yarne!”
Inigo looked like he was going to be ill. “Ugh, no, I didn’t—damn it. This changes nothing!” he shouted at Morgan, who was already directing several wyvern riders to take flight and survey the area. “We’re still here to fight to our very last—we’re going to kill you, or we’re going to die trying!”
“Oh, you’ll die trying,” Morgan said, as though in agreement. The tome in his hand fell open along a familiar crack in the spine. “If you don’t have Argent and Sable, then I’ll just have to kill you here. Master Grima has been wishing for your death for some time now.”
“Do your worst.” Inigo was summoning every last ounce of bravado he could scrape together just to hold him through this moment. He hated that Owain had been right about stupid mental warfare, that fights like these were all about the theatre. You had to keep up the act or risk faltering. “If an entire army can’t do the job, what makes you think you can?”
That was where Owain was supposed to chime in with an embarrassingly overwrought but heartfelt agreement about how their friendship was so strong it would smash through the heavens or whatever. But no such quip came. Instead, Owain lay down his sword and took two steps forward, his hands turned palm-out.
“Owain,” Inigo said through his teeth in a low voice, “what are you doing?”
If this was more of Owain’s mental warfare, it was on a level Inigo did not comprehend. There must have been a secret manual somewhere that he’d never managed to find, doubtless even more embarrassing than the first. But Owain didn’t respond, just quirked a little smile at Morgan. And when Inigo followed his gaze, he saw that Morgan looked almost as unsettled as Inigo felt. Morgan seemed to falter for just a moment, and then his expression shuttered, his hand tightening over the spine of his tome.
“See, we might be sworn enemies right now,” Owain said, “forced by dire circumstances to cross blades—but these cruel turns of fate are only a detour. Because I know that deep down inside, Morgan, you’re not truly my enemy. In your chest beats the heart of a true hero. You’re my eternal ally-versary, bound by fate to fight side by side with me!”
“Owain, this is not the time,” said Inigo. Owain ignored him; so did Morgan.
“Pick up your sword,” said Morgan, his voice oddly toneless. Owain shook his head, still smiling through the rain.
“Why? So you can kill me with a weapon in my hand? What for?” Owain thumbed over his nose in a familiar gesture. Morgan’s expression didn’t change. “If you truly are a dedicated servant of the fell dragon, you should have no problem striking down an unarmed foe, especially one your master has his eye on.”
He took another step forward, and to Inigo’s infuriated horror, spread his arms wide. “So go ahead. Kill me right where I stand.”
Morgan’s eyes widened slightly, and something like panic flickered across his face, but it was gone in the next moment. His brows drew down, his jaw tightening.
“Pick up your sword.”
“Pick up your sword,” Inigo repeated in a hiss. “He’s going to kill you, idiot!”
“Nah,” Owain said, his gaze on Morgan’s face unwavering. “I don’t think he will. Because the Morgan we know, the old Morgan, he’s still in there somewhere. Not even the fell dragon could quell a hero’s spirit like his.”
Morgan bared gritted teeth, and it looked more like anguish this time, that little blip of emotion. Little sparks of lightning began to gather and flicker in the palm of his hand.
“I said pick up your sword!”
Owain shut his eyes at the blinding flash of light, bracing himself for impact even as the massive clap of thunder shook through his body. He heard a grunt to his left and opened his eyes to see Inigo just barely deflect the shock of thunder magic with his shield. A few sparks made it past his armor, and he flinched, jaw clenched, but he seemed more or less alright. Owain let out a little ha.
“See? I told you he wouldn’t kill me.”
“Well, he’s going to kill me!” Inigo yelped, narrowly dodging another blast of magic. Never in his life had he felt this particularly potent mix of mortal terror and total exasperation.
“Just drop your weapon,” Owain said. His eyes still hadn’t moved from Morgan’s face. There was a growing sense of disquiet in Morgan’s expression. Owain was almost certain he saw the hand holding that tome shake just a little. “See, he needs us to go down fighting, or else he won’t be able to live with himself. It’s actually pretty heroic at heart, if you think about it.”
“Are you insane?” Inigo said, just as Owain sidestepped to shield Inigo with his own very unarmed—and considerably less armored—body. “Oh, gods, you are.”
“Come on,” Owain said, and even though he had to raise his voice to be heard above the rain, it was genial, almost gentle. He reached out a hand, ready to write off his trembling fingers as a good old sword hand twitch, only to realize he was holding out the wrong hand. Well, that didn’t matter. As long as he could keep Morgan listening—
“You don’t belong with the villains, Morgan. You’re one of the good guys, remember? You belong with us. A bunch of undead soldiers seem like they make for pretty dull company. I bet they don’t even know any good games. So—so come on. Ditch these guys and run away with us. With you on our side, we’d have no trouble making it back to Ylisstol with Argent and Sable. We’ll meet up with everyone there and Lucina will perform the Awakening and we’ll send Grima back into the deep abyss of darkness where he belongs, and you won’t ever have to be servant to any god again. All you have to do is come with us.”
Owain fought to keep his smile steady. It was taking real effort now, his heart clogging up his throat. “I miss you, my fated ally-versary. It feels wrong to fight without you at my side.”
It was impossible, at this distance, to tell whether those were tears in Morgan’s eyes or just the rain. Owain was sure he knew the answer by the stricken look on Morgan’s face. He looked like he was about to falter, his outstretched hand wavering. Owain fought not to clench his fists, still holding his own hand out. Inigo seemed paralyzed by the moment too, watching Owain, then Morgan breathlessly, like he wasn’t sure who he wanted to hit first.
Morgan’s mouth opened, and he seemed about to speak—but then his whole body seemed to spasm, nearly shaking the book loose from his grip entirely. His free hand went to his head, his teeth clenched in a look of agony. He was fighting something, Owain knew it. He still didn’t understand the exact nature of Morgan’s betrayal—the finer details of how and why still escaped them—but his heart leapt with painfully fragile hope. He was right. He had to be.
When Morgan’s hand came away from his forehead, he was white-faced and breathing hard, and his expression was one of grim determination. His eyes were fierce in a way that unnerved Owain, if only for how closely it resembled Morgan’s old cheerful determination. It was only missing the light.
“I am loyal to Master Grima,” he said in slow, measured tones. Every word landed like a lead weight. Grima’s gravitational hold on him seemed to have sucked away all his levity. “I know exactly whose side I’m on. I won’t be swayed by grand speeches or mind tricks. My master wants you destroyed, and I was sent here to carry out her will.”
Those were tears in his eyes, no matter how cold he sounded. Owain knew what Morgan looked like when he was trying to hold back tears, even though he hardly ever did—that little crease between his eyebrows, the way he scrunched up his face just slightly. At least Owain would die knowing he was right, even if he couldn’t make the difference.
The air snapped and popped around Morgan as an unseen breeze rustled his coat. He was preparing another thunder spell, and this one, Inigo might not be able to deflect. But the not-too-distant shriek of a wyvern shattered the air, and all three of them looked up instinctively. Whatever allowed Morgan to command the Risen seemed to communicate something back to him, and he sucked in a breath through parted lips, the magic glimmering out. Owain’s mouth went dry.
“Move out,” commanded Morgan, and the wyvern-mounted Risen took flight immediately, as though the words were only a formality. “Make sure they’re surrounded. We can’t let them get away a second time.”
No, no, no—this wasn’t how it was supposed to play out. Owain needed more time, needed a second chance to pry him open now that Owain knew the old Morgan was still in there somewhere. But there was thunder crackling around Morgan again as he turned, and Owain had only a fleeting moment to catch the look of terror on Morgan’s face before he threw a jolt of lightning behind him and retreated with the rest of his army.
Owain braced himself a second time, but the magic hadn’t even touched him. Instead, there was a black furrow burned into the ground just before his feet, smoking in the rain. He tried to remember how to breathe but let out a wheezing laugh instead. Morgan couldn’t bring himself to kill them in the end.
Inigo threw down his sword and grabbed a fistful of Owain’s hair, yanking his head back. “What is wrong with you? You nearly got us both killed just now!”
“Ow—oww!” Owain batted at Inigo’s hand until it released him. “Have you noticed that we are, in fact, not dead? I told you he wouldn’t really kill us.”
“Only because he went off to kill Brady and Yarne instead!” Inigo glared at Owain as he retrieved his sword from the ground, wiping the blade of grime on the wet grass before sheathing it. “And if we don’t get moving, he might actually succeed!”
“Right, and who was it that told him they had the Gemstones in the first place?”
Inigo flushed a deep red. “I—let’s just go and be glad we’re not dead yet, alright? And don’t expect me to thank you for it, because your little speech didn’t do anything to stop him shooting lightning at me.”
“You should’ve dropped your weapon,” Owain said, bending down to pick up his own sword. His gaze snagged on a scrap of paper lying in the grass, already soaked through with rain. It looked like part of a page out of Morgan’s tome, judging by the yellowed color of the paper, but the incomprehensible squiggles didn’t look quite like the usual arcane symbols. Ripped out by the wind, maybe, in that heated moment. Owain picked it up and folded it quickly while Inigo wasn’t looking, tucking it into the folds of his belt for safekeeping. He’d make sure he had a chance to return it.
Brady had to stop and lean against a tree to catch his breath, wheezing and sweating uncomfortably under his robes. Running through the mud in rain-soaked robes really wasn’t in his wheelhouse, and he felt a little like he was going to pass out.
“It should be safe to stop here for a little while,” said Yarne, his eyes darting back and forth, trying to see through the rain. Unfortunately, sight was not among the taguel’s enhanced senses. “I think. Are you okay? You sound like you’re going to throw up.”
“I damn well might.” At least Inigo and Owain’s sacrifice seemed to have bought them the time they needed. Brady wiped the rain away from his face, glad that Yarne (probably) couldn’t tell he was crying. “Oogh. How much farther to Ylisstol?”
“Another three days’ march,” Yarne said glumly. “If we can keep up the pace. We’re close to the border, but—”
His back went suddenly straight, his ears twitching. “Risen incoming,” he said nervously, hovering closer to Brady. Brady groaned.
“You mean the Risen that Inigo and Owain are supposed to be throwing themselves at to let us escape?”
“Maybe? I don’t know! But we have to move now!”
Brady pulled himself upright, leaning on his staff. “Alright, alright, I’m movin’—”
But Yarne was already pulling out his beaststone. “No time! Just hold tight, okay?!”
“Hold tight to—” Brady staggered back as Yarne transformed, and had no chance to react before Yarne nosed under Brady and flipped him onto his back. Brady clutched his staff to his chest with one hand and grabbed at Yarne’s fur out of terrified instinct and held fast, white-knuckled. “Are you out of your damn mind?!”
“Yes, with blind terror! I don’t really feel like letting any more friends die today!”
But Yarne was wearing out too, trying to keep up a breakneck pace after an already exhausting day, and his sprint barely lasted an hour. Brady tumbled off of his back and promptly threw up into the bushes as Yarne transformed back, breathing hard. He could still hear the steady march of their cavalry. They hadn’t managed to gain much of a lead. Yarne’s heart was in his throat. He tried to swallow it down with no success. If Inigo and Owain could be that brave—
“Take Argent and Sable and run. I’ll—I’ll hold them off here.”
“You are off your rocker.” Brady planted his staff in the ground—well, mud, which was diminishing the effect because the tip of his staff immediately started sliding off to the side—and fixed Yarne with a glare that made the taguel actually back up a step. “And what exactly do you think happens to me if I run into any more Risen after I leave you to kick the bucket here? It’s hrrk, splat for Brady, and then the Gemstones fall right back into those undead bastards’ rotten hands!”
“What, so you’d rather die here, right now?” Yarne’s voice was going shrill with panic. He was trying to be brave here, he really was! “How does that help anything? Then we’d all be dead! I’ll—I’ll catch up to you later, okay?”
Brady opened his mouth to rattle off a comeback that was getting a little more emotional than he really intended when Yarne tensed again, straining his ears. He looked less scared than puzzled now.
“Or we could not die. I think they’re…retreating? It sounds like they’re headed in the opposite direction now.” Yarne leaned back against a tree and slid to the ground, his legs suddenly turning to jelly. He buried his face in his knees. “Oh gods, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”
“Brady! Yarne!”
Yarne jumped immediately back to his feet at the sudden voice, and he thought for a second he really felt like he was having a heart attack—but then he and Brady turned to see Inigo sliding on his back foot down a mud-slick slope down to their hiding spot, staggering a little on the landing but immediately righting himself with a breathless grin. Owain followed shortly behind, the both of them soaked to the bone but otherwise looking more or less in one piece. Brady squinted at them, trying to hide his relief.
“Ain’t you two supposed to be waiting at the pearly gates by now, all heroically dead?”
“Lovely to see you again too, Brady,” Inigo said with a strained smile. “It was looking awfully grim there for a bit, yes, but it seems we’ve managed to cheat death yet another day.”
Owain was looking around, his brow furrowed. “Where march the forces of darkness that were encroaching upon this safe haven? Owain Dark’s sword hand is never idle when evil lurks nearby!”
Yarne shrugged with a helpless look. “Beats me. They were headed this way, but just now they turned around and marched off in the other direction. Maybe they gave up?”
“Maybe,” Inigo said, but he looked doubtful. Owain’s gaze had shifted to the skies. There, in the east, between the mountains, he could make out the vague shapes of wyvern riders beating into the distance. Had Morgan retreated to avoid another confrontation?
“Uh, weren’t they supposed to be fighting you guys, though?” The immediate danger was gone, but Yarne still looked uneasy. “Why’d they come after us all of a sudden?”
“Things took a turn,” Inigo said vaguely. He glanced at Owain, half-waiting for to be outed for his role in that particular turn, but Owain was still watching the skies.
“Destiny held another surprise in store for us today,” Owain said in a low voice. “A fated encounter—nay, a bitter reunion with an old comrade of brighter days past.”
“We…ran into Morgan,” Inigo translated, to Brady and Yarne’s white-faced surprise. Inigo felt about as uneasy as Yarne looked, and he hurried to preempt any more Owain exposition. “We can explain more later. For now, let’s just find somewhere dry and make camp for the night, shall we?” Inigo pushed his rain-matted hair away from his forehead, grimacing. “We’ll need as good a night’s rest as we can get. We’ve got a long march ahead of us tomorrow.”
The rocky terrain around here held a lattice of small caves and nooks, and though scrounging up suitable cover was a bit of a trial, they were able to find a hollow large enough to keep all four of them dry. Once they had a fire going and everyone was finally allowing themselves to sit down and stop for the first time today, Owain retreated to a corner and laid out his and Inigo’s swords out for cleaning. Inigo was a good enough swordsman, but he didn’t take nearly as good care of his sword, and they couldn’t afford to let their only weapons rust in their sheaths.
Owain was, physically speaking, exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t stop buzzing, replaying that last flash of Morgan’s face over and over again, that brief look of terror. What had he been so afraid of in that moment? He knew he’d seen doubt creep into Morgan’s face, undermining his mystifying devotion to the fell dragon. He didn’t understand at all what special hold Grima had over Morgan, what reason Morgan could possibly have for forsaking their hope for a better future when he’d always seemed to want it just as badly himself. But Owain knew he’d seen Morgan waver today, and that meant that whatever it was, it wasn’t absolute.
Not that he wasn’t happy to be alive, but he couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if Morgan had struck to kill with that bolt of lightning, if he could have brought himself to kill an unarmed Owain. Would the horror and grief of killing someone he’d once loved overcome his devotion to Grima, and lead him to the path of righteous vengeance instead? Owain wondered if he could die the kind of hero’s death for Morgan that inspired a change in heart of that magnitude. He wondered then if he really wanted that for Morgan.
Owain sheathed Inigo’s sword and rubbed his face with his hands. Ugh. He used to think about this kind of thing all the time, but it was always in the abstract, empty what-ifs. When it came to real people—when it came to Morgan—it was way, way too depressing to contemplate.
He pulled the piece of paper from his belt and unfolded it carefully. It was still damp, but not too badly creased. On a closer look, he realized that this looked more like a page out of a field manual than a tome. The notes in the margin were in a shorthand he didn’t understand, but it was definitely someone else’s handwriting. Not Morgan’s, though. What was a page like this doing stuck in a thunder tome?
He put it away quickly as he heard footsteps approach, and Inigo sat down on the ground next to him with a slight wince. They might have survived the day, but the both of them were a little worse for the wear after that battle. Owain nudged Inigo’s sword toward him.
“I cleaned your sword.”
“Oh,” said Inigo, who hadn’t asked him to and never did, “thanks.”
Owain picked up his own sword, running cloth along the blade. The edge was chipped in places and badly in need of more maintenance than Owain could really administer in the field. Or just in need of replacement. “Did you tell them what happened?”
“Only the broad strokes,” Inigo said. “None of the details of your little fit of theatrics. You didn’t tell them why the army started after them.”
“They don’t really need to know,” Owain said, turning the sword over to inspect the other side of the blade. He could feel a mood coming on, and he really only liked to be moody on his own terms. You know, when it was situationally appropriate. This was an arguably brood-approrpiate situation, but Owain couldn’t find the taste for it right now. His stomach felt filled with lead.
“Exactly,” Inigo said, a little bit of relief in his voice, but he lingered, his gaze falling. “But…while we’re on the subject of those theatrics—that little stunt you pulled with Morgan—”
“I was right,” Owain said. It didn’t feel as triumphant to say it now. “And you know it. You saw his face, too. The real Morgan is still in there somewhere. He’s the same Morgan we’ve always known.”
“Frankly, I don’t know why you find that comforting,” Inigo said, sounding unsettled. “I think I’d rather a doppelganger took his place than live with the knowledge that someone in our fold was capable of—any of that.”
It was true that it was hard to reconcile. He’d looked the same, but still, there had been something so markedly different about the Morgan they’d met on the battlefield, the way he talked, held himself, the grim determination that seemed to cloak him entirely. If Owain hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he might be inclined to believe that had been some doppelganger after all.
“But it doesn’t matter,” Inigo said. Owain jerked his head up.
“Of course it matters! I was getting through to him, Inigo. If there’s a chance that we could help him break free of the fell dragon’s hold—”
Inigo held up his hands to quiet Owain, glancing over at where Brady and Yarne had passed out in a heap from sheer exhaustion. It was unlikely anything would wake them up just now, but they really didn’t need any intruders in this conversation.
“That’s not what I meant,” Inigo said, and he let out a sigh. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right, alright? I did see his face. I saw how he reacted.”
It made him feel ill to think about—ill, and another nasty little feeling he didn’t care to put a name to. “But we were lucky to get away with our lives today, and you’re delusional if you think you’re going to sway him with the power of conversation. The most important thing is that we get the Gemstones back to Ylisstol, right? Nothing else matters. That’s the only way the world’s getting saved. That’s why we put our lives on the line today, remember? Because nothing is more important than ensuring our precious cargo makes it to Lucina. Not even trying to save an old friend.”
Owain didn’t say anything. Inigo glanced down at him, but his face was turned away, his expression hidden. Inigo cleared his throat, wishing Owain would say something, anything, even something collossally stupid. He tried it himself.
“Even a hero can’t always save everyone, you know.”
“Shut up,” Owain said, sheathing his sword. His voice was tight, caught in the throat. Inigo sighed.
“What I’m trying to say is—if they catch up to us before we make it to Ylisstol, you can’t pull something like that again. We can’t afford to.” Inigo bit his lips together, willing Owain to look at him when he was talking, to make sure every word sank in. But there was a little guilty flutter of relief when Owain’s head stayed bowed anyway. “Morgan is dangerous, Owain. He always was handy with a tome, but that magic he was using back there—he must be getting some kind of power from Grima, because that was power I’ve never seen from him before. And I think he can control Risen with his mind. He might not entertain a second attempt at parley for so long. If we run into Morgan again, we…we’re going to have to kill him.”
Inigo buried his face in his hands and let out a groan. “Gods, I hate giving these kinds of speeches. Where’s Lucina when you need her? Better yet, Severa…”
Owain stared down at his hands. Maybe if he’d stepped closer, reached out a little further. He’d been so close. “I have to at least try to talk to him, Inigo. I can’t not try.”
“You did try talking to him, and his primary response was to throw lightning at me,” Inigo said tersely, but his voice softened. “I know it’s different for you, but…I get it. He was my friend, too.”
“He’s still my friend.” Owain couldn’t speak to anything else; it wasn’t like Morgan’s betrayal had come with a formal breakup notice. But he wasn’t going to get a little treachery get in the way of eternal friendship. They’d make up for it later.
He set his sword aside and slumped back against the uneven rock wall. Out of things to keep him moving, he was losing his momentum, and the day’s exhaustion was creeping up on him. A wet chill was settling in as the rain drove into the night, and he drew his knees up against his chest. They’d had to ditch their bedrolls a few days ago, but just having somewhere dry to sleep was good enough for now.
“You don’t get it.” Owain wasn’t used to feeling this unbearably heavy. He was supposed to be a light, a beacon in the darkness for when everyone else felt this way. Even if they thought his over-the-top theatrics were childish and annoying, at the very least, they always seemed to snap people out of whatever mood they were in. “It’s not just about—what if it were you I was up against? Or Cynthia? I’d go just as far to try to get you back. I wouldn’t just—give up on you like that.”
It was only a thought exercise, because Owain really couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Cynthia or Inigo would betray them like Morgan had, or that they would ever be so fargone that his words wouldn’t reach them. Then again, he never could have imagined Morgan would either, not until it had already happened. For the first time in his life, Owain wondered if he had a problem with limited imagination, or if he’d just managed to overlook something so big so easily.
Inigo was staring at his shoes, his face red. A weird little cocktail of embarrassment and guilt was shaking itself around in his stomach. “I—I know that. Of course you would. That’s exactly the problem, Owain, sometimes you just—can’t, alright? If it were me instead of Morgan, you’d still have to—” He let out a breath, feeling stupidly flustered. “It’s not that I think he’s…not worth saving. But we have to put the mission first. That’s all it is.”
It was the truth, but it felt awful just to say it, leaving behind a terrible, bitter film in Inigo’s mouth. It felt just as awful to hear it, and Owain tried to imagine killing Morgan—picture it for real, not a drill, not a dramatic enactment, but a body still and cold on the ground, weight relieving itself of his sword. The dramatic appeal of going into Avenger Mode over a fallen comrade seemed suddenly very distant.
Inigo really, really wished Owain would quit playing the brooding hero and say something, preferably something stupid so Inigo could make fun of him and change the subject to something less harrowing. Trying to hammer the point home any more would only make both of them feel worse. When the silence lengthened, Inigo cleared his throat and patted his lap.
“Oh—come here.” He tried to make the sigh come out fond and not embarrassed, although his gaze shifted the other way. Owain never bothered to ask for help in times like these, and Inigo never quite knew how to offer gracefully. “Lie down for a bit, will you? You look like a marionette about to have its strings cut.”
The first time Owain had lain with his head in Inigo’s lap had been right after his mother died. Inigo had been in the room when the news was delivered, and Owain had been in such primal distress that all Inigo could think to do was something he remembered his own mother doing for him once upon a time. It had been the only thing that quieted Owain, for a little while at least, curled up on his side with Inigo awkwardly patting his head. It was the same now, his face buried in Inigo’s stomach, though Inigo could tell he was crying.
Maybe they’d be so fortunate as to run into Morgan again without Owain present. Maybe fortunate wasn’t the right word, because Morgan was a hell of a lot deadlier now than when he’d left them, but at least if they emerged victorious, Owain wouldn’t have to have a hand in Morgan’s death. Maybe they could spare him that, at least, because there really wasn’t any other way this could play out that ended well for them. Most of the things they fought were already dead; Inigo was sickeningly squeamish about the idea of killing someone he’d once called friend. But if they couldn’t stop Grima, none of it would matter in the end.
“He was so good at coming up with cool names for stuff.” Owain’s voice was muffled against Inigo’s stomach, which tickled just slightly. Inigo sighed.
“I know. You were insufferable together.”
Owain let out a noise that wasn’t out of despair or misery, and Inigo’s spirits dared to inch a little higher. His fingers worked idly through Owain’s hair, smoothing out the mats and tangles, just to give his hands something to do. It was irritating how Owain had such nice hair when he did absolutely nothing to take care of it. Inigo made a face to himself.
“Would you…” He heaved a massive sigh. “Would you like to help me name my shield?”
“Really?” Owain sat up so fast he nearly clipped Inigo under the chin. Instead, Inigo knocked his head back against the rock wall in an attempt to avoid it.
“Yes,” he said crossly, shoving Owain’s head back down, “but only if you take a nap first. We are, might I remind you, still fleeing for our lives. You need to get some sleep. I’m not carrying you and the Gemstones all the way back to Ylisstol.”
“I shall take deep thought on a suitable name in the realm of dreams,” Owain said, his head settling back in Inigo’s lap. “I come up with some of my best material in my sleep.”
“Of course you do,” Inigo muttered. He combed his fingers through Owain’s hair until he could hear Owain’s muffled snoring, then, finally, laid his head back against the rock wall and closed his eyes.