bouwrites

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 4

Ravenclaw Tower

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

The mood in their compartment aboard the Hogwarts Express lifts after a while. The four gossip about inconsequential things, get into a friendly argument about quidditch, gorge themselves on sweets from the trolley when it comes by. (“Can cats eat chocolate?” Michael asks when Harry pounces on a chocolate frog that tries to escape. That sets him off asking about every single thing they have, wondering if he can feed any of it to Harry.)

Anthony and Padma join them later on after their meeting with the other prefects ends, but Harry doesn’t see Ron or Hermione even once.

When the train pulls in to Hogsmeade Station, Harry allows Michael to pick him up to bring him out to the carriages.

The Gryffindor girls go ahead, and Padma joins her sister, but Michael, Terry, and Anthony linger while Michael stands on his tiptoes to nervously scan the crowd. He doesn’t say as much, but it’s obvious that he hopes to at least get Ginny to ride up to Hogwarts with them.

After a while, he drops back down with a heavy sigh and dejectedly turns to get in line for the closest carriage.

“Couldn’t find her?” asks Anthony.

Michael scoffs bitterly. “No, I found her.” He gestures sharply with his thumb to a few carriages down. “She’s in that one. With Luna, Neville, and Harry’s pals.”

Terry’s lips pull into a frown. “Did she even look for you?”

“Sure didn’t look like it.”

Terry shakes his head. “Sorry. I don’t blame her for being distracted, especially if what Lavender heard about Harry is true, but…”

But she starts ignoring him before anything happens to Harry. She ignores him all summer, just like Harry’s friends do him. Michael’s grip on Harry tightens just a little.

“Come on, guys,” Anthony says gently. “That just means there’s more space for Tiger, right?”

Michael allows himself to be pulled into the carriage, and they’re joined by only a pair of Slytherins, so there actually is an empty space for Harry, not that Harry is trying very hard to get away from Michael while he’s still holding him like a lifeline. Michael needs to hold him right now, and Harry can’t blame him for it, so he just settles in for the ride.

Once they get up to the gates, though, Michael is a bit closer to normal and it’s time for him to let go of Harry for the entrance feast. While many students file through the gates to the Great Hall, Michael takes Harry to a separate line where all the students with new pets go.

“Mr. Corner, so good to see you again,” Professor Sprout says warmly. “And who is this new addition?”

Hefting Harry into a bit more prominence, Michael announces. “This is Tiger.” Doubt flashes across his face. “Er… could you remind me what’s going to happen to him while I’m at the feast?”

Professor Sprout smiles indulgently, all too used to students being reluctant to leave their pets. “He will be perfectly safe, Mr. Corner,” she says. “A house elf will take him over to the Care of Magical Creatures classroom and watch over him until Professor Grubbly-Plank gets the first-years across the lake. Then she’ll cast a standard anti-allergen spell over all the pets so that he doesn’t set off any of your classmates with allergies. Once that’s done, the house elves will take him up to your dormitory where he will be waiting for you to arrive after the feast.”

Michael bites his lip. “Right,” he says, “just… please warn the elves to keep a close eye on him. He likes to test you. I’m a bit worried he’ll escape if I let him out of my sight for too long.”

Professor Sprout just chuckles. “I’ll warn the elves. But I assure you, Mr. Corner, the house elves of Hogwarts are more than capable of handling a rambunctious cat. Tiger certainly wouldn’t be the first one.”

Harry can tell that Michael still isn’t convinced, but he hands Harry over to Professor Sprout anyway. His hand lingers on Harry’s head, even when he’s firmly in Professor Sprout’s arms, clearly fighting with himself to leave.

“Be good, now,” Michael says, brow stitched together with worry. “Don’t cause Professor Sprout or the house elves any trouble, okay?”

He starts to pull back, but his fingers in Harry’s fur are like a tether and he’s boomeranged close again. He grabs Harry’s head with his other hand quickly and plants a kiss on the top of his head, then just as quickly releases him.

Harry shakes once, ruffled by the unexpected action.

“I’ll miss you, Tiger!” Michael shouts, walking backwards so that he doesn’t have to turn away. “I love you!”

Anthony, waiting a few paces away with Terry, sighs. “You are so whipped for a cat.”

“We haven’t been apart since I got him!” Michael whines in protest, but he does finally turn away, and the three Ravenclaws’ voices fade as they make their way up to the castle.

It’s… actually really nice, and very novel, for Harry. He knows Michael is going to be missing him and worrying about him, even though they’ll only be apart for a couple of hours.

It’s also a little frustrating. Harry can’t help but reflect on that, after a lifetime of trying so desperately to find someone, anyone, who really loves him unconditionally, and all he has to do to find it is turn into a cat.

All he has to do is… not be Harry, anymore. Tiger gets that unconditional love. Harry never will. Even the ones Harry thinks love him, his friends, ditch him the moment Dumbledore asks them to.

But mostly Harry is just soaking up the feeling of being loved. That’s most of the reason why he decides not to cause any trouble for Professor Sprout or the house elf that takes him to the Creatures classroom. Part of it is that Harry decides already that his safest option at the moment is to stay with Michael, so he doesn’t have any need to try to escape from this, but part of it, a buzzing part deep in Harry’s chest, is that Michael asks him to be good.

It’s funny. Harry feels like Michael should be relieved if Harry escapes. All the trouble Harry causes him in the few days they’ve been together, but Michael never once asks Harry to behave better. He just laughs, compliments Harry’s cleverness, and says that he’s keeping him on his toes. Even when Harry is being grumpy and aloof, Michael still only looks at him with adoration and awe.

Then again, Michael better have known what he was getting himself into, considering how they meet and the whole reason he adopts Harry in the first place is Harry swiping his fireworks and setting them off in the middle of the Magical Menagerie.

The only time Michael ever asks Harry to behave, to be good and not just act how he wants, and it’s not really because he doesn’t want Harry to cause trouble for the elves or professors. It’s because he’s scared that if Harry escapes from them, he won’t see Harry ever again.

And that… that more than anything seizes Harry’s heart with an icy grip.

Because Harry has been in dangerous situations. It’s practically a Tuesday for him if his life is being threatened. But even though he worries about Ron and Hermione getting caught up in those things with him, it never really hits him that they can die. One wrong move, and he might never see them again.

It hits him when Cedric is killed. Harry spends the summer dealing with the realization that Cedric is gone. And Harry might not know Cedric well, but he knows him some. Cedric is the Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain and seeker and Harry sees him every time they play. All the teams have littler, friendlier rivalries off the pitch, and Cedric is a prefect who practically every student encounters at one point or another.

But Harry will never see him again. It’ll be someone else in that Captain and seeker position this year. Harry will never see his teasing smile or hear him laugh and offer trash talk that’s so soft everyone just rolls their eyes and fondly calls him “such a Hufflepuff.”

And Harry isn’t even really his friend. He can’t imagine if it were someone who is close to him. Ron, or Hermione.

But while Harry is processing all of this, and the fear of the very real threat that Voldemort is back and will try to take his friends from him, and take him from them… While Harry is sitting alone and terrified that what happens to Cedric can happen to his best friends… What do they do?

They shut him out. They all but tell him that they don’t trust him. While Harry misses them with every fiber of his being, while he worries that he might never see them again, they clearly don’t miss him.

But Michael, even if Harry doesn’t know him half as well, feels the same hurt at not being missed. He misses Ginny and gets nothing back. He misses Harry, Tiger, and Harry… finds himself not wanting to let Michael down.

Not like they’ve both been let down already.

So, Harry is good for Professor Sprout. He’s perfectly compliant, even walks freely alongside the house elf who guides him to the Creatures classroom. He doesn’t put up a fuss when Professor Grubbly-Plank casts a few spells on him, and he follows obediently when a small horde of elves takes him and the rest of the Ravenclaw pets up to Ravenclaw Tower. He’s even good inside the common room and the dorm that he’s shut into.

He's good, because he doesn’t want to think about the look on Michael’s face if he comes up here to his dorm and finds out that Harry is gone. And because he really wants to see the look on Michael’s face when he sees Harry again and knows that Harry listens to him.

Harry is filled with a low kind of excitement that rubs inside of him like static. It’s hard to sit still, and he keeps looking over to the door, and out the windows, wondering what time it is and when Michael will be getting back.

But he’s also in a place he’s never been before, and where he doesn’t imagine he’ll ever have the chance to visit. It’s a unique opportunity, and he’s curious, so he spends the wait exploring the Ravenclaw boys’ dorm.

It’s definitely different than what he’s used to in Gryffindor. Even though Harry has seen the Slytherin Common Room before, he never sees their actual dormitories, and though the common rooms are quite different between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Harry always imagines that the dormitories themselves are essentially just palette swaps of each other.

Especially for Ravenclaw, who also resides in a tower. Not that Harry puts much thought into it, but he always pictures it as just the Gryffindor dorms, but with blue and bronze instead of red and gold.

He can’t be more wrong.

For one, the shape of the room itself is different. Unlike Gryffindor, whose dormitory is circular, the Ravenclaw dormitory is in a wide wedge, with closets, shelves, and desks sticking out along the flat walls. On the curve of the circle, great wooden arches lead each to a tall window and enclose the bunk beds nestled lengthwise against them. There are five windows total in this dorm, with the three equally spaced housing beds, and the two in between having chairs and small tables and generally look like quite cosy reading nooks.

The hardwood floor is also covered in much larger and more plentiful rugs than the Gryffindor dorm, which for a moment Harry is confused about, since the center of every Gryffindor dormitory is a furnace that warms them in the drafty tower and it is quite dangerous to put their rugs too close to the fire of the furnace.

But to Harry’s delight and envy, he finds that the missing furnace isn’t a mistake but a feature, as when he pads across the rugs littering the floor, he feels a gentle warmth seep up from the pads of his paws to diffuse through his body. He should expect no less from Professor Flitwick, assuming he has any hand in designing the dormitories, but warming charms on the rugs and, Harry assumes, the curtains, bedding, and possibly the large, comfortable chairs in those reading nooks as well, is a much more elegant solution than a small furnace in the center of the room.

There’s a floor-length mirror near the door, of the non-talking variety, and starry-patterned blue and bronze curtains to close off each bed and nook before every window, and there are a few Ravenclaw banners hanging from the ceiling, but otherwise the place is quite bare, which is to be expected as the residents haven’t yet unpacked and decorated for themselves.

(Harry expects that, by this time tomorrow, there will be a lot more books.)

The beds, though, are what strike Harry as the most unusual. He’s used to the Gryffindor four-poster beds free-standing in a circle around the room. These are built into the wooden nooks before the windows. The lower bed is actually partially sunken into a thick frame that makes the entire bottom part of the nook into one platform. There are a few drawers that pull out from under the bed, but once Harry jumps up onto one, he can see that the bed almost seamlessly flows into a wooden surface that fills up the space between it and the wall.

Likewise at the head, there is a short headboard where the frame rises, but then it flattens out again creating yet more surface for the Ravenclaws to use. Bars line either side of the frame above him, each with curtains that can be drawn to alternatively block out the room or block the window for the sleeper.

But Harry is mostly just boggled at the notion of bunk beds. He wonders how well that would go over in Gryffindor. He can just imagine his housemates getting into rows over who gets the top or bottom bunk.

(The bottom is more enclosed, with its headspace blocked by the top bunk above it. But although the top bunk has the tall arched ceiling giving it the feel of more space, they actually have less storage space since they lack the drawers beneath their bed.)

The notable difference that makes Harry very glad he’s in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw, however is that because of how the beds are arranged, Ravenclaw students clearly don’t keep their trunks at the foot of their bed like most of the Gryffindors do.

The only place Harry sees for the Ravenclaws’ trunks is the closets and the shelves high above them. Seamus does take to throwing his trunk atop the dresser in Gryffindor, since he rarely needs to access anything he leaves in there, unpacking everything into the provided places anyway, but Harry, who has some items like his invisibility cloak or the Marauder’s Map, is reluctant to leave those in more public spaces than his personal trunk.

If he has to climb up and get his trunk down from one of those high shelves every time he wants to get his cloak out… well, it would be very irritating.

Though he supposes that most students wouldn’t have something like that and can simply unpack everything they need and then store their trunk until they pack up once more. And Harry supposes he can negotiate the use of a lower bunk and use one of the drawers built into the bedframe for that kind of thing. So, it’s probably not an issue for the Ravenclaws.

Harry is still thankful to be in Gryffindor, though.

Speaking of trunks, they are currently on the floor before each of the bed nooks, waiting for the students to come and put them away. Harry, after lounging on the warm rug for a while, gets bored and decides that Michael probably doesn’t want him to be too good and so he finds Michael’s trunk to start digging for something to entertain himself with.

He will not be using the cat toys Michael packs, and Harry determines that it will be too difficult to get a book quickly into an uncompromising position that doesn’t reveal his ability to read it should the Ravenclaw boys return without warning. (It should be just about time for them to be coming back, Harry thinks. It’s been a while, in any case.) Terry Boot, Harry notices, is quite sharp and though Harry does like him, he’s definitely dangerous to Harry being undercover here. He can’t take foolish risks like trying to read while the boys can be coming in any minute.

What Harry does find and deem acceptable to occupy him for a few more minutes, is Michael’s collection of stink pellets.

Giggling to himself, and knowing that his “escape attempt” is more a game this time than anything else (and knowing that Michael will know that, too, on account of Harry being here at all and not escaping while with the elves or while he’s alone), Harry carefully – very carefully – takes the stink pellets one at a time and plants them under the blankets of each of the beds.

The top bunks are a bit more trouble. It’s unexpectedly difficult to climb the ladders up to them, but Harry manages it, and only just shuts Michael’s trunk to cover his tracks when he hears the Ravenclaw students arriving in the dormitory outside.

Harry plants himself directly atop Michael’s trunk and watches the dormitory door.

He’s not kept waiting. Michael is first through the door, searching frantically until his eyes land on Harry and he’s so overcome with relief that it feels palpable in the very air.

“Tiger!” Michael cries, rushing over to him. He tries to pick Harry up to cuddle, and part of Harry wants to let him, but he can’t afford to be trapped in Michael’s arms when his “escape attempt” goes off, can he?

Plus, he uh… really doesn’t want to be on this side of the room when his surprise goes off.

So, he squirms until Michael accepts that Harry doesn’t want to be held, but he allows Michael to kneel by the trunk, petting him thoroughly with such a joyous grin not put off at all by Harry’s refusal to cuddle. And he watches the door for the others.

Just a little later, close behind but far enough that it’s obvious Michael rushes here first thing, the rest of the Ravenclaw boys file in, chatting about their summers.

Harry tracks the four of them across the room, casually stands and stretches as they approach the beds, then hops off of Michael’s trunk and trots towards the door left ajar by Kevin Entwhistle, the last boy in.

Michael reaches out for him to grab him before he gets out, but in just that moment, Terry collapses into his bed with an exaggerated groan – doubtless to accompany some tale the boys are all talking about.

And the impact of his body hitting the stink pellet hidden there sets it off. There’s a small, muffled poof, and a small cloud of noxious stench covers Terry and his bed. The boys all shout and recoil and very quickly start laughing at Terry’s misfortune. Harry just prances casually towards the open door.

Michael, well trained by now to look for Harry during moments of distraction like this, scoops him up about halfway there.

“Michael!” Stephen Cornfoot groans. “Now the whole dormitory is going to smell!”

“It wasn’t me!” Michael protests. “I was at the feast same as you guys! When would I have had the chance to plant something like that?”

“He’s got a point,” says Kevin, climbing up to his bed above the one Stephen is hovering around. “Who could have done that?” And then he jumps in and sets off another stink pellet.

The boys all recoil in shock. Harry buries his head into Michael’s chest to attempt to hide any strange reaction that might seem too similar to a human laugh.

“Mine, too? Really?” Kevin whines.

Michael grins down at Harry, obviously knowing exactly how those stink pellets gets there, and then shrugs, shuts the door tight, drops Harry so that he can stay over here and not in the middle of the stench cloud, and in a surprising feat of athleticism, jumps bodily into the upper bunk above what Harry assumes is Anthony’s.

And sets off another stink pellet. Michael laughs. No one else even looks at him twice for obviously doing that on purpose.

“Are those in all the beds?” Anthony asks, cautiously approaching his own. He draws his wand and levitates the blankets, searching for and finding the little pellet Harry leaves there for him. He chuckles and grabs the thing rolling it between his fingers smugly. “You don’t think Professor Flitwick would play a prank on us like this, do you?”

Wisely following Anthony’s lead, Stephen likewise safely removes the stink pellet in his own bed. “If it is, I hope the other houses got it just as bad. Imagine if the heads of houses all got together to plan this. Fred and George would be jealous.”

(Michael is still just laughing.)

Terry eyes Harry knowingly and says, “It wasn’t Professor Flitwick.”

“You think so?” asks Kevin. “Who else has access to our dorms before we even get here?”

Like he simply can’t contain himself anymore, Michael squeals, “It was Tiger!”

“The cat?” Kevin asks.

“I knew it was you!” shouts Stephen. “You seriously trained your cat just to prank us?”

Michael hangs over the edge of his bed, still giggling madly. “It’s adorable that you think Tiger can be trained to do anything,” he says. “No, he’s just my little genius. Speaking of. Tiger-” his voice turn whiny and begging as he reaches out dramatically across the room, “come snuggle with me!”

Yeah, right. Harry rarely allows that on a good day but at the moment Michael and his bed are covered in the stench of a stink pellet. Harry hisses at him.

“You set the stink off on purpose and expect him to snuggle with you?” Anthony scoffs. He rolls his eyes until they land on Tiger. “Course the whole room is going to stink for a while. Sucks to be you guys.”

“What?”

Anthony smirks, twirls his wand towards his own bed once more, and casually announces, “If you want to avoid the stink, Tiger, you can join me in my bunk.”

“What?” Michael screeches. “You can’t- He’s my cat-!”

Harry, deciding this is by far the funniest option and frankly hoping that Anthony really does have some way to prevent the stink of the pellets from penetrating his bunk, immediately saunters over and hops onto Anthony’s bed.

“Hey,” says Terry, “Anthony, can I-”

“No, you can suffer,” Anthony says without missing a beat.

“At least tell me what spells you used!” cries Stephen, who likewise doesn’t set off his stink pellet.

“I just combined odor-eliminating charms to get rid of the stench in the air and a scent-masking charm to stop the linens from letting out more of it,” says Anthony.

Stephen squeaks something like offense. “Those don’t work on stink pellets and dungbombs! They’re charmed against those!”

Anthony just hums doubtfully. Michael continues moaning dramatically about being betrayed, Terry laughs while Kevin just pouts.

“Well, I’m not going to suffer this stench anymore,” announces Anthony. “Goodnight, everyone.”

With that, he slips into the bed with Harry, closes his curtains, and casts a quietening charm on them to effectively shut out the rest of the room. Harry is surprised and relieved to find that it also shuts out the stink of the pellets entirely, and he breathes fresh, clean feeling air instead.

Anthony then stops, runs a hand through his blond hair, eyes Harry – who eyes him back – and he chuckles. “Magizoologist specialist variations of the charms,” he explains. “They’re not nearly as widely known, so the joke shops that manufacture the pellets don’t bother countering them. My cousin Rolf taught me the spells last year after I complained about Michael letting off a dungbomb for the thousandth time.”

Oh, that is clever. The household odor-eliminating charms that everyone, even Harry at this point, knows may not work on those pranks, but a different spell would.

Anthony rolls his eyes fondly. Another second, and the fix once more on Harry, examining him more closely with a scrutinizing gaze. “You know, you really are remarkably intelligent for a cat. I can see you setting off the stink pellets before we get back, but actually hiding them in our beds? Hm…”

Uh oh. Harry meows as cutely as he can, hoping it distracts Anthony from that line of thought.

He doesn’t quite know if he’s successful or not, but Anthony shakes his head. “Well, whatever. Alright, budge over,” he says finally. “I like you, but I don’t cuddle.”

To make his point clear, Anthony carefully nudges him. Harry backs up without any sort of fuss, allowing Anthony to take his own bed. Harry decides, partly out of thanks to Anthony for allowing him the clean air of this little bed nook, especially since the stench is entirely Harry’s fault to begin with, to in fact let Anthony have the bed in its entirety and wanders down to curl up on the flat wood past the foot of the mattress itself.

Anthony watches him choose his spot, smiles gently, and conjures a warm, soft blanket that Harry can happily bunch up and wrap around himself comfortably.

(A thought passes through Harry’s head idly, like a snowflake trapped on the gentlest of breezes, taking a butterfly’s fluttering, ambling path to the ground. He curls up to sleep, and as he dozes, that thought which crosses him is this: are cats just treated better than humans? Or is the difference Michael, and Anthony, and Terry instead of his friends as Harry? The contented hearth in Harry’s breast doesn’t truly care, but a wriggling boil in his gut roars at the thought that it just might be the latter.)

-----

The next morning, the smell is mostly gone, but everyone still gets ready quickly and loiters in the common room rather than the dorm. (Harry, who when he places the stink pellets doesn’t actually know whose beds are whose, wonders if they’ll forget that the pellets are planted in all the beds, and whether they’ll remember to remove the one from the unused bed above Terry’s. He hopes not.)

Michael takes Harry up to the common room with them, although he’s already talking through his day, explaining to Harry that he can’t actually bring Harry with him to the Great Hall for mealtimes during events – the handing out of timetables at breakfast today being one of them, and the other being mainly feasts for holidays and the like. Basically, if all students are expected to be present at one time and required to sit at their respective house tables rather than the more casual meals they usually have, pets aren’t particularly welcome at the table.

Part of Harry thinks, Great, I don’t have to go to the Halloween Feast. Maybe if he just hides under Michael’s blankets when the time comes, and doesn’t even leave the Ravenclaw dorms, he can get through one Halloween without something horrible happening.

Yeah… that’s probably too much to ask for. Not that Harry isn’t going to try.

(Granted, except for his name being called for the Triwizard Tournament, none of those horrible things actually happen to Harry… The troll doesn’t count on account of him actively leaving the safety of his house to find Hermione. But the point still stands. Halloween is not an auspicious day.)

But even though Harry will be left here for now and will have time to explore more thoroughly once everyone leaves for breakfast, this is Harry’s first real opportunity to get a look at the Ravenclaw Common Room. The house elf kind of bundles him right on through to the dorm itself when he first arrives.

It’s two main “rooms” separated by an archway. The stairs that they climb to get here from the dorms spits them out just on the deeper side of that archway, into a room with the signature high vaulted ceilings and tall windows that Harry comes to expect from Ravenclaw locations. The wood is all a deep bronze, with a fireplace directly in the center of the room making a statement.

On the other side of the archway, the wood is all painted white, giving the room a brighter feel despite there being fewer windows to let in the ample morning sunlight. A statue of Rowena Ravenclaw stands in an alcove on the far side, where stairs descend and wrap around the room.

Looking up, Harry sees more of the constellations painted there that he sees in the bronze-wood half of the common room, but the center is open, allowing a great chandelier with hanging banners draping down from it to descend through the hole from the floor above.

Is there a second floor? There are stairs up right next to the stairs down to the dormitories, and the suits of armor that guard the female side of the dorms only guard the way down on that side, so up might be another common area.

Michael sees Harry looking up and whispers, “I’ll show you the roof later,” as he scratches the top of Harry’s head.

Beyond that, the Ravenclaw Common Room isn’t too different from the Gryffindor or Slytherin ones. Different vibe, obviously, and décor, but it’s still generally just full of carpets covering the floors, and tables and chairs for hanging out or studying at. The principle of the place is the same.

Well, with the exception of the astonishingly massive bookcase in the bronze-wood part of the room. Gryffindor definitely doesn’t have one of those, and Harry can’t remember anything quite like it in his single foray into Slytherin, either.

“Oh, look! Michael got a cat!”

Harry looks over to the approaching girls. And then his heart leaps to his throat.

Oh, shoot. Harry does not consider that Cho is a Ravenclaw. And she’s coming closer with a couple of her girl friends, giggling and cooing at him.

Ah. Right. Because he’s a cat.

“Aw, he’s so cute!” Marietta Edgecombe says. “Can we pet him?”

Michael looks at Harry, who starts squirming a little with the girls fawning over him (Nope! Bad!) but otherwise just kind of freezes.

And since Harry is usually quite good about making it known if he protests to being pet, Michael assumes he must be fine with it. Still, thankfully, he doesn’t just say yes and instead goes with a warning. “He can be kind of fickle about that sometimes, but you’re welcome to try.”

Marietta and the other girl whose name Harry can’t recall ever hearing allow Cho to try to pet him first. She giggles as she smoothly passes her hand over his head, pushing back his ears, and then lets it flow smoothly down his back.

Harry… does not know how to respond to this.

On one hand, he feels a little like he’s going to be sick. His body flushes with heat and he knows if he were human right now he’d be beet red. His throat is dry; it’s hard to swallow over the lump there. His brain is totally fuzzy.

It’s more embarrassing than his disastrous attempt to ask her to the Yule Ball last year, somehow, and she of course has no idea that he’s him and not a cat, so she just keeps petting him, delighted.

And Harry realizes with a jerk that he’s purring.

Heck. No. This can’t be allowed to continue. Harry tries to nip her just to get her to stop because he cannot deal with his crush petting him. The moment she does, he buries his head into the crook of Michael’s elbow and wishes silently to simply die.

“Oh, that’s interesting…” a very different voice says airily. “I thought I felt a wrackspurt zooming around here, but they’re not usually attracted to cats.”

A what? Harry risks lifting his head again to get a look at the new girl who approaches the group.

She looks maybe a little younger, though close enough that it’d be harder to tell if Cho and her friends weren’t older, giving a bigger contrast. So, perhaps in Ginny’s year. But she gives off an aura of distinct dottiness. Her pale blonde hair is braided intricately with… some kind of ornaments that look like beets woven into it. She wears her uniform, but with a necklace of butterbeer caps and without shoes. Her wide eyes give off a permanently surprised expression, which makes her staring him down somehow kind of intimidating.

(Harry likes her immediately, but much like with Terry is also very nervous that she’s dangerous to him being undercover here. Terry is too smart, but this girl seems like she’s just weird enough to jump to the idea that he’s actually a human pretending to be a cat fairly quickly. Harry knows how much confirmation bias helps keep his secret.)

“Hey, Luna,” Michael says, sounding equal parts exasperated and fond. The group of older girls, however, roll their eyes together and whisper amongst themselves. Harry is too busy dying of embarrassment to care to eavesdrop.

Luna doesn’t even ask, doesn’t hesitate for a single second. She just reaches out, scratches Harry on this one spot near the underside of his neck that has him purring and rolling to expose that spot and get more, and then she’s rudely pulling those fingers away and Harry is left to recover from just how quickly he melts for that.

(He shoves his face back into Michael. Just kill him now.)

“That’s a very special cat, Michael,” Luna says dreamily. “I’m glad you’re taking care of him.”

“Er… thanks,” says Michael, obviously confused. With a bit more spirit, he adds, “He is special, isn’t he? He’s so smart.”

“Oh, you should do something fun with him, though. He needs more positive thoughts to drive away the wrackspurts.”

“…I’ll do that. Thanks. See you later, Luna.”

And Luna skips away, humming some jaunty tune Harry doesn’t recognize.

“Merlin, what a weirdo,” Marietta sighs. Harry’s ear twitches.

“Anyway,” Harry can’t tell from Cho’s tone whether she’s agreeing with her friend or trying to avoid the subject, “we’ll see you at breakfast, Michael. Don’t take too long.”

“Yeah, I’ll be down soon,” he says. When the girls are gone, he refocuses his attention on Harry, “Alright, Tiger, I got to go. But…” Michael frowns, torn. “I really don’t want to keep you cooped up all day. I know the castle house elves will keep you safe, but… will you really come back if I let you out into the castle on your own?”

That is a very, very fair question. As soon as just yesterday, the answer would have been a resounding no, but Harry does decide to stick with Michael at least until the break. There’s just nowhere to go from Hogwarts, so he has to get back to London at least before escape is worthwhile.

And, frankly, if Ron and Hermione, and therefore Dumbledore and all those witches and wizards Dumbledore sets to spying on Harry’s house of the summer, are looking for him, it’ll be safest not to actively be on the run.

Dumbledore especially, the clever wizard he is, might put together that the cat travelling the countryside is very much like Sirius in his dog form doing the same thing only last year while Harry was part of the tournament. But he won’t have any reason to suspect a student’s pet, nor that Harry would be at Hogwarts at all.

Confirmation bias is a hell of an ally. But it sure does mean that Hogwarts is currently the safest place for Harry, and therefore he no longer has any reason to escape from Michael.

But how is Harry supposed to convince him of that when he spends the entire few days they know each other trying increasingly extreme methods of escaping?

Harry considers that question for a while, but eventually settles on simply stretching up and licking the tip of Michael’s nose.

Michael visibly trembles with the effort of keeping himself together. “What, you think you can just do something cute, and I’ll give you whatever you want?” he asks sternly.

Harry tilts his head, then butts it up into Michael’s chin.

Michael breaks. “Well, you’re absolutely right,” he coos. “Let’s get out of here.”

They leave the common room and Michael laughs all the way up until the point where he actually has to let Harry go. His grip tightens for a moment. “…Please come back, Tiger. I’m trusting you, here, because you didn’t really try to escape last night, and I’m hoping that means you actually do want to be with me. So… go explore, and come back to me with some elaborate prank planned, okay?

“I really need you to come back…”

Harry feels a kiss to the top of his head, and he twists around to touch his nose to Michael’s to hopefully reassure him, and then he is released into Hogwarts.

#write #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #ravenclaw boy propaganda

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 3

The Hogwarts Express

First, Previous, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Harry cuddles with Michael for a while. And yes, it is as weird as that sentence sounds, but he does it anyway because it’s really the only way Harry can comfort the boy. It’s not as if he can just tell him that he knows exactly how he feels because everyone in Harry’s life is doing the exact same thing Ginny is doing to him.

Bitterness swells in Harry’s chest. He feels a bit guilty, honestly, about running off and doubtlessly worrying everyone once they discover that he’s not hiding in his bedroom, making no noise and pretending that he doesn’t exist. If they discover that. Even the note Mr. Weasley sends telling him to stay put (which he obviously disregards) doesn’t actually tell him anything about anyone coming to pick him up or let him know what’s happening. And even if it did, it’s clear it would only be because the situation leaves them with no other choice, not because they actually trust or care about Harry. As far as Harry knows, they don’t ever intend to tell him what they’re up to. Hermione’s the only one who hints that she expects to see him “soon”, whatever that means.

He feels a bit guilty up until about now when he’s snuggling with Michael, trying to comfort Ginny’s boyfriend because they treat him the exact same way. But honestly? They can all sod right off. All of them. Ron, Hermione, and especially Ginny included. Maybe he ought to tell them that he’s an animagus and that he’s okay and just laying low, but why should he tell them anything? What have they told him all summer? And Michael, too, who must understand even less…

No, not one of them has the right to complain about Harry worrying them for dropping off the radar when they do it first. Harry is just going to do it better. They want him to be safe, don’t they? That’s their whole excuse for refusing to inform him of even the protections around his own home, or what dangers really are lurking beyond those boundaries. So, they can’t possibly gripe about Harry making himself safe by hiding as his animagus form.

If he tells them about it, he’d be putting himself in danger, after all, wouldn’t he? If he tries to send a letter, the owl could be intercepted, like they love to tell him. And he can’t very well inform them in person on account of them refusing to see him. So, it’s not his fault that they’ll get nothing from him, is it? He’s only doing what he has to to stay safe.

If he can’t be mad at them about that, then what right do they have to get angry with him about it?

Harry is so angry thinking about Ginny’s stupid excuse for a letter and his friends who pull the exact same thing, that he almost even forgets to try to escape the next day. Almost.

Today, Michael is supposed to be packing for Hogwarts and Harry isn’t allowed to wander alone outside of Michael’s room yet since Michael still thinks he’ll try to lose the Corners and slip out somewhere if he’s left unattended. (Which he will. So, fair play.) So, they’re both together in Michael’s room.

Harry lounges for the very first time on the cat bed that Michael gets him only because, when Michael comes in to start his packing, he tries to move it out from in front of the closet door to get it out of the way. Harry deciding to use it for once leaves Michael to have to awkwardly lean, reach, and step over him to grab his clothes from the closet so that he can pack them.

The Hogwarts Express leaves tomorrow. Harry is running out of time to escape. He… supposes he can hide at Hogwarts. If he’s trying to stay safe, that might even be a good idea since he can be reasonably sure that the Ministry won’t be looking for him there of all places. What makes him nervous is that he’s not sure he’ll be able to live there under Dumbledore’s nose without getting caught.

It will definitely be easiest to escape from Michael after they get to Hogwarts, when Michael will be in classes and the like and he’ll have to be left unattended at least part of the time, but how can Harry be sure he’s not walking out of Michael’s arms right into Dumbledore’s? And if Harry escapes while at Hogwarts, what does he do from there? He at least knows where he is in London. Wandering around the Scottish highlands, hoping a Hebridean Black doesn’t think a cat a nice appetizer isn’t exactly high on Harry’s to-do list.

Then again, Harry doesn’t really have a plan here, either, so…

Oh, but another problem with getting to Hogwarts is that, once Dumbledore does finally realize that he’s missing, Ron and Hermione will probably get their hands on Harry’s things. Harry leaves Privet Drive with nothing but his wand. If Ron or Hermione has the Marauder’s Map from his trunk, then walking into Hogwarts will basically be announcing his identity to everyone.

Harry rolls over, groaning to himself. If he could just get some message to Sirius, figure out where Sirius is staying right now… they could hide together. Harry could have a goal, a destination, at least. But as it is his plan is basically just “don’t get caught.”

Harry only then notices that Michael isn’t packing any more. He’s not finished by a long shot, but he’s still just laying on his bed, watching Harry intently with a cute little smile on his face.

Seeing that he’s caught Harry’s attention, Michael chuckles. “I like watching you think. You look like you have a rich inner life.”

Harry lets out a definitely-distinguished, “Mrp?”

“What does a cat think about, I wonder?” Michael hums. “Probably ham.” Oh, if only he knew. “Though you are you,” he continues. “You’re probably planning your next prank. Or escape attempt. Mom was not impressed when she had to repair my window yesterday, by the way. You know that, right?”

Well, that’s just his own fault for leaving his fanged frisbee where Harry can get to it, isn’t it?

Harry just sticks his tongue out at him.

Michael squeals. “Aww, you’re just so cute. Parvati’s going to love you.” He grins. “Actually, scratch that, all my friends are going to love you. Even if they don’t, I’ll annoy them until they do.”

Harry huffs and turns away, back to his own thoughts.

“You’re kind of moody, aren’t you?”

What? Harry is not moody!

He looks back to see Michael putting on a pouting face. “Where’s all the love you had a few days ago? Why can’t you come cuddle me more?”

Michael pats the bed next to him invitingly. Harry hisses at him. Inside, though, Harry is thoroughly embarrassed. Yes, he does it the once, but that’s only because of Ginny’s ridiculous, stupid letter that makes Michael sad. He’s not really a pet!

Michael snickers. “Be that way if you want, but I know you’re actually a very nice cat.”

Harry just narrows his eyes and turns away once more. He has better things to do than engage with Michael. He’s got to figure out how to get out of here, after all.

“…The truth is, Tiger…” Harry stops. He can’t help how his ear swivels towards Michael’s voice. All at once the happiness and humor is sucked away like a dementor swoops into the room. Michael just sounds… defeated. Dead. “I’m scared to go back to Hogwarts.”

Scared?

“I mean… You-Know-Who is back, and the Daily Prophet and the Ministry are too concerned with their image to admit it. Poor Harry, his name is being dragged through the mud just for saying what he saw that day. The Ministry of Magic is attacking a kid my age. The fucking Ministry!”

There’s a sharp bang that makes Harry jump, but when he gets his eyes back on Michael, he’s only burying his head into his crossed arms into the blanket of his bed, taking deep breaths.

“Sorry, Tiger. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Michael mumbles quietly. “But think about it… our government is going after a fifteen-year-old. Who does that and can still call themselves adults? I don’t care if he is lying, it’s just ridiculous!”

Harry… honestly doesn’t even think about that. But Michael is right. This is the highest governing body in the British Isles, the Minister for Magic himself, slandering a child because they don’t like what he says.

And Michael doesn’t even know about the dementors. It only occurs to Harry now that the Ministry is just as likely to have sent those as Voldemort is. Maybe more, actually, considering how eager the Ministry is to use the attack against him.

“…I do believe him, though,” Michael mutters, now fiddling with a thread at the edge of his blanket overhanging the bed. “I don’t know Harry very well, but… well, he’s a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. If he says You-Know-Who is back, then he believes it.”

That’s… Harry warms, hearing that. Despite the Ministry’s smear campaign, there are still people who believe in him. Michael doesn’t even hesitate to say it. There’s not a doubt in his mind.

And at the same time, it kind of pisses Harry off more. Because if Michael Corner, some random Ravenclaw bloke Harry talks to maybe twice his entire time at Hogwarts, knows him well enough to know he wouldn’t lie about something like this, then what’s wrong with the world that he hears so many people believing that rubbish while he’s in the Menagerie?

Michael shudders. “I don’t know how anyone could look at his face the moment he came out of that maze and say they don’t believe him. And Cedric…”

Oh, Cedric. Harry can’t help but feel that Cedric is wronged even more than he is. Cedric dies in that graveyard. He’s murdered in cold blood, just because he’s there. An unnecessary, meaningless death. But if he can be used to make people aware of the threat… that would be the meaning in it.

And the Ministry is actively taking that away from him. They want Cedric’s death to mean nothing. Just a tragic accident in a tournament they swear is made to be safer so that deaths like that don’t happen.

“…So, yeah,” Michael whispers. “I’m scared to go back. If the Ministry is willing to attack Harry… what’s to stop them from going after the rest of us? And You-Know-Who is out there, but we’re not even going to learn to defend ourselves.”

He grabs his copy of Defensive Magical Theory from his stack of textbooks and tosses it to the ground. “I mean, have you seen this? Slinkhard’s primary thesis is that we just shouldn’t use any magic that could be used aggressively. In any situation. Poncy git wouldn’t approve of a freezing spell to cool your pop, because then you’d actually know a spell you could use on a person. If our Defense teacher this year chose this book, they’re worse than useless. They’re actively encouraging ignorance.”

Holy- Is that true? Wow, Harry is almost glad he’s expelled, then. That sounds like their Defense teacher goes out of their way to choose the actual worst book they can for the class.

Michael groans. “I feel like we’re stuck between the Ministry and You-Know-Who, both want our heads. You-Know-Who got to Harry at Hogwarts last year, and that was before he was resurrected. And you know the Ministry isn’t going to protect him, much less the rest of us. If they interfere at all, they’re only going to make things worse. I’ve got O.W.L.s this year, so there’s that to worry about. Not to mention I haven’t heard anything of substance from Ginny all summer and I’m really not optimistic about what’ll happen when we see each other again…

“It’s just… a lot, all at once. And it’s scary. Don’t you think?”

Yeah, he does. Harry gets it. It’s hard for him not to, being who he is. Harry doesn’t realize that other people feel this way, too. He never really thinks about what the other students are feeling about all the crazy things that happen. He’s too busy trying to survive it himself.

Michael sighs. He slumps where he is hanging off the bed. After a moment, he lifts his head once more, smiling at Harry. “You’re a good listener, Tiger. Thanks for letting me rant.” He reaches out, and Harry graciously permits him a little scritch behind the ear.

“I wish I was a cat,” Michael says. Harry has to choke down a visible reaction at the irony. “You’re not worrying about the Ministry, or You-Know-Who, or exams, or girlfriends.” God, if only he knew. “You’re just thinking about ham.”

…

…

…Well, he is now.

----

Harry tries to escape five times that day. Unfortunately, either his heart really isn’t in it, or he’s just really bad at it, because Michael catches him every time.

The next day, the very day they need to board the Hogwarts Express, Michael distracts Harry from trying to escape by sitting them together on the sofa and putting on DuckTales for them to watch for the entire morning.

Harry intends to use the television as a distraction for the Corner family and slip out while they’re watching, but he’s never been allowed to watch cartoons before – he’s never been allowed to watch anything before – and he’s just totally sucked in from the moment the theme starts. (Woo-oo!)

Michael of course notices that Harry gets into it and spends the entire car ride to King’s Cross Station shouting the DuckTales theme at the top of his lungs. Even Harry can’t quite tell if it’s an efficient distraction making him forget to escape, or if it only makes him want to get out faster. But the rest of the Corner family surprisingly don’t seem to mind. They even shout their own hearty “Woo-oos” at the proper moments for at least the first half or so of the drive.

Imagine if Harry makes this much ruckus at the Dursleys. Unthinkable.

It’s Harry’s own fault, though. The Michael getting carried away thing, not the Dursley’s being awful thing. The moment Harry meows when he’s supposed to “woo-oo” Michael gets that sparkling look in his eye and they all know that there’s no chance they will ever know peace.

And so, Harry is highly amused and slightly miserable by the time they do finally reach King’s Cross and Michael is forced to cool it. Michael tries to get Harry into a carrier to bring him through the station, but after Harry bites him for the very first time he accepts the loss and gives up on it.

(Harry nips Michael a few times when he does something he doesn’t like, but he never really wants to hurt the guy. Trying to put him in a cage, though? Harry bites hard. Michael’s mom has to heal his hand, but Harry’s message gets across.)

He’s bundled up in Michael’s arms through King’s Cross to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and there makes one final attempt to escape by biting down on a fizzing whizzbee he sneaks from Michael’s pocket in the car and hides in his long fur.

As planned, he begins to float up, and he uses the moment of surprise to kick off of Michael to get some momentum, careening through the station.

He can just about taste freedom. It’s citrusy… and fizzy. And then he can only sigh when a pair of hands close around him, catching him right out of the air.

So unfair. It isn’t even Michael! Harry glares bitterly at the blond boy holding him at arm’s length looking quizzically between him and Michael, who runs up quickly.

“I suppose this is Tiger,” Anthony Goldstein says flatly.

He’s nearly bowled over (Harry has a brief moment of hope when his grip loosens from the impact, but Anthony is just too good) when Michael tackles him with a hug. “Anthony!” He shouts. “Thank you thank you thank you! Oh, man, that was a close one! Sneaky, sneaky, Tiger!” With a groan that digs a sharp nail of guilt into Harry for worrying him so much, he adds, “And now I have to figure out if fizzing whizzbees are safe for cats…”

“They’re safe,” Anthony says calmly, handing Harry back to Michael, who hugs him tight to his chest. “Maybe keep them away from that one anyway, though.”

“Mrow!” protests Harry.

Michael snickers. “Nah, I’ll just make sure to keep a hold of him if he wants to try it again.” Knowing Harry hasn’t just poisoned himself, Michael relaxes again. “Isn’t Tiger so smart? He had to have taken that whizzbee like an hour ago, but he knew just when to eat it.”

Anthony just hums, looking passively over Harry. “Doesn’t show in his appearance, but I guess there must be kneazle in him.”

Harry is so glad that kneazles are a thing. It would be so much harder to convincingly pass as a cat if they weren’t.

“Anyway, I should be getting on the train,” says Anthony. “Prefect and all that.”

“Congrats again on that, man, we all knew you’d be prefect.” Michael pauses. “Are the Weasleys here yet, do you know?”

Anthony’s expression turns sympathetic. “I haven’t seen them, so I doubt it. They aren’t typically early. You should probably just go grab a compartment.”

Michael deflates a little. “Right. I’ll do that. Thanks, Anthony. Good luck in the prefect’s cabin.”

Anthony starts to turn away, but just before leaving, he adds, “Parvati’s here, though. You already know Padma is the female prefect. And Terry should be getting here soon.”

Michael brightens at that. Harry’s time with him so far makes him think that Michael really isn’t someone who handles loneliness well.

Michael says good-bye to his family and gets on the train, not grabbing a compartment for himself, but searching them until he finds Parvati so he can join her instead.

He sits, Parvati squeals and tries to pet Harry, Harry hops out of Michael’s arms to curl up in his own seat. Michael shakes his head and moves seats with an, “Uh, uh,” and takes Harry’s seat, forcing Harry to move down closer to the window so that Michael is between him and the door so that Harry can’t run the moment someone opens it.

“He’s a little escape artist,” Michael says to Parvati in explanation. “Likes to pull pranks and make a break for it.”

Parvati giggles. “Oh, so he’s just like you.”

“Almost as clever, too. Can you believe, not ten minutes ago, this guy snuck a fizzing whizzbee without me noticing, ate it, and flew right out of my arms. If it weren’t for Anthony he might’ve even gotten away from me that time.”

They share a laugh, then Parvati asks. “Is he going to be okay at Hogwarts? What if he gets loose?”

Michael shrugs. “I’ll ask the house elves to keep an eye out for him. If fine if he wanders, but they can make sure he doesn’t get into anything dangerous.” Harry levels a betrayed look Michael’s way. No! He’s supposed to at least have the option of escape at Hogwarts!

Michael snickers. “Yeah, I see you, Tiger. I know you’re listening. But I’ve got to keep you safe somehow and I seriously doubt Professor Snape will be amenable to me bringing you to class with me.”

Yeah, that would go over like a hurricane.

Lavender Brown enters the cabin then and also tries to pet Harry. He hisses at her.

“Your cat’s kind of grumpy, isn’t he?” she says.

“Nah,” Michael says with an adoring grin. “He’s just like that. He’s a teddy bear, really.”

Excuse him? Who’s a teddy bear? Michael is the one trying to snuggle him all the time!

“Oh, he will bite, though. If you really bother him.”

That’s better.

Lavender heeds the warning, wisely retracting the hand reaching out for Harry to fold it in her lap.

Lavender starts up some gossip about someone or other, so Harry takes that as a cue that he doesn’t need to pay any more attention. Instead, he looks out the window, watching for Hermione or the Weasleys, and thinks about his best options going forward.

Escape at Hogwarts, while possibly not as difficult, is painfully impractical. While Harry is in London, he has access to Diagon Alley, Gringotts, and by extension all sorts of services he could, if he pays attention and makes the right choices, use to get out of the country.

At Hogwarts… there’s Hogsmeade, he supposes, but what does he do from there? Try to hitch a ride on the Hogwarts Express all the way back to London? Not impossible, but Harry doesn’t actually know how often the train runs outside of getting the students to school and back, if it does, and if he loiters in Hogsmeade too long he’s likely to get picked up again and either returned to Michael or taken as a pet by someone else. Then he’s back to square one.

But aside from wandering the Scottish highlands, he doesn’t see any other option. He doesn’t know where anything else is up there, and he’s quite certain that there are fairly vast distances between everything, anyway.

It seems to Harry that, once he’s at Hogwarts, his best option is just to stick with Michael until the holiday and he’s brought back to London. Surely Dumbledore won’t be looking for him as a student’s cat, and maybe he can even still keep learning a bit by hanging out with Ravenclaws while they’re doing their homework or something. After all, even though Harry is on the run from the Ministry at the moment, he doesn’t delude himself that he’ll be able to escape Voldemort forever. He can’t really afford to put his education at a complete standstill.

The biggest concern is if Ron or Hermione come back with the Marauder’s Map. Assuming Harry doesn’t mess up and draw attention to himself, that’s the only way anyone will know he’s not what he seems to be.

Which means… if Harry is going to be going back to Hogwarts this year… he needs to steal back the map before Ron or Hermione has a chance to use it.

Harry casts a sidelong glance to Michael, a plan already forming. He adopts Harry to begin with because he says Harry is his prank partner. Surely, he’d be willing to pull a prank or two, during which Harry can use the opportunity to grab some parchment. To Michael, the map would just be scrap parchment. There’s no reason he’d worry overmuch about returning it, or keeping it from Harry if he insists on not handing it over. Harry just needs to nudge Michael in the right direction to set things in motion.

Yes, this can work…

The compartment door opens again. This time Terry Boot enters. He steps in, surveys the situation, and asks, “That’s Tiger, then? He looks like he’s up to something.”

Michael giggles. “Yeah, he always looks like that. That’s ‘cause he is. My little genius.”

Harry stares him down but decides to allow the scritch just at the base of his skull.

Terry sits near the door, on the other side of Michael, so determining him to be out of unwanted petting range, and with Michael going off on an elaborate play by play of every moment since he meets Harry in the Magical Menagerie, Harry simply returns to looking out the window.

Yeah, he’ll just spend the year as Michael’s cat. It seems the safest option at the moment. But he will need to get that map.

Oh, speaking of, that’s the Weasleys, now. Harry watches them bustle along the platform, subdued to a man as they approach the train. Worry and guilt twists Harry’s gut seeing their expressions. They all have pinched brows and tense frowns.

“Oh, Michael!” Parvati exclaims. “Look, the Weasleys are here!”

Michael peeks out the window, Terry and Lavender both looming over the closer ones to see for themselves as the Weasley’s promptly board the train.

“D’you think something’s wrong?” Terry asks. “They seem concerned.”

“They’re not the only ones,” says Parvati simply. “Half the families out there look the same way. It’s just the state of the world right now.” Harry doesn’t notice because he’s not really looking for anything but the Weasley’s signature red hair, but he sees that she’s right. That concerned look, the glancing over their shoulders… many more than just the Weasleys look that way.

“You-Know-Who, you mean,” says Michael.

“That’s a lot of it,” Parvati answers bravely.

The compartment door opens as a familiar redhead pops her head in. “Oh,” says Ginny dully. “Hey guys.”

Michael jerks up, ramrod straight. “Ginny! Hi! Come on in, let me introduce you to Tig-”

“Hey, uh,” says Ginny, rubbing her arm. “Actually, I’m looking for Harry. Have you seen him?”

Michael snaps his mouth shut. Harry can practically hear the tight muscles in his jaw locking together.

“We haven’t,” Terry says smoothly, entirely unfazed by Michael’s change in demeanor. “Thought he’d be with you guys.”

Ginny sighs dejectedly, murmuring, “Yeah, well…” She shakes her head, straightening up again to put a bit more confidence in her voice. Harry might even be convinced that nothing is wrong if he doesn’t already know better. “Just let me know if you see him, alright? Ron and Hermione are both prefects, but they asked me to-” She hesitates just for a moment. Terry narrows his eyes even less obviously. “-give him something.”

“If he stops by, we’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” Lavender says sweetly.

“Thanks,” Ginny says. “I’ll keep looking, then. See you later.”

She leaves the compartment, closing the door behind her. Parvati reaches across the space to grab Michael’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “That was seriously not cool of her…”

“Not a single word for her boyfriend!” Lavender screeches in outrage, all sweetness in her tone gone for fury. “And she has the gall to ask about another boy – one we all know she used to fancy! Ugh!”

Even Harry, feeling the miserable frustration rolling off of Michael, moves to lay down in his lap, allowing his trembling hand to run down Harry’s back in soothing pets.

Terry scoots closer to Michael as well and hooks their arms together in solidarity. But his eyes are still on the compartment door. He says, “Something’s up with Harry. Has he ever come to the train without the Weasleys?”

“Not that I can remember,” Parvati says quietly. “I don’t really keep track of him, though…”

“He hasn’t,” Michael says firmly, in a tone that says he would really rather talk about this than Ginny ignoring him in person as well as in her letters. “Fred and George have mentioned it before.”

Lavender copies Parvati and grabs Michael’s hand to squeeze once but takes his cue not to mention Ginny. “I heard he might not be coming back to school this year,” Lavender murmurs without her usual enthusiasm for gossip.

Harry’s eyes immediately snap to her. Where does she hear that? Does that mean his expulsion has finally been announced?

“What?” Terry sounds stricken. “Why? If it’s just because of the rubbish the Daily Prophet prints-”

Lavender shakes her head. “No, I heard from a friend whose friend’s mom works at the Ministry, right? Did you read a while ago in the paper they mentioned that Harry had gotten into trouble for doing magic in a muggle neighborhood?”

Terry scowls. “I did. I also read that it was the patronus charm. Harry isn’t thick enough to use a spell like that without a very good reason. And there’s only one reason to use that spell in particular. That means there must’ve also been dementors in that muggle neighborhood, but no one’s asking about that.”

Okay, Harry officially likes Terry. Hearing these people who he rarely if ever really talks to gossiping about him is kind of strange. It drives in that he really is a household name, but he hears plenty of that from chatter in the Menagerie.

What gets him is that these guys are defending him. Harry barely speaks to them, but they’re getting angry on his behalf, getting scared for him, arguing for him even when they don’t believe he’s ever going to find out.

It makes him really, really happy. And more than anything, it makes him feel like he truly has allies. Like he’s not alone.

“Well,” says Lavender. Everyone leans in as if pulled by her lowered voice. Even Harry. “What I heard was that Dumbledore arranged for him to have a trial about mid-August. Only that’s not when the trial actually happened. Once the date was set, Dumbledore almost immediately started arguing to push it back, and back, and back until the Ministry told him to stop interrupting proceedings and held the trial just yesterday.”

“Well, he’s fine then, isn’t he? There’s no way he’d get in any trouble if there’s a fair trial,” says Michael.

Lavender’s solemn frown dissuades them all from that thought.

“No…”

“He didn’t show,” Lavender murmurs. She glances to the door worriedly, like talking about this is some crime she’s afraid an auror will barge in and arrest her for. “He wasn’t present, so he couldn’t defend himself. They never even heard his side of the story. Dumbledore tried to argue for him, but they called him a threat to the Statute of Secrecy. They’re calling for his wand.”

“What?” Michael cries. “That’s absurd!”

Parvati slaps her hands to her mouth, stunned too gentle a word for how she reacts, but Terry once again proves why Harry already likes him best by just darkly muttering, “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Parvati finds her tiny, trembling voice. “What? What does it mean?”

Terry’s eyes search the upholstery for secrets, darting back and forth as his mind works overtime. After a moment, he says simply, “He was set up.”

Everyone’s eyes widen. Lavender’s voice is startlingly hard when she leans in intently and demands, “Explain.”

“Dementors in a muggle neighborhood,” Terry begins. “Who controls the dementors?”

Lavender gasps. Michael hedges, “It could have been You-Know-Who. You know he has it out for Harry.”

“That’s true,” Terry says, nodding to Michael. “But You-Know-Who is also surely taking advantage of the Ministry’s insistence that he’s not back. Would he really risk snatching a Ministry asset right out from under them and use it so brazenly?” Terry shakes his head. “I’ve no doubt the Minister would take advantage and they would cover it up, but You-Know-Who is smarter than to make it so obvious to the Auror office.”

“Susan’s aunt Amelia would never overlook something like that,” Lavender says. “Maybe especially if the Minister insists that she does. But if the dementors were sent by the Ministry… someone high up, like the Minister himself…”

“There’s nothing she can do about it,” Terry confirms. “She likely can see the order form, can see it was properly filed, but all the details would be redacted. If there’s just no form there, as there would if You-Know-Who ordered the attack, she could launch an investigation, but as is, since the trial must’ve determined there were no dementors present…”

Harry lays down, trying to process this. If Terry is right… Sure, Harry has the thought that the Ministry might be the ones to send the dementors but he never really thinks…

With a sigh, Terry continues to explain. “The most likely culprit for why those dementors were anywhere close to Harry is the Ministry itself. And the most telling reason to believe it’s them is how they’ve reacted afterwards. So, he uses magic to defend himself, and what? They put him to trial? For underage magic? As if they don’t have a whole department that’s supposed to handle those issues?”

The department meant to handle those issues does respond first, to be fair. But their response is to expel him and attempt to snap his wand, so Harry isn’t feeling very charitable to them at all.

“When has an underage wizard ever had their wand snapped for anything less than willful endangerment of another wizard’s life?” Terry asks. “Expelled, sure, it happens occasionally, but going so far as to call for his wand?”

“The Ministry attacked him,” says Michael tightly, “forced him to use underage magic to save his own life, and then expelled him and now they’re trying to snap his wand for it?”

“It’s worse than that,” says Terry grimly. Harry only wonders how it can possibly get worse. “If they’ve finally gotten rid of Harry… who’s next on their list? Who are they going after in the papers just as much? That they’re calling a threat to public safety for claiming You-Know-Who is back?”

“Dumbledore,” Parvati breathes. “You think they’ll be going after Dumbledore next? But… he’s the only wizard You-Know-Who ever feared. They’d be practically inviting him back out into the open.”

“Not just that,” says Terry. “What about us? We all believe Harry, don’t we? What does that make us in the eyes of the Ministry? And if they were willing to attack a boy our age in his own neighborhood, set him up, take his future and his magic from him… How safe are we? Especially in Hogwarts, where Dumbledore is in charge?”

Everyone in the compartment, Harry included, shivers. They all look down to their hands. Michael wraps up Harry and hugs him tight, trembling.

Harry himself is as scared for everyone else as he is soothed by the strange feeling that everyone here sees what happens to him as a loss. It feels almost as heavy, almost as tragic, as losing Cedric. As if Harry dies. A casualty of war. Everyone here is scared for themselves as they carry on, but they also care that Harry won’t be attending Hogwarts with them. Harry doesn’t expect that from them.

“I’m scared,” Lavender admits.

“Me too,” says Terry.

“…Can we be sure about this?” Parvati asks. “I mean, was it really the Ministry…?”

Terry shakes his head. “Nothing’s a hundred percent. It’s just deductive reasoning. But I think it makes too much sense to ignore.”

“…So, what’re we going to do?” Michael asks.

That, it seems, no one has an answer to.

#fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #write #ravenclaw boy propaganda

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 2

Someone Who Understands

First, Next.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

Harry loses track of how long he’s in quarantine. As a cat, he spends a lot of time sleeping, and though he does still have nightmares, he finds they’re a lot less frequent when he’s in this form than when he’s human. It’s a small blessing, but between naps, meals, some play time with the nice clerk who Harry admits to taking a bit of a shine to, and the baths that become a regular part of his routine because Harry actually quite likes bathing regularly, even if it is more often than a normal cat would, he loses track of the passage of time.

It's just a steady routine he falls into until all of a sudden he’s being brought out to the front of the shop, a part of the Magical Menagerie that used to be more familiar but now seems strange compared to the back where he’s been living for the last while.

It’s not an unwelcome change, though. Being out front gives Harry the chance to learn more about what’s happening outside the walls of the Menagerie.

Harry takes to climbing up to the top of the highest crates and shelves, and sometimes actually managing to get into the rafters, so that no customers see him and get the bright idea to adopt him. He really needs to escape from here before someone pays for him and loses their galleons on an animal that isn’t really a pet. But all his time in quarantine leaves Harry even more clueless to the state of the world than he is when he gets caught in the first place, so he’s hesitant to leave this safe haven.

But he watches, and he listens. He has to, to learn. Conversation within the Menagerie is understandably dominated by pet talk, but there are still some snippets. Harry learns that they’re about halfway through August, so Hogwarts will be starting again in just a couple of weeks.

He jumps down from the rafters once to steal a newspaper that a customer brings in, and carries it back up with him where no one can reach it without magic. The witch is good-natured about the loss, so he gets to keep it, and once the attention dies down and he won’t be noticed, he pores through it, looking for anything.

Anything on Voldemort, anything on himself. He is an easy topic to find. Harry’s face is plastered on the very front page, and the article talks about him being a mad, raving, liar and fearmonger for saying that Voldemort is back, but the only hint of Voldemort’s whereabouts is the Daily Prophet’s insistence that he’s still dead as a doornail.

There’s nothing about Harry vanishing, but the front page article does reveal that he uses magic in a muggle neighborhood, calling him a severe threat to the Statute of Secrecy. Other than that, though, which is really just more slander, there’s no call for information on his whereabouts, or notice of his expulsion from Hogwarts.

Harry wonders if that’s a good sign.

And then, with as much information as he can get and already having stayed here far longer than he’s comfortable with, Harry decides it’s time to escape.

…Which really shouldn’t be as hard as it is.

He starts simple. He tries to dart out of the door when a customer opens it. But he’s always caught, and now that he makes a habit of it, the clerk keeps an even closer eye on him, wand ready to snatch him up if he tries to make a break for it.

Harry tries the windows, but they’re old and dirtied and jammed from never being opened on account of the many animals residing in the place that would escape if they were.

He tries to jump onto the door handle to open the door himself once, when the clerk isn’t looking. Then the door creaks so loudly and the bell above the door rings and he’s caught red-handed, and the clerk grabs him with a weary sigh and a shake of his head.

That’s when Harry has to start getting creative.

He opens all the birdcages before he tries to slip out, but the clerks now knowing his antics make sure to secure him first before putting all the birds back away.

He recruits another cat to help him push over a big crate, which spills feed all over the shop floor which sends all the creatures into a frenzy, and he’s giggling to himself as he dances through the pandemonium to try to make his escape, but the owner actually puts the whole shop on lockdown until all the animals are calmed and Harry never has his chance.

After enough attempts, Harry even just sits right there on the register, glaring at the clerk manning it, and just reaches down and shuts it anytime the man tries to open it, just to be annoying.

It’s in the Hogwarts rush, which begins about halfway through the week immediately preceding September the first when the Hogwarts Express departs King’s Cross, that Harry’s latest attempt to create a distraction that will allow him to escape backfires spectacularly.

He’s lounging in the rafters, staying out of sight as usual, when a familiar-looking boy enters the shop with a young girl who looks too young for Hogwarts (a sister?) and an older woman who is probably his mother.

Harry sees quite a few Hogwarts students in here recently, which should be no surprise. He doesn’t know all of them, and he’s surprised by a few of them because he isn’t aware that they have pets, but in general he’s not bothered by the fact that he recognizes the boy.

He’s tall, with an average build and dark hair that’s long for a boy held back in a ponytail. Not a stand-out, which is probably why Harry has trouble placing his name. He knows they’re year mates, but this guy is a Ravenclaw, so Harry doesn’t talk to him very much.

Although, he’s pretty sure this is the guy that’s dating Ginny. Michael Corner? Hermione and Ron talk about him sometimes, but it’s usually more talking about him and not actually pointing him out. Harry vaguely remembers a paired project in History once that he does with Michael in second year. The only thing he remembers about it is that Michael doesn’t seem particularly bothered about working with him, and thus probably doesn’t believe he is the heir of Slytherin that is attacking muggleborns in the school, but they don’t really talk about it.

(Now that he’s thinking about it, that’s the reason they get paired on that project in the first place, isn’t it? Ron grabs Hermione because it’s a History project, and Michael is the first one Harry finds that doesn’t spurn him offhand. Reflecting on that, Harry finds himself warming to the guy, even if Ron hates him because he’s going out with Ginny. Harry wonders if he hears anything about what the Weasleys are up to all summer.)

Harry sees Michael in the shop, eyes him going up to the counter to talk to the clerk as his mother and sister look around the rest of the store. More importantly, Harry sees the bag sticking out of Michael’s pocket, with the edge of the logo for Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop printed there.

Chuckling lowly to himself, Harry rises, adjusting to try to get a better view into Michael’s pocket. When he spots what he needs, he silently drops down onto a crate, staying low and creeping along, slithering down to sneak up within reach of Michael.

He makes it there silently, even managing to hop up onto the puffskein cage immediately to Michael’s side without notice, and slowly, carefully, he reaches out.

The clerk’s eyes go wide. He’s caught! Harry flexes his claws, hooks the bag, and wrenches it from Michael’s pocket, spilling the contents all over the floor of the Menagerie.

The clerk tries to apologize, and in the brief moment of distraction, Harry’s eyes search his treasures and land on his ticket out of this place.

A small bundle of Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks. Perfect.

Narrowly avoiding the clerk’s lunge for him, Harry pounces on the firework bundle. He bats at it, playing with it, and the moment the clerk takes out his wand to catch Harry with magic, Harry picks up the bundle and tosses it up into the way of the spell.

The magic triggers the fireworks. They ignite, shake vigorously where they are, and then burst, streaming through the Magical Menagerie in wonderful sparkling light and color and noise.

The animals go mad at the sudden explosions, all stirring into an uproar. The poor clerk is immediately overwhelmed, and the owner isn’t here today to lock down the place. (Harry makes sure.)

Snickering to himself for a successful plan, Harry slips through the chaos for the door. As expected, someone opens it, coming in to investigate the clamor. Harry takes the opportunity to dart-

He’s hooked just behind his forelegs and lifted, struggling uselessly and yowling his protests as he dangles there, unable to reach the freedom that’s so, so close.

No, no, no, no, no! He nearly has it this time!

But the pop pop popping of the fireworks fizzles to a halt with a quick spell from the clerk and he’s already herding the animals back to calm as he apologizes profusely to Michael’s mother and sister, who both seem just as startled as all the creatures. (Unlike the mother, though, the sister is dazzled, not just surprised.)

Harry twists his head to look back at the boy who catches him. Michael Corner. Harry narrows his eyes and lets out a fierce hiss, expressing his displeasure at these events. Michael just stares at him with wide eyes and an awed smile on his lips.

Once the cacophony calms, the clerk finally comes over to Michael, who hasn’t moved a muscle since picking Harry up. “Again, I am so sorry,” the clerk says. “This little tiger has been trying to escape for weeks and he’s only getting smarter.”

“I love him,” Michael announces quite out of nowhere.

…What now? Harry squirms and hisses some more, but Michael just coos with a goofy grin.

“Michael…” his mother warns.

“Mom, look at him! Come on, how can you say no to this face?”

Harry, pouting and growling, fur still sticking up every which way despite being perfectly clean now, narrows his eyes threateningly.

“He looks like a menace,” says the little girl, bluntly.

“I know! Isn’t he perfect?” Michael squeals.

“Perfect for you,” the girl giggles.

The mother sighs. “Michael, he set off your fireworks in the middle of the pet shop.”

“Well, where else was he going to set them off? We haven’t bought him, yet!”

“Michael Thomas.”

Uh oh, thinks Harry. She pulled out the middle name. While Michael shrinks, just slightly, Harry actually feels better. Because surely if Michael’s mother uses his middle name on him, there’s no way she’s ever going to consent to actually buying Harry from the Menagerie.

Harry suddenly finds himself cradled closely to Michael’s chest. “Come on, please, Mom? I love him so much already!”

Michael’s mother pinches the bridge of her nose. “We came here for an owl, Michael. Not a cat. And pick up your mess!”

Michael swiftly kneels to gather the remaining scattered joke items back into the bag, which he stuffs back into his pocket. Hoping to make an even worse impression on Michael’s mother, Harry squirms around to start trying to reach for the bag again.

Of course, Michael easily keeps him away from it, but the intention is clear.

(This all makes Harry wonder what Hermione’s parents say about her bringing home Crookshanks after she goes to this very same shop with the intent to get an owl to write to them with. He never does ask her about that.)

“Please?” He drags the word out like using a bigger breath will make his mother more likely to agree. “I know we’re here for an owl, but what if I use my allowance? You don’t have to pay, you just have to agree to let me keep him!”

“You only want him because he’s a better prankster than you,” says the sister.

“Shut it, Rosie, he is not. He would be an awesome partner, though.” Michael’s glittering eyes on Harry reveal just how much trouble he’s already planning to get into.

“You are not getting a cat just so that you can play pranks with it,” says Michael’s mother.

“That’s not the only reason!” Michael protests, and Harry notices he doesn’t deny that he does plan to use Harry to pull pranks. “I feel a connection. Come on, Mom, isn’t that how you’re supposed to pick a pet? You look ‘em in the eye,” Michael turns Harry around so that he can stare directly into Harry’s still-narrowed eyes, “and you get that feeling in your heart like, ‘yep, that one, that’s the one’ right?”

Michael’s mother sighs, and Harry panics a little because it looks like she’s starting to break. He’s got to do something, anything!

“You and Dad were just talking about how I need to learn more responsibility, weren’t you? I’ll take care of him. One hundred percent. I’ll get his toys and his food and I’ll wash him and entertain him and everything! You won’t have to do a thing for his care!

No! Harry wails internally, watching Michael’s mom crumble. Don’t give in!

“You need to learn to budget for him, too,” says Michael’s mother, trying to sound stiff even as she gives in. “We’ll slightly increase your allowance to help, but all of his expenses will be on you. Understand?”

“Yes!” Michael whoops. “Thanks Mom! You’re the best! I love you!” He hugs Harry tight and turns to the clerk. “How much for him?”

The clerk appears both exasperated and relieved, probably happy to be getting rid of Harry. “For a black cat? Nine galleons. Nonrefundable – if he escapes you, you’re on your own. The Magical Menagerie holds no responsibility once that tiger leaves this building.”

Harry wonders at his life being worth just nine galleons… That’s way more than the Dursleys would ever spend on him. Probably more than they’ve spent on him collectively through his whole life.

Huh. Why is he proud to be worth nine galleons to this random Ravenclaw bloke he barely knows?

But even so, surely, he’s worth at least ten, right? …Right?

(Michael also buys food and toys and simple necessities like bowls, brushes and the like, and so his total does end up exceeding ten galleons, which Harry feels irrationally smug about. Also guilty because he does still plan on escaping, so those galleons are all going down the drain… He’ll try to find some way to refund Michael before he leaves. Or after.)

Michael holds Harry close as he fills out the paperwork registering Harry as his pet, and his mother and sister find an owl and go through similar paperwork as well, and then it’s all sorted and paid and Michael is walking out of the Magical Menagerie with Harry Potter in his arms.

“What’re you going to name him?” Rosie, Michael’s sister, asks.

“I don’t know,” Michael admits, stroking and cooing at Harry as he does nonstop since he gets Harry in his arms. “It needs to be something fierce, I think.”

Harry mentally groans. He best prepare himself for the worst. At least he won’t have to put up with whatever name for long, since he’ll have to make his escape before he has to go back to Hogwarts.

“The clerk kept calling him a tiger,” Rosie says thoughtfully. “Sounds fierce to me.”

“He is a little Tiger,” Michael says. He tickles Harry’s chest adoringly. “What do you think, partner?”

…It could be a lot worse. Harry is already kind of used to the Menagerie employees calling him that, so he doesn’t really have any protest. It’s a temporary name, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter what Michael calls him.

“Well, he’s not hissing.” Rosie snickers. “I think that means he’s okay with it.”

Oh, right. Since she reminds him… In a flash, Harry grabs onto Michael’s bare hand with his claws. He doesn’t dig in, not hard enough to pierce the skin, but he stares Michael down, the threat clear in his eyes.

Michael meets his eyes and laughs. “Oh, yeah, we’re going to get along great,” he says. “You really are a little tiger, aren’t you?” He carefully extricates his hand from Harry’s claws, then runs that hand over Harry’s head.

Harry lets out a disgruntled little trill from the unexpected pet, which does not help him look fierce.

The Corner family make their way back to the Leaky Cauldron, where they use the floo to get back to their home. Harry watches carefully as Mrs. Corner takes Rosie through the floo, leaving just Michael and him on this side, and Harry sees his opportunity.

He has to time it right, though. Harry waits, ensuring that his muscles are all relaxed, biding his time. Michael steps up to the floo, tosses a few knuts into the tray and takes a pinch of floo powder, and tosses it into the fireplace. He calls for his destination, steps forward…

Harry twists, struggling all at once to get out of Michael’s grip. As he’s perfectly compliant up until then, Michael’s grip on him slips.

There’s a moment when time seems to slow, and Harry thinks he’s done it. He’s out of Michael’s grasp, Michael already has one foot in the fireplace, and they’ll be separated and Harry has at least a minute or two to get out of there before Michael can come back to look for him.

But Michael, showing reflexes Harry can’t know to expect from him, just manages to catch him before he can strike the ground and bolt, and Harry is swept up in the floo travel alongside his schoolmate.

They emerge, both coughing from the soot getting in their mouths since they’re unprepared, but Harry hangs limply in Michael’s hands, utterly defeated.

“You clever, sneaky little bean,” Michael growls, but there’s a laugh hidden in his throat.

Rosie takes in their appearances. Their mother vanishes the soot clinging to them, but Rosie asks, “What’d he do?”

“Tried to escape just as I was stepping foot into the floo,” Michael says proudly. And why is he proud about that? “Nearly managed it, too. Totally would’ve lost him.” So, why is he still grinning like a loon? Harry hangs there, pouting, glaring at Terry with all the frustration his feline face can show. Michael just giggles. “Tiger’s so smart, isn’t he?”

“I figured that when he set off your prank fireworks as a distraction,” says Rosie, rolling her eyes.

“Yes,” Mrs. Corner sighs wearily, “he clearly has a bit of kneazle in him.” When she says it, it doesn’t sound like a good thing.

“Welcome home,” says an older man who can only be Michael’s dad. He looks to Mrs. Corner. “Did I forget you mention getting Michael a cat?”

“His name is Tiger,” Michael announces proudly, readjusting Harry to settle him once more in his arms instead of dangling. “He’s my partner and I love him. He pulled my bag from Gambol and Japes out of my pocket and set off the Filibuster Fireworks I had there. Right in the middle of Magical Menagerie! It was chaos!”

Michael’s dad snickers. His wife glares. He coughs and clears his face quickly. “I hope you know that a pet is a big responsibility. You can’t just let him do whatever he wants.”

“I know,” Michael sighs. “He’s a bit of an escape artist, too, so he’ll keep me on my toes. But I think we can use that energy for something more productive once we build a bit of trust. And yes, Mom already gave me the responsibility lecture.” He rolls his eyes. “We made a deal – I’ll be providing everything for him from my allowance.”

Mr. Corner frowns. “Your allowance might not be enough to support a pet and get things for yourself… we should increase it a bit. It’ll be good for you to learn to budget.”

“Yeah, Mom said that, too.”

“Of course, she did. She thinks of everything.” He grins at her. “She’s brilliant like that.”

Mrs. Corner rolls her eyes indulgently. Harry watches the kids to see that it’s usual behavior for their parents to dote on each other.

“Anyway,” says Michael, “I’m going to take Tiger up to my room and get my school things sorted.”

Mrs. Corner just nods to him, but Mr. Corner gestures to a letter sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “Owl came for you while you were out.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Michael snatches up the letter and heads off from his family further into the house.

Feeling a bit voyeuristic, Harry nonetheless takes the opportunity to look around at his classmate’s home. He’s not really sure what to expect from Michael Corner, considering they rarely talk. Harry doesn’t know anything about him.

It surprises Harry to learn that Michael is quite obviously a half-blood. The Corner home looks like a typical suburban muggle one on the surface, though with a lot more personality than the Dursleys. Hints are hidden throughout, like the box on the mantle with their floo powder, the newspaper Mr. Corner reads with moving pictures on it, and the toy broomstick Harry assumes Rosie must leave out in the hall, but there isn’t that kind of pervading omnipresence of magic like there is at the Burrow, where it seems that the house itself wouldn’t even stay standing if not for magic.

Harry knows that Mrs. Corner is a witch – he sees her wand strapped to her forearm beneath the long sleeve of her robes while they’re still in Diagon Alley. Plus, muggles can’t use the floo. But he wonders if that’s why Mr. Corner doesn’t go with them on their shopping trip, because he’s a muggle and they decide to floo instead of taking the entrance through the Leaky Cauldron?

It feels kind of bad to just leave him behind like that, but then, this would be at least the fifth time they all go shopping for Michael’s school supplies, so maybe the novelty is worn off.

Michael takes Harry down a narrow hall to an unmarked door and makes sure that it’s shut behind them before he finally lets Harry down to explore. Harry’s curiosity gets the better of him, so he does just that.

Michael flops down on his bed for a moment, then quickly sits up and starts sorting through his bags. Potion ingredients get tossed flippantly into a cauldron near his bed, but books are handled carefully, thoroughly examined, and set aside in a few orderly stacks.

Leaving him to it, Harry investigates the room. Knowing that Michael is a Ravenclaw, Harry expects maybe a large bookcase or a cluttered workspace filled with notes, but actually, Michael’s room looks just like any fifteen-year-old boy’s room.

He does have a bookcase – two – one taller than the other, and they are filled with books, but Harry spies a lot of normal muggle classics and fantasy books, with a collection of classic plays on the top shelf. The larger bookshelf is mostly these fiction novels, but the smaller has non-fiction reference books of such scattered topics that Harry can’t quite make sense of it.

There are some textbooks, including quite a few muggle ones. There are books on mathematics, but also nineteenth-century dress patterns, a book on Japanese ink painting, language dictionaries, one title on masonry, some physics and engineering books, some carpentry, and a couple on growing and processing flax to get fibers to make into cloth. And that’s just the muggle ones! Harry is secretly a little jealous of the well-used Build-Your-Own-Broom title with sticky notes poking out of it in all directions.

But the books don’t dominate the space like Harry might expect of a Ravenclaw. They’re kept on their shelves nice and orderly. Quidditch and football posters both hang on the walls, and little knickknacks clutter other surfaces. A small rectangular GameBoy finds its home on the nightstand, next to a case with a few game cartridges thrown inside.

(Harry remembers when Dudley gets one of those. He plays it nonstop until the battery dies and then gets angry because it cuts off in the middle of his game, so he breaks the thing. All in all, it lasts barely a day. Harry gets to salvage the useless game cartridges to look at the colorful art on the fronts and imagine he’s in those game worlds instead of at the Dursley’s.)

Harry pads around the bed in the middle of the room, sniffs at the closet door, which is currently closed, and continues over to the desk sitting just next to the window. Harry hops up onto the chair, then onto the desk itself to start sniffing around there. He risks a glance at Michael, but Michael is still sorting through his purchases (mostly the cat stuff, now) and does not seem to mind Harry climbing onto his furniture.

There are a few books left out on the desk, and some parchment next to a quill and inkpot as well as a ballpoint pen, but nothing very interesting. The window peeks into the yard and the ordinary-looking fence between this property and the next, but Harry spies a planter just under the windowsill packed densely with some long-stalked plant. Flax, perhaps?

In the corner of the room furthest from the door, an old, cheaper Comet broom stands, and alarmingly seems slightly modified, which prompts Harry to take a closer look at the quidditch posters as he wonders if Michael has a particular team that he supports like Ron does the Chudley Cannons. It’s certainly not as obvious as Ron’s shrine to his team, but between the posters and a scarf on the floor poking out from beneath Michael’s bed, Harry identifies the black and white banner of the Montrose Magpies to be Michael’s favored team.

“Alright,” Michael mutters to himself, finished with his organizing and grabbing one of the schoolbooks he sets aside earlier. Harry’s ear twitches in his direction, listening even as he hops down to start crawling around beneath the bed for anything hidden. “Time to find out if our Defense teacher will be any good this year. Defensive Magical Theory… Not a great start to have a theoretical textbook for a practical class.”

Hmm, not much under here. There’s the Montrose Magpies scarf he sees already, and a loose sock, and a small open box, and that’s about it. Harry bats at a dust bunny while he listens to Michael open the book and readjust to a more comfortable sitting position on his bed. The mattress creaks overhead.

Harry pokes his head into the box, wondering what’s in there. He immediately regrets it. He balks and scrambles back and yowls in surprise, accidentally tipping the box as he does so, spilling Michael’s magazines of scantily-clad women all over the floor.

There’s a sharp snap of a book being shut, then Michael’s sigh. “Well, that class is going to be useless,” he groans. The mattress shifts again as he moves. His feet appear, and soon after his knees, and then Michael’s face shows up, peering under the bed for him. “What’re you doing down here?”

Michael sees Harry toppled over ungracefully with the spilled box of illicit magazines before him. Harry has only enough time to send Michael an undignified glare.

Clicking his tongue, Michael shakes his head. “Naughty, naughty, Tiger. Not even here ten minutes and you’re already getting into that.”

Harry hisses.

Michael reaches under the bed. Harry contemplates biting him for a moment, but Michael only grabs the magazines and rights the box, putting it all back to order, and does not try to grab Harry again.

Still, that’s quite enough of that, so Harry ventures out as well once Michael stands again. Michael takes the opportunity to put a plush cat bed near the closet door, but Harry takes the chance to spring up onto Michael’s bed and investigate today’s other purchases.

He deliberately ignores all the cat toys in favor of sniffing each of the school textbooks in turn as an excuse to browse the titles, and a small investigation of the prank supplies remaining. He wonders if he can use any of this to get out of here.

Michael comes back, sits on the bed, holds his hand out for Harry to sniff before running it down his spine. That’s when Harry comes to the letter Michael’s dad says comes today, which Michael still does not open.

He’s surprised that he recognizes the handwriting. He figures it’s just from one of Michael’s friends at first. Anthony Goldstein or Terry Boot, or maybe Padma Patil would write to him over the summer, but this makes sense, too, even if it fills Harry with a bitter sense of abandonment.

Michael is Ginny’s boyfriend, after all. Of course, she writes to him.

But Michael seems about as excited about the letter as Harry is. Harry sees the same weary loneliness in the slump of Michael’s shoulders that settles into Harry’s every time he gets a letter from Ron or Hermione.

He sighs. “It’s from Ginny,” he says dully, picking the letter up and shimmying back so he’s sitting up against the headboard. Harry’s tail twitches as he stands at the foot of the bed, just watching.

“She’s supposed to be my girlfriend, but I don’t know why she bothered replying,” Michael pouts. He spins the letter between his fingers for a moment and then drops it onto his lap and leans his head back against the headboard with a groan. “She’s just going to say she doesn’t want to talk to me. Again.”

Oof. Yeah, Harry feels that. That might not be the exact words Ron and Hermione use – they insist they can’t for safety or security or whatever, but it sure feels like they just don’t want to. (When have the rules ever stopped them from doing things they want to do?)

Harry actually feels a little better that at least he’s not the only one kept out of the loop this summer.

Michael finally works up his nerve and opens up the letter, scanning through it without any hope in his dark eyes. It’s quite short, just like everything Harry gets from Ron and Hermione, and it leaves Michael slumped and frustrated and confused, just like the letters leave Harry.

He drops the letter back in his lap. One of his hands runs through his hair, undoing the ponytail there to allow it to fall down to his shoulders. “What do I do, Tiger?” Michael murmurs helplessly, staring at the ceiling. “What did I do? You know, I asked her to hang out this summer three times and just got excuses every time. Last time, she told me that her mum doesn’t know about us and thinks she’s too young for dating, so we can’t do anything like that. But I don’t know… She also just won’t tell me how she’s doing, or what she’s up to. I think maybe I’m just annoying her.”

Ouch. Harry can’t help but grimace. Minus the dating thing, obviously, Michael might as well be describing Harry’s summer correspondence with Ron and Hermione.

Harry wanders a little closer, until he can see the letter. He makes a show of sniffing it as an excuse to read a bit. He can’t truly read the whole thing, even though it is so short, without making it obvious what he’s doing, but he catches very, very familiar snippets. “We’re quite busy but I can’t give you details here…” “There’s a lot going on, I’ll tell you more when I see you…” “I know this must be frustrating for you but you really mustn’t keep asking…”

It’s all more of the same. It’s disappointing. Perhaps most of all just how expected it is at this point.

Harry glances over to Michael’s expression, everything Harry has been feeling all summer and more, and he thinks well, if Hermione and the Weasleys don’t want to let anyone else in on their little club, then what do they need them for? Harry and Michael both are pushed away with both hands, so why do they keep trying to cling on when it’s clear they’re not wanted?

Harry clambers onto Michael’s lap, then rears up to put his front paws on Michael’s chest, bringing their heads to the same level. He looks into the loneliness lurking in Michael’s face. It sends something spiteful buzzing in his chest shooting down to his lashing tail.

Michael understands. Maybe not everything, but a hell of a lot more than anyone else. And Harry definitely understands how Michael is feeling right now. He knows how hard it is to sit there with no explanation and no answers.

He wishes he can answer Michael’s questions. He wishes he has the answers. But all he can do is be someone who understands. Harry meows insistently and pushes his head up under Michael’s chin, rubbing against him and purring, trying to bring comfort to him.

Michael freezes for a moment, then just kind of melts. His voice comes out wobbly for the first time, and his arms come to wrap around Harry, and he murmurs, “Thanks, Tiger,” and sniffs a little and all Harry can do is keep purring and nuzzling into the boy’s neck so that even if he feels abandoned and ignored and betrayed, he can’t feel alone.

Harry knows well that that’s the worst part.

#fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #write #wizarding world #Ravenclaw Boy Propaganda

[bouwrites]

Show Your Fangs: Chapter 1

Runaway

Ravenclaw doesn't get enough attention in fiction, so this is part 2, Actually A Multi-Chapter Story, of my Ravenclaw Boy Propaganda. Previously was my Terry Boot/Harry Potter soulmate thing, Something Good to be Your Own, and now here's a runaway animagus Harry getting adopted as a pet by Michael Corner.

<3

Next Chapter.

Ao3.

Story under read-more.

The idea to become an animagus is an old one to Harry. The seed is planted all the way back in first year when Professor McGonagall first shows off her ability to change into a cat for her Transfiguration class. Like any eleven-year-old, Harry thinks that ability is just really so cool, and he wonders what it’s like to be an animal, but mostly, he thinks, “That would be a great way to hide from the Dursleys.”

He gives up on the idea after finding out that not only is the whole process prohibitively difficult, but that he won’t be able to choose what he turns into. What if he becomes a hippopotamus or something? What use will that be to keep him safe over the summers? And after a bit of a cursory examination and he learns that there is a complicated potion involved, well – there goes that idea entirely. There’s no chance Snape will teach him how to brew something like that.

…Hermione might be able to do it, though.

But the idea, the seed is still rooted in there, somewhere. If only it’s reasonable, if only he can pull it off… well, he doesn’t lose anything if his form isn’t something that helps, does he? But Harry doesn’t really nurture it because the time investment to make it a reality just doesn’t measure up to the risk of getting no true benefit out of it. He has many more important things to think about, anyway, like the Sorcerer’s Stone and the Chamber of Secrets, and Sirius Black.

But with Sirius Black, once things are cleared up and Harry discovers who he really is, comes not just opportunity – using the threat of him against his relatives over that summer after third year – but motivation.

Harry’s dad is an animagus. His godfather is, too. If Harry can pull it off, even if he’s something as unwieldy as a stag – not very useful for daily hiding from his relatives – it’s something he’ll have in common with part of his family. It… would carry on their legacy.

Not to mention, with Sirius on the run letters might be few and far between, but Harry does have someone (on the wrong side of the law, not Professor McGonagall who would say he’s not skilled enough for it or insist that he register his form with the Ministry – which Harry emphatically does not want to do) who has gone through the whole process before to guide him.

And Sirius is just reckless enough, just mad enough, to be happy about an almost-fourteen-year-old trying to undergo the process instead of worried about him messing it up badly and injuring himself.

So, that’s how Harry nurtures that seed of an idea, and why. After third year, when he has a single summer (relatively) free from his relative’s torment, in which he can keep books and materials about magic out in his room and not locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and he has sparing correspondence with someone experienced in the magic involved, Harry focuses almost his entire being on this one task.

He doesn’t quite get it before the Quidditch World Cup, and the Death Eater attack, but that only spurs him on to try harder. By the time Halloween comes around and he’s chosen as one of the Triwizard Champions, Harry does manage it.

And he tells no one. Not even Ron and Hermione. It’s not for them, it’s not even to protect him while he’s here at school (although he does often wish he can use his form to help with the tasks), it’s to keep him safe over the summer and connect him to his dad.

Plus, though he’ll never admit it aloud, Harry has a naggling feeling that if Ron and Hermione know, then Dumbledore will know, and that means if Dumbledore finds out he vanishes from Privet Drive at any point, he’ll know what to look for to make Harry go back. He might even reveal Harry’s animagus form to the Dursleys themselves, so that they can keep an eye out for him, which would just defeat the point entirely.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t trust Ron and Hermione. He does. But if he needs to disappear for a while, he won’t necessarily be able to tell them beforehand, and he’d rather worry them than risk them outing him.

It’s just better if no one knows. He is breaking the law by not registering, after all, and he might drag Ron and Hermione into a lot of crazy, dangerous trouble, but (as far as he knows) he doesn’t make them complicit in actual crimes, nor does he intend to.

(Breaking Sirius free at the end of third year is an outlier and should not be counted. And technically, it’s Dumbledore who makes Hermione and Harry both complicit in that.)

Part of Harry does worry about the legality of it. He considers registering right up until his name is spat out of the Goblet of Fire, and then he decides the anonymity is far too important to lose. At least until Harry can get through more than a year without facing mortal peril.

And of course, at the end of his fourth year, after the graveyard… if Harry is ever going to register, he determines that it will only be after Voldemort is gone once more. Even the Ministry will understand why he wants to keep it secret under the circumstances, surely?

So, when Harry goes back to Privet Drive for the summer following his horrible fourth year at Hogwarts, the only one in the world except himself who knows what he is, is Sirius.

The threat of Sirius wears off in the time between the summers, and the Dursleys waste no time reminding Harry why he thinks learning to be an animagus is a good idea in the first place.

Likewise, Harry wastes no time making use of his talents to escape that house.

He lazes in the sun in the dog days of summer in front of Number Seven, too hazy-headed from the heat to bother wondering when he’ll be run off this time, but Number Seven is at least the nicest about it, even if they don’t want strays any more than anyone else on the street. Number Seven never throws anything at him. And it’s still close enough that Harry can keep an eye and an ear on Number Four in case he has to rush back.

It's actually quite a peaceful summer, all things considered. Harry has nightmares about the graveyard, which trigger more nightmares about the basilisk, and the gauntlet under the third-floor corridor, Fluffy’s gnashing teeth, Cedric’s empty eyes… The dreams plague him, but at least his waking hours aren’t so bad. Even the Dursleys, running off what they think is a stray, are somehow still nicer about it than they are when he’s just him.

That’s what a cute face will get him, he supposes. Harry knows a lot of these muggles are harder on him because of the superstitions about black cats. His long black coat puts him at the top of the list of strays that can’t be allowed to loiter. Still, Harry likes to imagine that, if only he didn’t look so scruffy, maybe the muggles would even tolerate him, but he doesn’t exactly have the means of tending to his fur the way it needs to be. It sticks up and curls every which way, all disorderly like his hair when he’s human. The best he can do is a tongue bath, which he refuses to do at first because – weird – but in the end gives into for hygiene alone. Spending so much time like this means he really does need it.

The Dursleys won’t be alarmed by his absence so long as he comes back at night. He can probably get away with staying out for a week or so, really, but he doesn’t dare push his luck. So, he spends his nights tossing and turning on his sweat-stained mattress, being poked and prodded by the springs that stick out oddly, and his days lazing around or hunting rats to feed himself with a vicious kind of satisfaction.

(He hesitates to hunt at first, too, but his gnawing stomach drives him to it. He just pretends they’re Pettigrew. And doesn’t he feel a certain smug pride that he’s a rat’s natural predator?)

Harry just wishes he had wings. As it is, he can’t venture too far from Privet Drive, not if he doesn’t want to risk going “missing” and alarming the entire wizarding world. He’s not sure how long it would take for anyone to figure it out, if they would, but again, he doesn’t want to test his luck.

If he could fly… maybe he could even visit Diagon Alley sometimes. But like this, he’s stuck.

It’s still not that bad, though. Could be a lot worse. His only real threat like this is Mrs. Figg, who takes regular constitutionals down Privet Drive and might take umbrage with a scruffy, stray cat being without a home.

(A lot of his earlier days, after he’s bold enough to wander further from Number Four but before he really gets into the groove and figures out what he’s doing, he spends near Mrs. Figg’s home. He watches the cats there, studying how they behave. This form of his comes with instincts, but his mind is still mostly human, so there’s a lot to learn if he doesn’t want his behavior to tip anyone off. If there’s one thing the Dursleys have a nose for, it’s anything abnormal, and Harry is determined that they will never be able to sniff him out if he doesn’t want them to.)

He’s not kidding about Mrs. Figg being a threat, either. He hears the neighbors asking her about the new cat wandering the neighborhood, wondering if he’s one of hers and if she could keep him off their lawns, so he knows she’s looking for him. A few of her cats do wander about and some even stop to chat with him, but none are much for the way of intelligent conversation.

What he does get from them, however, is disturbing. They’re how he knows his precautions about Dumbledore learning his form aren’t just paranoia. Someone is watching his house. Regularly. They have shifts. Every once in a while, when Harry listens for it, he can hear the crack of apparition. Harry doesn’t have names, but Mrs. Figg’s cats are convinced that the watchers are on their side, so given they’re not Death Eaters, they likely work for Dumbledore.

But since they don’t know about his animagus form, they never bother watching the cat a few doors down. And since Harry takes the time to learn to mimic cat behavior and not stand out doing anything particularly un-cat-like, he never gives them a reason to.

So, his summer is quiet, and safe, depending on one’s meaning of the word. He really wishes Ron and Hermione would write to him, or write anything more than that they can’t tell him anything, but this is his life. At night, he tosses and turns and wakes up dehydrated from sweating and crying in his sleep, and during the day he’s mostly just bored, trying to eavesdrop on the news from the various televisions around the street by parking himself under windows.

It's bearable. Once he settles into a routine, he might even call it easy. Becoming an animagus really does make his summers better.

That’s all until the dementors show up.

Harry does what he has to do, as he always has done, and what does he get for it? A letter from the Ministry expelling him from Hogwarts, for using the Patronus Charm to save his and Dudley’s lives, in front of only Dudley, who already knows about magic, anyway.

But whoever accused the Ministry of having any sense? No, the line that strikes fear in Harry’s heart, the threat there, is a genuine one. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.

There’s only one thing for it. He has to run. It’s not even a decision. Harry takes in the letter, absorbs what it tells him, and grimly accepts that he’s going the way of Sirius.

It won’t be so bad. Sirius complains so much about surviving off rats, but the truth is that they’re better than a lot of what the Dursleys feed him, anyway, and it’s not as if Harry hasn’t developed the skills he’ll need as an animagus on the run this summer, anyway.

Part of him, he supposes, is kind of planning for it. It wouldn’t be the first time he runs from the Dursleys. He just doesn’t expect to also be running from the Ministry.

But again, so is Sirius. Harry knows it can be done. He knows he can do it.

Another owl arrives not a minute later with a message from Arthur Weasley telling him not to leave the house, that Dumbledore is handling it, and not to surrender his wand.

Harry doesn’t know about the first two things, but he has no intention of doing the last. Reassurances that Dumbledore is handling it aren’t very helpful when he has the letter from the Ministry right in his own hands, and when Dumbledore has thus far determined that Harry isn’t capable of even knowing that he’s got a watch on his house, or any of the rest of the many things Ron and Hermione insist they can’t tell him.

So, he’s terrified, he knows the Ministry wants to destroy his wand, and little else except that should the worst happen, he can survive. He can.

Mr. Weasley’s note doesn’t have the intended effect of changing Harry’s mind about leaving. All it really does is make him feel like a puppet whose strings are being pulled in too many directions.

Is it any wonder that the simpler, easier life as a cat would be more appealing than that? The longer the summer goes on, the more that happens, the more familiar he gets with his animagus form, the more Harry feels like he understands Sirius.

Maybe Harry is a little mad, too, just like his godfather, because Mr. Weasley’s letter doesn’t stop him. Harry releases Hedwig, threatens Uncle Vernon until his path to the door is clear, and then he leaves that house.

For good.

He never receives the third owl, the second from the Ministry, informing him that Dumbledore has arranged for his expulsion to be changed to suspension pending a trial, but even if he did, that still wouldn’t stop him.

The Ministry clearly has some reason to want to expel him and destroy his wand. Allowing them to do it at Number Four Privet Drive or in a Ministry Courtroom makes no difference. Harry isn’t going to give them the opportunity.

-----

Traveling through London as a cat is easier and more difficult than Harry imagines. Rats are plentiful, though clean water is harder to find, so he’s not really lacking in resources, but navigating through the concrete jungle on foot from his low vantage point, while everything towers over him and speeds by is damn near impossible. Even the locations he should recognize look so different from this perspective that it’s hard to keep track of where he’s going.

But he reads maps by bus stations, follows the roads, and a few times even walks the Underground, huddling low in the corner every time one of the trains rockets deafeningly overhead, and eventually he makes it to the Leaky Cauldron.

He’s… not entirely sure what he’s trying to achieve here, but Diagon Alley is a goal that keeps him going while he’s on run. Something to focus on.

He should probably head to Gringotts. If Sirius could get Harry a Firebolt last year, he must have accessed his funds, so the goblins likely won’t care if Harry is on the run, too. He also needs to check the Daily Prophet. If there’s nothing about his disappearance, he might still be able to catch the Knight Bus or a portkey or something and get out of London. Ideally out of Great Britain.

But he won’t really know until he goes in and figures out the situation, and so it’s without much of a plan that Harry slips through the Leaky Cauldron and enters Diagon Alley proper.

What happens next is his own fault, really. Harry gets too comfortable with the muggles ignoring him or running him off or at most attempting to pet him for a moment before they get on with their lives.

The Alley is reasonably busy. It’s not packed like it will be in the final days of August, but there are still more than a few witches and wizards bustling about. Harry spends a few moments watching this, observing, before he grows bold enough to head down the Alley himself.

It’s one of the ladies who works at Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions who sees him loitering outside Quality Quidditch Supplies (He’s trying to judge how best to grab one of the papers from the newsstand there without drawing any attention.) and takes pity on him. She returns inside the shop for a moment, then comes back out to place a bowl of cat food on the doorstep and kneels there, making soft noises to try to draw his attention.

Harry should be more cautious, but he’s a cat and no one knows he’s a cat, and he doesn’t think about this seamstress lady as a threat to him as a cat, but as a threat if she finds out he’s a wizard. She’s nice, after all, going out of her way to put out food for him. So, he figures he can get some food, maybe beg some water, endure a few minutes of petting, and if he’s lucky overhear some gossip about current events, and he’ll be on his way.

He does not expect the lady to wait until the moment he relaxes and snatch him up with a firm, fierce grip, holding him tight to her breast as she starts walking down the Alley.

Harry hisses and bites and scratches, but the lady just coos and soothes, looking entirely unbothered by his sharp teeth and razor claws. Maybe being a seamstress just gives her some immunity to needles, which his teeth must surely feel like.

For a terrifying moment, Harry thinks, She knows. She’s going to bring me in to the Ministry. But her ultimate destination, it turns out, is not the Ministry, but the Magical Menagerie.

He’s dropped on a desk. He immediately tries to bolt, but he runs face-first into some ward preventing him from jumping off of it.

“…found him just wandering in the Alley,” the seamstress tells the clerk at the Menagerie. “Don’t know if he has an owner, but I figured he’d be better off here than all on his own.”

Harry’s hackles raised, his hair on end, hisses cruelly. His tail lashes as he paces the length of the desk, batting at the wards with a paw, testing for any weak point. There has to be a way out of here!

“We’ll keep an eye out,” says the young clerk through his carefree smile. “I’ll check the list of missing pets, and if no one claims him we’ll find him a good home, don’t you worry Mrs. Lowell.”

Mrs. Lowell, the seamstress, smiles and leaves, abandoning Harry to the pet shop and the clerk’s easy smile. “Well, now,” he says, turning to Harry, “ain’chu a sassy one?”

Harry hisses.

The clerk just chuckles. “Alright, alright, I get it. Ain’t nice to be snatched up. I’ll go check the books, we’ll see if you’re calmer by the time I figure out if you’ve got a family or not.”

Whistling a jaunty tune, the clerk turns to do just that, leaving Harry alone, trapped on this desk, yowling to make himself heard.

The clerk takes his records back to the front of the shop where, between his digging, Harry can hear him tend to the occasional customer who comes in.

After an hour or so of this, Harry just kind of loses steam. He can’t keep up his displeasure when he’s seriously just starting to get bored. He still hates that he’s here trapped in a pet shop, with the wizard out there planning to sell him as a house pet to some wizarding family – goodness, Sirius would never allow this to happen to him – but he just gets tired of shouting about it.

There is no way out of these wards, and the clerk isn’t going to come back except on his time, so Harry’s just wasting energy.

Well, if this is what being aggressive gets him, Harry needs to switch tactics. He can’t afford to waste this much time, not if he wants any chance of finding a way out of Britain before the Ministry or Dumbledore starts a manhunt for him. Not if he wants any chance of keeping his wand.

So, maybe playing a bit more obediently will allow him an opening to slip out. Harry lays down and closes his eyes, determined to conserve his energy to take advantage of whatever opportunity first presents itself.

He wakes up, he doesn’t know how much later, on the same desk, but with a water bowl placed there for him, which he does begrudgingly appreciate.

Harry’s narrowed eyes watch the clerk as he laps at the water. The young man grins at him. “Seems like no one’s missing you, eh?” says the clerk, and Harry can only hope that’s the case. “Don’t you worry about a thing, love. You’re safe here. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of.”

Harry stares the man down. He doesn’t even think about the low hiss that sounds in his throat.

The clerk snorts. “Feisty little thing,” he says, but he seems only amused. Harry wonders how many aggressive creatures this guy deals with regularly, working in the Magical Menagerie. “Keep that up, and I’ll just put you under a sleeping charm to do the examination, you ruddy tiger.”

Harry immediately swallows his hissing. The last thing he wants is for this man to put him into an enchanted sleep.

“Yeah, thought so,” laughs the clerk. “Definitely part kneazle. Looks like you won the genetic lottery, though. Rare one of you comes by without that signature squashed face.” He scrubs his hands in the nearby sink before finally turning back to Harry with a final-sounding huff. “Now, you going to cooperate? I promise I’ll brush you real nice if you do…”

…That does actually sound nice. Harry would like to brush his fur and have a real bath for once. He doesn’t have the chance since summer begins, really, but after traveling through London, especially his excursions into the Underground… he really needs a bath.

The man puts his hand in the wards. Harry is severely tempted to bite it, but the chance of a real bath and getting his fur properly brushed is enough to keep him from acting on it. That doesn’t stop him from glaring venomously at the man who grins unrepentantly and strokes his hand along Harry’s spine, smoothly hooking his fingers around his tail when he reaches that point but still just sliding along all the way to the tip in one fluid motion.

“No kinks, good,” the clerk mutters. Louder, to Harry, he says, “So, this is what’ll happen. Since you don’t got a family looking for you, I’ll keep you in here quarantined from the rest of the animals, make sure you’re healthy, maybe work on your temperament a little, and when you’re ready we’ll put you out front for someone to adopt you.”

The clerk’s hands tug on Harry’s ears as he checks inside them, lifts his lips to expose his teeth and gums so the clerk can examine those. Harry tries to nip him (Not bite! He’s being good!) but the clerk just yanks his hands back with lightning speed and a knowing grin.

“Really, it’s good for you,” the clerk continues as if Harry doesn’t try to nip him. “Think about it. You’ll have company, regular food, shelter, anything you could ask for. All you got to do is not maim everyone who tries to touch you.”

He flips Harry over onto his back, making Harry yowl in confusion until the clerk starts feeling down his legs and gently squeezing his paws, one by one, looking carefully at the claws that emerge from the pressure.

“Well, good news, tiger,” the clerk says, “aside from being filthy, and your bad attitude, I’m not seeing anything wrong with you. I’ll do some spells to double check and then we’ll see how you handle getting a bath.”

This is the first moment the clerk sounds like he’s not completely confident about what he’s going to do. Harry is very tempted to live up to the stereotype of cats hating baths, but frankly, he wants one too bad to put up a fuss about that.

A few flicks of the clerk’s wand and some muttering later, and Harry is watching him fill a wooden tub with a shallow layer of sudsy water.

“Alright, tiger,” the clerk sighs. “Don’t bite my hand off, now…”

He seizes Harry around his middle and carefully lifts him, slow and cautious, waiting for Harry to lash out at him. Seeing Harry (mostly) calm for once, he lets out a breath and moves him over to the bath.

It occurs to Harry that he’s likely outside whatever ward keeps him contained (quarantined?) on that desk, so if he wants to escape, now is the time to bite and scratch and make a break for it. That said, the door to the rest of the shop is closed and so are all the windows, so Harry doesn’t see an obvious path out.

Plus, he really wants a bath.

The clerk puts him in the water and holds his breath. Harry splashes a little bit and sniffs at the bubbles. It has an extremely mild scent, even to Harry’s feline nose. Light and floral. It’s nice. He judges how deep it is before flopping down and rolling over in it, making sure the water soaks his fur through before popping back up and shaking so his head stays up out of the water.

The clerk lets out an incredulous laugh. “Merlin’s beard,” he mutters, “well, at least that makes my job easier.”

Using a shallow bowl as a spoon, the clerk scoops up some of the warm bath water to pour over Harry’s back.

“You actually like this, don’t you?” he chuckles as he uses his free hand to rub the soap into Harry’s fur. “Not the first cat to like your bath but you’re definitely one of the odd ones, you know that?”

Harry meows loudly, trying to tell the guy to keep going, and only then realizes that he’s purring.

…What can he say? He hasn’t had a bath in forever! Literally, in this form. And the London Underground is filthy!

“You’re like an entirely different cat,” the clerk says, scrubbing at the back of Harry’s head. Harry twists around to rub his face into the man’s hand to get that part scrubbed good, too. “Well, at least now I know. You get sassy with me, I just have to pull out a bath.”

“Good Lord, but you do need it, though. I’ll have to change the water.” He rinses off his hands, grabs another tub to fill, then encourages Harry to jump into the clean one. Setting the dirty tub aside for the moment, he gets right back to washing Harry down. “No wonder you’re so happy for it.”

If Harry takes the time to think too hard about the details of this, he’ll probably be extremely embarrassed to be bathed by a stranger, not to mention so thoroughly felt up as the clerk sifts his fingers through Harry’s fur, working the soap in well, but he’s just so delighted to be clean again that he can’t bother.

When they’re done, the clerk gets one more tub, this time with simple clean, fresh water without the soap so he can rinse it all out of Harry’s fur before picking him up in a thick, warm towel that feels and smells so wonderful that Harry can’t help but snuggle into it.

He’s eventually settled into the clerk’s lap, spread out across the towel, as the clerk takes a brush to his long, glossy, black fur. Each gentle stroke makes Harry melt a little more, completely limp in this man’s lap as the tangles are gently worked out of his fur.

“You’re alright, tiger,” the clerk says softly. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You’ll be taken care of from now on.”

Harry wants to scoff. He’s never been taken care of in his life. Mrs. Weasley does some, and she’s about the closest thing to a mother that he has, but… he’s never had anything like this.

He wonders… would it be so bad to just… be a pet? Pettigrew does it for twelve years. Harry hardly wants to emulate Pettigrew, and Sirius’ pride would never let him, but… when Harry considers his filthy, matted fur, subsisting on rats and dirty rainwater… Sirius’ appearance and health in general, really, and Harry’s own, not long ago… when he compares that to now…

Ron and Hermione will worry about him. But Ron and Hermione clearly don’t care about him enough to give him more than sad platitudes all summer. Dumbledore will be worried, but does he even deserve to worry about Harry? When he clearly doesn’t trust Harry even the slightest? Guards around his home, spying on him? Keeping his friends from telling him even inconsequential things like about the quidditch games? Why is it that Harry gets nothing from anyone, all summer? Hell, the most information he gets about anything going on in the wizarding world comes from Mrs. Figg’s cats!

Maybe this is degrading to be treated like a pet, just a kneazle off the street, but Harry has scarcely felt so loved as he does with this stranger gently brushing his fur. The man clearly picks the right place to work. His love of creatures is obvious. In his tender affections, and even his patience with Harry when he’s being “sassy” and hissing and scratching.

He’s contented and dozing in the man’s lap, and utterly at peace, and Harry thinks he’d give anything for more of this.

Alas, all good things come to an end. Firm pats on his haunches brings him back to proper wakefulness as the clerk chirps, “Alright, tiger, that’s you done.” He stands, taking Harry and the towel with him. “Now don’t fuss, but you got to stay in quarantine for a bit longer. Sorry, but just in case you’re carrying something I missed, we can’t have it spreading to the others, now, can we?”

Harry doesn’t fuss, but he does flex his claws and hook them into the towel, ensuring that when the clerk puts him back onto the desk, he doesn’t take the towel away.

The clerk just chuckles at him, shakes his head, and leaves him alone to take care of all his other duties for the day.

Harry knows he has to escape as soon as this quarantine ends and he can find an opportunity. There’s no way Harry Potter can just up and become a house pet, can he?

But… there’s no reason he can’t enjoy the time he has here.

#write #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #Ravenclaw Boy Propaganda

[bouwrites]

Sometimes, when I’m about to have a character do something but I’m not exactly sure how I want it to go, I just roll a d20 flat luck check

Surprisingly useful writing tool tbh

[bouwrites]

Reblog if you write fic and people can inbox you random-ass questions about your stories, itemized number lists be damned.

[bouwrites]

I love the idea of the Ravenclaw Eagle Door Knocker asking very pointed and purposeful questions to make the students think about issues they're currently struggling with.

But it is startlingly difficult to come up with decent questions. I'm not even that happy with the ones used in my Terry Boot/Harry Potter fic I posted today, even though I am quite satisfied with the role they play in the story.

But at least they're not fucking "what am I" questions. That always grinds my gears because they kind of massively miss the point of what the Knocker is there for.

Of course, people also typically massively miss the point of what Ravenclaw is about, too, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

Just saying, I get it. The Knocker is hard to get right. But it's never been about logic or deductive reasoning. The questions have to be open-ended. If your Ravenclaws can't get into hour-long debates outside the door about why this answer is more or less right than that one, you're really kind of missing the point, I think.

#Terry talks about it in my fic but like #if the question HAS a definitive 'right' answer #then it's really not a ravenclaw door knocker question at all

[bouwrites]

This is my Terry Boot/Harry Potter propaganda

#fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #i just looked into the michael corner/harry potter tag and there's even FEWER fics #should I put out my propaganda for that one too? #I just really think Harry deserves a cute ravenclaw boy #is that too much to ask #not anthony though #anthony is EXTREMELY aroace and he always will be so long as i am the one holding the pen

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 86

Benediction

Ao3.

First, Previous.

That's all folks. Thank you for sticking this out with me. I just want to say here that I appreciate you making all the way to the end. It's a big commitment, this fic, and I've been honored that you are willing to commit your time to my story.

Be safe and be well, until next time <3

Story under read-more.

“Well?” Professor Manuela prods gently.

Veery huffs. “It’s hard to say,” he answers. “It’d be a bit easier if she were more like a normal human. Or at least had a heartbeat.”

“You must have some idea,” Dorothea says. “Come on, don’t leave us in suspense.”

He sighs, rubs his face, and looks Byleth in her too-green eyes. “How’s Sothis doing?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Sothis answers, appearing right next to him. “I can feel Rhea’s power – it reacted somehow to Byleth. It’s changing her, as you can plainly see. But Sitri, Byleth’s mother, was designed to be a vessel to hold my divine power. It is not so surprising that Byleth’s body is adapting to Rhea’s, especially considering it is Rhea’s power which birthed her in the first place.”

And isn’t that a doozy. Veery has already mostly figured out what Rhea did to Byleth by the time all those secrets come out after the battle, but really? Twelve attempts? Thirteen counting Byleth, who was somewhat unintended. Only to lose Byleth for twenty years. It really is ridiculous.

“Yeah,” Veery says. “That’s about what I figured, too.”

“Well?” Claude asks. “What is it you figured?”

Veery sits back and gives his conclusions to Byleth directly. “Someone will have to keep an eye on you, of course, but I think the odds of you developing symptoms to this excess power like Lysithea or I have is unlikely. At least not without significantly more. Your body is actually adapting to it rather than rejecting it like Lysithea’s is, and I suspect with most of Sothis’ power still sealed in the Crest Stone, you’re not yet in danger of crossing the threshold of the onset of the Degradation. You were… well, you were made to handle Sothis’ full power, which is more than what Rhea could have given you. You should be fine so long as you and Sothis don’t do anything stupid.”

“Hopefully, we won’t have to,” Byleth says dully, “now that the war is over.”

“What exactly qualifies as stupid?” Claude asks. “She’s not in danger just using Sothis’ power, right?”

“The time thing?” Veery takes a moment to consider. “I doubt it. Any power she’s been using already shouldn’t affect her too much. That’s already available to her. Think of it like Rhea’s power was added on top of that which was already there. Since she hasn’t crossed the threshold yet, then we only have to worry if she gets more.”

“So, she’ll be fine.”

“There’s still more power sealed away inside her heart,” Veery says. “What she’s been using is just a part Sothis’ full power. If she does somehow unlock the rest, then she may well not be. But for now? Yeah, she should be fine.”

The concept is very similar to the stories of the manaketes. Since most of her power is sealed away, it’s not affecting her health. Veery might look into a similar route to help him with the Degradation, but he’s still not sure how to safely seal his power without either ripping his heart out of his body or losing his ability to shift entirely.

Neither is acceptable. Not yet at least.

Claude sags, sighing heavily. “Thank goodness.”

“Great,” Lysithea says. Her voice is uncharacteristically gentle when she continues, “With that out of the way, then… Teach, I understand if you don’t to talk about this right now, but people have already taken note of the change in your appearance. They’ve noticed that you… you look an awful lot like Rhea now.”

“No,” Claude says firmly. “We’ve already decided. Teach will be an advisor to Fódlan’s new leadership. You know better than anyone that she doesn’t want to be archbishop of all things.”

“I know that,” Lysithea sighs. “I wasn’t about to suggest we give her the title. I’m merely saying that that is what the people will be expecting. Especially now. We are going to have to be mindful of how we continue the process of setting up this new government. For all that Rhea was essentially irrelevant, her death still symbolizes a new collapse in the church. Another of Fódlan’s pillars just fell and Teach is the one the people are looking to to replace it.”

Claude sighs again. “It just doesn’t stop, does it? Alright, you’ve made your point. We’ll talk about it in our next meeting. After I take a nap.”

“Ooh, naptime!” Veery jumps at his chance. “I’ll join you.”

Claude just grins and snags Veery’s arm on his way out the door.

---

“I’m glad we could do this one last time before I have to go back home,” Sylvain says, cherishing his cup of tea.

Veery frankly can’t agree more. The simple pleasure of sharing tea with someone, with one of his favorite people, is something he dearly misses in Albinea, even after he starts drinking with Caub and his family. He imagines that he’ll have opportunity with Daithi, at least when they’re in port, but he’s still going to miss Sylvain.

(He still misses doing this with Edelgard. The hollowness in his chest remains, despite his satisfaction.)

Plus, with an Albinean on the crew, and being sailors all, Veery imagines his drinks with them will be on the alcoholic side on the whole. Which is fine; it’s just different than sharing tea.

“Me too,” Veery murmurs into the heat of his cup. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“How could I resist?” Sylvain asks. “I’m leaving tomorrow, and in just a couple days, you’ll be heading off to who knows where. Who knows when we’ll next have time for a date?”

That’s a good point. The days of their departures are rapidly approaching. The Blue Lions, except Mercedes who doesn’t want to start moving Emile around again, are all heading back to Faerghus tomorrow. Petra has already left for Rusalka, a port town in Adrestia east of Enbarr, to meet Kieran. She’s apparently going to try to communicate with Morfis before she heads promptly back to Brigid. Raphael and Ignatz should be back in their homes by now.

Veery hums. “What are you going to do when you get back?” he asks.

Sylvain taps his cup thoughtfully for a moment, then answers, “Well, the monarchy is fallen. Felix’s dad has already ceded what power he retained to the government of the united Fódlan. I guess that means Felix’s time as a prince was over before it really started. I was kind of thinking I’d help him out, but… now I don’t think that’s really necessary.”

“I have a hard time seeing Felix managing all that boring stuff Claude deals with,” Veery admits.

Sylvain chuckles. “Yeah, me too. You’d be surprised, though. For all he hates to act like it, he’s actually a really dedicated person. He’d be a great king, if he had to be. I think he’s much happier as he is, though, so I’m glad Claude is dealing with all that business instead. And Lysithea, of course. I swear, she actually enjoys it.”

Maybe a little.

“As for me, though…” Sylvain sighs. “I’m going to have to deal with my father.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… I figure there’s no point wasting time waiting for the old man to die. He’s… well I’m not convinced he won’t live forever just to cause problems.” He slowly shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s a pretty incredible Margrave, and if it weren’t for him, we’d have had a lot of problems from Sreng that might’ve even have cost Faerghus the war, but… but he’s the best at protecting our border. And I think it’s about time we stopped worrying so much about that kind of thing, you know?”

Veery smiles. “So, you’re going to negotiate with Sreng.”

“I hope. I’ve been preparing for it for when I become Margrave. Never thought I’d put those plans into motion so soon, but I talked to Claude about it, and he said he’s going to help. And of course, what’s left of the Lions are always going to have my back. I think it’s possible.”

“It’s definitely possible,” Veery says with as much surety as he can muster. “If you’re willing to work together, I’m sure you can make some kind of agreement. I mean, everyone acted like peace with Almyra was impossible, too.”

Sylvain smiles. The conversation lulls. Then, when it’s appropriate to change the topic, Sylvain says, “I’ll be honest, Veery… those five years while you were in Albinea… I missed you so much it hurt. I don’t know how to express exactly what you mean to me, but… I hate letting you go, especially when I know we still need to figure out how to stop the Degradation. I’m so afraid that this is the last time I’ll see you.”

Ah. Veery, honestly, feels much the same way. He doesn’t know what travelling with Daithi will bring. He knows Daithi and his crew are all very capable, but what kind of battles do they get into during peacetime? How likely is his survival? He’s very much walking into the unknown, and with the Degradation hanging over him, too, he realizes just how real the chance is that he won’t be coming back.

He doesn’t think it’s likely, exactly, but it’s reasonably possible.

“That chance will always exist,” Veery says. “There’s nothing in this world that does not come with risk, however small. But…” But words… words are hard. Veery loves them, but he’s still agell, and still a hermit. “But we must keep moving.”

“I know,” Sylvain groans. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to be happy about it. Are you sure I can’t convince you to come back to Gautier with me? It’s cold, so you’d never have to suffer summer hell again.”

Veery snorts. “Tempting, but I’ll be fine. This is something that I want to do. I want to see more. Experience more.”

Sylvain smiles. “No, I get it. I always knew you’d never stick around for long, but… It’s just, now that it’s happening, I… I’m going to miss you.”

Seeing the warmth, the love and longing in Sylvain’s eyes, Veery stands. He circles the table to Sylvain’s side. He passes his fingers through Sylvain’s hair, presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, then plops down right in his lap and curls up there, purring.

Sylvain lets out a startled laugh, but quickly decides to simply hold Veery close. “See,” Sylvain murmurs into Veery’s hair, “no one else would do something like this.”

Veery doesn’t think that’s true. He knows he prefers physical affection over words, because even if he doesn’t struggle with expressing himself through words, the most natural way to show affection for him is to cuddle and share his heart and let them feel for themselves how he feels. It’s so much simpler that way. And even if the humans can’t feel his heart, he still thinks that this explains better than he’ll ever be able to share with words.

But that doesn’t mean the others don’t show affection at all. They all love and respect each other. Veery knows it. They’ve all cuddled before. Veery doesn’t see any reason why they wouldn’t again.

Well, except for space. With everyone going to their respective homes, cuddle time is going to be hard to come by. Veery really is going to miss this.

---

When the day comes, Veery does not know how to feel. He hasn’t said goodbye – he doesn’t know how, but when he meets Shamir at the gates of Garreg Mach, he finds everyone there waiting, regardless.

As he passes through the streets, the people bow to him. They acknowledge him, oblivious to the fact that he is leaving them. He wonders how they will react when he does not come back any time soon.

The whole thing is uncomfortable. He’s got this ache in his gut, a certain terror of leaving what’s familiar, but also… also he is bubbling on the inside. His stomach feels heavy like steel, but his chest flutters with wingbeats. Battered lungs shakily suck in breath, which he holds for a moment, luxuriating in the familiar, if not exceptionally pleasant, aroma of the city.

And then, Veery lets it go.

Dorothea hugs him first at the gates, tearfully reminding him that they’ll meet in Albinea eventually, to make good on their promise to show Caub just how far they’ve come.

Mercedes hugs him right after, and Veery is a little surprised to see her, but she thanks him once more for helping with Emile, for ensuring he’s alive, that he has the chance to get better, which is more than she ever dared dream for.

Linhardt refrains, but Lysithea pulls him tight just like the girls before her. They both swear that they’ll keep looking, that they’ll find a cure, that he and Lysithea both will live long, healthy lives just as soon as they figure it all out. Linhardt mentions that Veery’s temple in Beyul is working hard, too, and that they’re optimistic about solving Lysithea’s problem within just a year or two. Lysithea fretfully mentions going to Beyul herself, first to guide the Shambhalans back home and set everything up there (it is in her family’s territory) and then to join in on the symposium working on the solutions for them.

Linhardt says that sounds interesting and might go as well.

Veery hugs Linhardt, knowing that someone as brilliant as he is will have everything figured out in no time.

Catherine stands with her hands on her hips, frowning at Veery and Shamir. “You watch out for her,” she says to Veery, gesturing with her head towards Shamir. Veery laughs at the thought of Shamir needing to be looked after, but agrees anyway, since they’ll hopefully be on a crew together regardless. Once he does, Catherine immediately turns to Shamir and says, “And you watch out for him, got it?”

Shamir just smirks fondly and nods.

The next thing he knows, he’s pressed face-first into Manuela and held there firmly. “You be good now,” she says, voice trembling only slightly. “And remember, you’ll always be my student. So represent me well, okay?”

“Nah,” Veery teases. “I’ll be a horror like I always have been.”

Manuela bursts into strained guffaws. “You, Veery? A horror? Never.” Finally she lets him pull away, but she hold his shoulders to look firmly in his eyes. “You have been an absolute pleasure to have around, Veery. We’re all going to miss you.”

Veery can’t resist pushing his head under her chin for just a moment. “I’ll miss you too. All of you.”

“Then you’ll just have to come back soon,” Leonie says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I kind of want to join you, honestly, but I got to look after Teach. Captain Jeralt would be furious with me if I didn’t.”

Veery smiles, hugs her, and, looking between her and Byleth, secretly thinks that Leonie is more suited to watching over someone than wandering around, anyway.

Lorenz doesn’t hug him, but promises that, if ever he has need, Lorenz will happily be there to help. Veery hugs him anyway, making him squawk cutely in surprise, and thanks him for all the help he’s already given.

Despite the lack of decorum, Lorenz still ends up preening. Veery just smiles and shakes his head.

“Holst will never forgive you if you don’t come visit,” Hilda says, crushing Veery in a hug of her own. “And neither will I! Let’s cross the Throat sometime together, alright? Claude will be there too, of course.”

“Are you still volunteering me for things, Hilda?” Claude sighs. “Not that I won’t be there for that. I know how much you want to run the plains there. Come back soon and we’ll make that dream a reality. I want you both to visit my home, too. The Almyran capital is pretty far, but that’s not about to stop us, is it?”

“Never!” Hilda cheers. “It’s a promise, then. We’ll all visit Almyra together, right Veery?”

Veery laughs. He can’t promise that Daithi won’t take him there at some point, so he can’t promise it’ll be his first visit, but… he can definitely agree to go together. “Absolutely.”

Hilda releases him directly into Claude’s arms, where he snuggles in and breathes Claude’s familiar scent. He relaxes. It makes him feel like everything will be okay. “I hate all these goodbyes,” Claude murmurs. “But I’m so proud of you. Of all of you going your own ways. Make the most of it, Veery, and don’t you dare forget about us back here in Fódlan when you’re off exploring the other side of the world.”

“Never,” Veery agrees. “You’re family.”

Claude’s breath catches. “Yeah. So, you can’t get rid of me that easy.” Veery laughs, and Claude, reluctantly, lets Veery go.

Veery makes a beeline from there to Marianne. He scoops her up, grinning, and wordlessly nuzzles into her neck. The hard goodbyes have passed. Those remaining are only the dragons, and they’re easy. Not easy to part from, no more than anyone else, but easy. He listens for Marianne’s heart, not surprised despite never doing this with her before that he can find it with only a little more difficulty than Byleth’s, and nudges gently, prompting her to listen for him in return.

And she does. She gasps, smiles, and her tears wet her cheeks, but she says nothing. She does not need to say anything. Veery understands, as she understands, everything they can possibly say to each other in this moment.

Marianne describes to Veery before what he means to her. This is the first time Veery feels it for himself. He is… honored that someone like her has so much respect for him. And he knows she can feel his pride, for he is so, so proud of her. Of everyone, she has grown perhaps the most.

They part, and Veery repeats the process with Flayn. She accepts him eagerly, happy to share as only beasts like them can, and it feels very much like family. Like pride.

And then Seteth, and the same happens once more. Seteth tries not to hug him, but Veery dives in anyway. Seteth does not even pretend to avoid sharing his heart. That protection, that pride that is not Veery’s own. Veery wonders if this is how a father feels.

The dragons are easy to say goodbye to because they know in ways that humans can’t. There is nothing that can be said to add anything to what their hearts already share.

There is one dragon remaining. Or two, depending on how one looks at it. Veery smiles, allows Byleth to tug him close, and listens. Byleth and Sothis both mingle at once in disagreement and in concert. Byleth very much never wants to let go. Sothis is proud to see her child spread his wings. Byleth wants to be needed. Sothis knows she never was.

But both, completely and without question, wish for his happiness, as he wishes for theirs.

Then it’s only Sadi. Their sharing, and their goodbye, is short, almost curt. It’s a mother kicking her hatchling out of the nest, telling him to just fly already. She knows what awaits him and Hoarvug, and though she is staying here to assist in Fódlan’s reconstruction, she is nonetheless happy for the both of them to grow into themselves and stand on their own.

Veery waves to all of his friends, to all of his family, and to all of his pride, then once he is sure that Shamir has finished her goodbyes as well, and even Hoarvug takes some time to finish smothering Dorothea, he turns to the path ahead, lifts his chin, and walks.

---

The road to Derdriu is not exactly unfamiliar, but Veery has only walked this path, in this direction, once before. And then it was during the winter. The trees look different, all yellows and reds and oranges, in the autumn.

He’s very glad Shamir decides to come with them, because he’s certain he would not be able to navigate this road on his own. It’s a wide road, well-travelled, but at times it does lose itself to the encroaching forest, or the wide-open grassland. And that’s not counting the unlabeled forks along the way that Veery doesn’t remember in the slightest.

Shamir isn’t big on small talk, and neither is he, so it’s a quiet journey on the whole. Still, when they settle down for camp around a fire Samir gathers the wood and kindling for and which Veery starts with magic, and they cook a meal Hoarvug catches in the meantime because he wants to hunt and Shamir thinks it’s better than digging into their rations if they have the option, around that fire they talk a little more.

Shamir tells him what she knows about the stars above them, about Derdriu, and about Dagda. Veery shares knowledge about Albinea, about magic, and about all the history he’s learned. Hoarvug even joins in, boasting about the agell and past battles much too loudly for anyone in that quiet little camp, but they smile at him fondly all the same.

They continue the next morning, and as Veery can just start tasting the salt in the air, Shamir offers more conversation. She talks about her time as a mercenary. Not stories of exploits, although Hoarvug does prod some of those out of her as well, but the daily things. Travel with a band, managing finances and supplies, the little things. She says she’s never served long on a ship and isn’t sure how different privateering is from land-based mercenary work, but a lot of the concepts will carry through.

It's reassuring to be with someone who knows what she’s doing. He knows Daithi and the crew will guide him through it, but he’s still nervous to take a step into something he knows nothing of.

Derdriu is just as Veery remembers. Massive, colorful, half on the water and half not. But Veery has a keener eye this time and sees the docks, where influences of other cultures are more apparent. Further into the city, it looks just an any other Fódlander city, but the docks… Veery doesn’t know where everything comes from, but the exotic designs, fabrics, smells, even storefronts are unmistakable.

That’s where they go, naturally expecting Daithi to be near. The docks are large, though, with lots of space to search, and Shamir says they’re a few days early (since Veery planned extra time to get lost which he didn’t need) so they don’t know that Daithi will actually be here yet.

They walk the length of the main docks anyway, Veery scenting all the while, and with no sign of Daithi decide unconcernedly to find housing and some drinks.

Even here he’s not free from gawkers it seems. Throughout their walk on the docks, people stop to stare, some even drop things, a few bow lowly or completely prostrate themselves. Veery just does his best to ignore them, pass a smile their way at most and continue on. When they find an inn Shamir remembers as being decent enough, the innkeeper recognizes him and insists on their stay being free. Veery actually retires from the bar and hides in his room with Hoarvug and Shamir to drink in peace after just about everyone present in the building comes to thank him for what he’s done.

It all feels like the people think he’s a lot more instrumental to the war than he was. Or perhaps just that he is more important in general than he is. But that’s what happens when one becomes a god, he supposes.

Well, when he goes back to Albinea, and when he’s in Almyra or Morfis, or Dagda, or somewhere else entirely, then he won’t have to worry about it. Almyra might know about him, and the Almyrans in the army do occasionally leave him offerings, but they’re much less… extreme overall, in their worship, especially in person. He thinks Almyra will be fine.

The next day is spent doing what Veery didn’t have the chance to do the last time he was here. Touring the city. They mostly stick to the lower quarters, the docks, the slums, and the merchant district, but they spend quite a long time just wandering.

There are more issues with people recognizing the very distinctive cats, but they move past those quickly. At one point, they actually find a small temple quarter and Hoarvug spends a good fifteen minutes half teasing and half boasting about Veery’s power and status and the actual statue that stands in a newer-looking temple in the area. Somehow, he even drags Veery and Shamir inside.

The priest tending the temple nearly faints upon seeing him. It would be funny if it weren’t so annoying.

But they’re already there and it would be rude to leave so quickly, and they don’t exactly have anything they need to do at the moment anyway, so Veery spends some time there chatting with the priest. It isn’t horrible, in the end, because thankfully the priest recognizes Veery’s demeanor and relaxes into something more casual than most of his cult ever manages, so after a bit of a rough start, they get along well enough.

In the market district, between stalls of intricate jewelry and colorful silks, they find a familiar face.

Anna beams at him, rushing to Veery’s side the moment she sees him, already talking about some scheme she’s trying to rope him into. Already seeing the stares of passersby at this merchant who hugs a god and is hugged in return, Veery thinks he’s already helped her business just by standing here.

The glint in Anna’s eyes share mischievously that she knows that very well.

(Veery doesn’t even leave Derdriu before he starts hearing the rumors abounding about Anna’s store, and how it’s the only place the patchwork god is willing to buy from. Which is true, sort of, but that’s only because Anna’s always been fair to him, and he doesn’t see why he’d bother going to someone else if she’s around. Not that he needs much in the first place. Plus, he doesn’t actually own any money – Anna’s been keeping his books for him.)

(He should probably get some from her, now that he’s leaving and not vanishing into the wilderness where money doesn’t matter anyway.)

“I’m much too recognizable now,” Veery mutters trailing closer to Hoarvug’s large frame. “At least in Garreg Mach they were used to me.”

Shamir chuckles. “It’ll be better once you leave Fódlan.”

“There are perks to being recognizable, though!” Anna says cheerfully. “Speaking of, I’ve told you this before, but you’re travelling even farther now so it’s worth saying again. If you ever come across one of my sisters, she’ll look out for you. You already know the Anna in Albinea, but there’s at least one in Almyra and a couple in Dagda, too, and I heard from another sister recently who was interested in studying magic in Morfis, to see if there’s anything she can use to make coin, of course.”

“There are that many of you?” Hoarvug asks. “Your mother must be astonishing, especially for a human. How did she manage to wrangle so many cubs like you into adulthood?”

Anna snickers. “That’s a trade secret I’m afraid. All you need to know is that there’s an Anna just about anywhere you need to be. And whenever you see one, you’ve got a friend.”

Hoarvug still frowns, furrowing his brow at Anna, but Veery has long since stopped trying to guess how exactly Anna’s family works. (He has theories, but Anna keeps her secrets close to her chest.) “I understand,” he says. “Thanks, Anna.”

“Just be sure to help them out in turn. We’re all looking forward to a long and mutually prosperous relationship.”

“Of course.” Annas have been wonderful friends to him thus far, and if the others are like the two he knows, he’ll be happy to make friends with them as well.

If he travels really, really far, how many Annas will he meet? Veery bites back his grin but can’t stop his tail from wagging. It’s like a game, to find every Anna.

It should be a lot of fun.

---

Veery does get a decent pouch of money from Anna, though she tells him he still has quite a bit of capital racked up from their very lucrative business trip five years ago. But when he has the bag in his hand, he honestly doesn’t know what to do with it and ends up holding it up, examining it like something diseased.

Shamir takes it from him, thankfully, and says she’ll teach him a bit about money, or otherwise try to arrange for Daithi to take over his funds if she leaves in Dagda. Veery is perfectly happy with that.

It’s not that he’s totally ignorant about how money works. He’s been familiar with humans for five years now, after all, and he’s friends with a couple Annas, so he has little choice but to gain some understanding of it. He just thinks it’s stupid.

And he still can’t count very well. All the different monies with different values and the math involved… Veery can count without issue, but math like that is well beyond him.

Maybe he’ll learn? He doesn’t have any desire to, mostly because he still thinks it’s useless, but who knows? Maybe Shamir or Daithi will explain why it’s a necessary skill for him to have.

(Now that he’s thinking about it, though, do the other countries even use the same currency? He doesn’t exactly go shopping in Brigid, but Albinean coin definitely looks different from Fódlander money.)

Either way, he’s not dealing with it now, so he’s happy enough to keep that going. The day after their time spent with Anna, Shamir takes him down to the docks where they get a drink – something fruity and sweet, non-alcoholic, as it’s still early morning. (Hoarvug adores this drink, and loudly bemoans that he only finds something to miss on the very day he’s going to leave.) Apparently getting a head start on her promise to teach him something, she tries to guide him through counting out the payment for the drink, but that falls apart quickly when he’s recognized and the proprietor insists on giving them their drinks for free.

“I could get used to getting everything for free,” Shamir comments as they walk the docks once more. Today is the day Daithi said he’ll be in, but they don’t know at what time, so they’ve decided to check now and come back later if they don’t run into him. “Probably not worth the hassle, though.”

Veery eyes the people straining their necks to stare as he walks by. “Definitely not,” he agrees.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say when we get to Albinea?”

“Definitely not,” Veery repeats. Shamir gives him an odd, vaguely amused look, so he elaborates. “I’m not sure there’s anything to say, honestly. I just want to confront it and give it space. If I don’t face it, I won’t be able to move past it. I… think, probably, Caub’s parents need to see me to. Short of defending my life, I’ll probably just take whatever they have to throw at me.”

“You think they’ll be angry with you?”

“Who knows?” Veery shrugs. “It’s been a while. They’ve had time to process. They probably knew they weren’t going to see him again before he even left, so… But they wouldn’t be wrong to be angry with me. It was Caub’s choice in the end, but he came here for me. He fought for me. At least in part.”

“You’re a mercenary, are you not?” Hoarvug asks. “I am unfamiliar with humans, and thus uniquely unequipped to assist my Veery with this issue. Have you ever had to face the family of someone you lost?”

Veery very nearly shushes Hoarvug. It feels incredibly inappropriate to openly ask something like that. Veery knows Daithi has done it. Very recently, even. But it’s such an emotionally charged thing that it isn’t something to be casually inquired about like what’s going to be served in the meal hall.

But Shamir hardly even reacts. She just hums thoughtfully before saying, “Yes. I had a partner. He died in the Dagda-Brigid War.” She takes a quick, deep breath, then lets it go. “He was a mercenary at war. His wife understood. She never forgave me, but she understood.”

“Have you seen her since?” Hoarvug asks.

Shamir pauses only a moment. “No.”

Hoarvug grumbles. “I do not like being unable to predict what will come, but I have never met Caub’s parents myself.”

“You won’t be there, anyway,” Veery reminds him. “Don’t worry, Hoarvug. This isn’t a battle. I’m only going to show respect to people I care about a great deal.”

“They are still human,” Hoarvug says. “You must walk in assuming it is a battlefield.”

“He’s not entirely wrong,” Shamir says helpfully. “They’re grieving parents, and despite your history together, your people are their people’s enemies. I don’t know them, so I can’t say if it’s likely or possible, but grief drives people to do things they normally wouldn’t. Even to believe things they normally wouldn’t.”

���Like Rhea,” Veery says.

“Like Rhea,” Shamir agrees. “You have the best idea of the three of us on what to expect, just don’t let down your guard.”

Despite himself, despite the horrific thought of Vick and Eva not just blaming him but attacking him, trying to kill him for revenge, Veery smiles. “Never,” he says. Let down his guard around humans? Not likely. Not even them.

Conversation wanes there, and they wander for a while longer. They end up taking a detour into the city to relax for a while before revisiting the docks, and this time, about halfway down the length of them, Veery catches the scent he’s looking for.

They follow Veery’s nose to a familiar ship, still sporting some patchwork repair from the battle just last month.

“Veery! Good to see you!” Daithi appears on the deck like he’s Warped there, grinning to them. “Welcome, Hoarvug. And you’re… Shamir, right? You were on the Brigid expedition, as well. A Knight of Seiros?”

“Just a mercenary, now,” Shamir answers. “Looking for work, and to eventually make my way to Dagda.”

“Hoping to join?” Daithi asks as they cross the gangplank onto the ship proper and shakes her hand. “I’m still recruiting, so you’re welcome to. We’ll have to discuss your contract.”

“Standard crew fare is fine with me,” Shamir says blandly. “I’d like to join along Veery, if possible.”

“To leave in Dagda?”

“No rush. And I’m not sure I’ll stay long, anyway. I might return, if this works out and you’re amenable to it.”

Daithi, still holding her hand firmly, scrutinizes her for a careful moment. “Deal. I’d be a fool to pass up a Knight of Seiros and a veteran of two wars. Your experience will be invaluable. We can discuss your visit to Dagda in more detail when we’re at sea.”

“Of course.”

Daithi nods firmly. “But first, I have a promise to keep. Veery, Hoarvug, are you ready to see Albinea again?”

Hoarvug hums. “I eagerly await the moment I will once more set foot in the snow. Let us leave as soon as we are able.”

“More than ready,” Veery says.

“Excellent.” Daithi grins and claps his hands together. “I’ll give you the grand tour while the crew finishes up with the cargo. Once we get going, we’ll do the introductions. Sound good?”

With everyone’s approval, Daithi leads them through the ship. He points out Veery’s space, which really is just a curtained off section of the crew’s cabin, right next to the door. The curtains are just sheets thrown over improvised rigging to support them, but it’s easy enough to access as an infirmary.

“I was actually considering moving you below the galley,” Daithi says. “I think we can clear that room out and give you a proper infirmary, if we can find room in the hold. When I visited Bonnie and told her about you, she kindly pointed out to me that we keep medical supplies strewn about the place. Fixing up a proper infirmary may just be a matter of organization rather than space.” He shrugs. “I know we need to do better about that, but after being imprisoned then sent straight to war, we haven’t had much time to organize things. Hopefully we can get that done soon.”

If there was ever a reason for not having things organized, that’s it. It’s fine, regardless. Veery has had worse infirmaries. Though they will need to organize if supplies really are kept all over the place. He’ll need to be able to find and get to them quickly in an emergency.

They’re quickly shown the rest of the ship, including the room Daithi says he wants to convert into Veery’s infirmary. Veery gives the room a critical eye and thinks that, with some work, it’ll be a good one. It’s a little exciting to be given the chance to essentially build his own space, but Daithi says that, in the infirmary, the healer is the captain, so it’s his to take charge of.

Back out in the sun on deck, Veery watches with interest at the crew taking the ship out of harbor. They’re running around all over the place. There aren’t many of them, which is probably why each of them is so busy, but it all looks very complicated from Veery’s perspective just watching from the outside.

But they manage it with no issues. Soon enough, they’re on the open water, and Daithi is calling Veery and the others over to meet the crew properly.

“You all know Veery, the patchwork god,” Daithi says to his assembled crew, an impressive five people. “He’s our new infirmary master. The other cat is Hoarvug. He’s Veery’s. We’ll be dropping him off in Albinea. Currently, there are no plans to pick him back up, though I expect we’ll see him again eventually if Veery stays on long.”

Hoarvug snorts. “That man has the measure of me,” he says, leaning in to whisper in Veery’s ear.

“We also have Shamir, former Knight of Seiros. She fought in the war, as you know, but also in the Dagda-Brigid war five years ago. She’s asked to join up as well, though we might lose her in Dagda, whenever we happen to be there next. So be nice; I want her to stick around.”

Some of the crew roll their eyes, but it seems to be all in fun.

Daithi turns to Veery’s group then. “Now, the crew. Here’s Hannah.” He gestures to a kind-looking woman who is first in line. “She’s our navigator and helmswoman. We all do a little of everything, what with so few of us, but she’s the best there.”

Daithi moves down the line to the next person, a tanned man who looks back with a calculating expression. “This here is Jump. He’s the mage. We picked him up in Morfis, you can probably tell. Don’t bother asking about the name – he’ll only tell you if he’s drunk.”

“That’s not all I’ll tell you when I’m drunk,” Jump says, snickering. “Bastard.”

“I’m not the one who got pissed in a church, Jump. That was just confession.”

Veery shares a look with his companions, unsure if he wants to ask or not. Shamir smirks and shakes her head, like this is expected. Every crew has someone like that, Veery thinks she’s trying to say.

Daithi moves on. “Despite the war, we were lucky enough to keep our cook. Meet Riall. Don’t worry, he knows more than just Brigidan cuisine.”

Riall, obviously Brigidan by the skin tone and tattoos grins and waves at them. “If you guys have any favorite dishes, get a recipe to me. I love to try new things.”

“You recognize an Albinean when you see one, I’m sure. I’ve mentioned him to you before, Veery, this is Trygve.” He is definitely Albinean, being at least a head taller and probably about twice as thick as the next largest crew mate.

“Never thought I’d sail with a cat,” Trygve says, stroking his beard. “But I’ve been on this crew too long to let those old grudges stir up again. Good to have you. Trust the captain to make things interesting for us.”

“Last but not least,” Daithi says, coming to the pale, purple-haired fellow on the end of the line. “We have Shez. He’s pretty new himself – he only joined up during the war – so help him out if you can. I expect everyone on my crew to work together.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Shez says. “Although… you all were part of the main resistance force, weren’t you? Did you really fight alongside the Ashen Demon?”

Shamir tilts her head. “Byleth did go by that name back when she was a mercenary. After becoming a professor at the Officer’s Academy, people stopped using it.”

Shez frowns, looking somewhat conflicted, but doesn’t say anything else about it.

“Great!” Daithi says with a clap of his hands. “So, we’re heading for Albinea, to drop off Hoarvug and give Veery a chance to do some business there. We won’t be sticking around with winter so close.”

“Business?” Trygve asks, looking to Veery.

“An Albinean – human – came with me to Fódlan to fight in the war,” Veery answers. “He’s dead.”

Trygve nods gravely, understanding the situation. “Are you ready to face them?”

Veery can only shrug. He’s as ready as he thinks is possible. He’s not sure he can feel comfortable or confident about it, but he’s ready enough to get it done.

Trygve smiles. He steps forward and ruffles Veery’s hair. “They’ll be glad to see you,” he says.

“How can you know that?” Hoarvug asks. “You do not even know them?”

“They’re Albinean!” Trygve booms, laughing. “This companion of yours followed you across the sea to fight. That can only mean that Veery is his pride.”

“You have no idea,” Veery murmurs.

“He went off and found glory and his fate. He met an honorable end, I’m sure. Anyone he left behind will honor him by respecting that. Someone who means so much to him will be welcomed. You’ll share drinks, you’ll reminisce, and honor his memory with pride. That is the Albinean way.”

Veery can’t completely convince himself, of course, but… that’s just about what he expects, too. Vick and Eva are far too Albinean to do any different. Besides, as he says before, they already know. They have known for a long time now. And even if they hadn’t, the last thing Caub would want is for them to blame Veery. If only to respect Caub’s choice in who he loved, they’ll welcome him.

“I hope it goes well,” Hannah says, subdued. “We just finished a whole round of those. Some took it better than others. But that’s no reason to stop. Where to after that? Straight to Dagda?” She looks around, to Veery, Daithi, and the others, looking for suggestions.

“Veery and Shamir are new,” Daithi says. “And we have nothing important for a while yet. Why not let them choose our next destination?”

“A fine idea,” Riall says, eyeing them expectantly. “Anything come to mind?”

Not especially? Veery shares a look with Shamir. She concedes the decision to him. So, he glances around, takes in what’s really happening here, and breathes.

He’s going. He’s leaving to travel the world. All he has to do is say a location and they’ll go there. Awe fills him to the brim, like too much water threatening to overflow.

But he doesn’t have anywhere specific in mind. Instead, he leans on Hoarvug, mingles their hearts together to bask in him, glances up at the firmament and says, “Let’s chase the sun.”

“I like this one,” Jump says. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard in years.”

Trygve roars with laughter. Veery has to catch himself on the railing when Trygve slaps him on the back. “Aye, nothing wrong with that, but we must be careful. If this one’s reputation is at all accurate, he may very well catch it!”

Veery shakes his head, unable to repress his grin. Catch the sun? Why not? What’s one more miracle, after all?

#write #fanfiction #fe fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe3h

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 85

Following a Dream

Ao3.

First, Previous, Last.

Story under read-more.

It happens in the blue hours of morning, when the air is bright, but not yet warm. It happens in an instant, then grows like an avalanche. It happens quiet.

It happens, as these are wont to do, just as Veery settles down into a nap.

Something washes through the monastery like a flood. It envelops Veery and makes him bristle automatically. And then there is a burst, like a bubble over Garreg Mach has finally popped, and it sends Veery leaping to his feet.

His blood pounds in his ears and his breath comes out in heaving, heavy, hoary smoke, but otherwise it’s quiet. Suddenly, it’s too quiet. There is no meowing of housecats or barking of dogs. No chirping of birds, and even the owls that fly messages around are nowhere to be found.

It’s just him, his breath and rapidly tightening chest, and the gentle windsong through the leaves.

And then the cacophony comes.

All at once, screaming erupts throughout the monastery. Veery can hear at least four different locations. A monk in the courtyard he’s resting in doubles over without warning, screaming bloody murder and clutching at his head.

The monk crumples, then huge white wings burst out from him.

It’s more reaction than purpose that leads to the massive spears of ice shooting up from the earth, straight through the man’s still-shifting body and wings. The shock of it, the feeling in the air, it makes Veery jump and the next thing he knows that shifting monk is skewered on half a glacier.

The monk just keeps screaming. His writhing breaks some of the ice, but when he morphs fully into a great white dragon, Veery at once knows who is responsible for this, and casts Blizzard with much more intent.

The dragon rises a meter off the ground, skewered fully on the pillars of ice. What movement he has left is quickly snuffed out with more ice, freezing the thing in place. All it can do is roar plaintively by the time Veery takes a single curious step towards it.

When he does, a figure in white comes barreling around the corner. “Vee- What in the world is that? What is going on?” Catherine skids to a stop next to him, wincing as she warily eyes the strange dragon.

It looks almost half-formed to Veery. The main features are all there – the wings, the horns, the right appendages – but its skin is… it looks more like overgrown, tangled roots than actual skin. It certainly makes up a whole creature, but… There’s no hide like Marianne has. There are no scales. Just this odd, vine-like appearance which, with the dragon helpless, begin to look more like veins.

“Ugh,” Catherine winces again, bringing a hand to her head. “Damn it. What’s wrong with me?”

Veery eyes her, concerned, and chirps.

Catherine huffs. “Nothing, don’t worry. Just a sudden headache.”

A headache? Now? That can’t be a coincidence. Why would… Didn’t Catherine say once that the reason she adores Rhea is because Rhea saved her life?

This malformed dragon… it growls at him as he approaches, but he examines it more closely anyway. This is… Rhea.

Veery eyes the dragon, then Catherine, then back and forth again. His mind is working overtime to piece things together enough to make a coherent story.

“Nngh.” Catherine grunts again, actually faltering this now, and Veery realizes that he has no time.

He shifts back so that he can speak and roughly grabs Catherine by the shoulder. His other hand finds her sword hand, and Thunderbrand which remains tight in her grip. “Catherine,” he says. “Look at me.”

Her eyes meet his. Veery holds tight to her hand and Thunderbrand, and brings it up between them, noting how the Crest Stone gleams. He doesn’t have time to explain anything – he barely understands anything – but he has an idea of something to try and he has to do it now because if he doesn’t, then Catherine might very well turn into one of those crazed white dragons, too.

(Veery can hear them, more of them, rampaging in other areas of the monastery.)

“Rhea saved your life once, right?” he asks. “How?”

Catherine blinks, bewildered. “How? What do you mean how? And what does that have to do with-?”

“How?” he demands. There’s no time for waffling. He needs to know so he can act.

“I- Faith magic and medicine? I don’t get what you’re asking.”

“Were you awake for your treatment? Do you remember if Rhea was ever left alone with you while you were asleep or unconscious?”

Catherine grunts again, holding her brow even as she glowers. “What, you think Lady Rhea has something to do with this? You think she did something to me? Something that-” She cuts herself off, then, looking alarmed at the dragon still helplessly crucified on the ice. “I’m going to turn into that?”

Veery’s grip on her tightens, and he shakes her a little, dragging her attention back to him. He doesn’t really get an answer, but a battlefield medic can’t always wait for one. He has a best guess, and he has to act now or it will be too late. “Do you trust me?” he asks, looking straight into her eyes for permission.

Catherine stares for only a fleeting moment. Then, she sets her jaw and nods.

Veery raises her sword arm and shoves the flat of Thunderbrand against her. “Then listen.”

In truth, Veery isn’t sure that Catherine has any idea what that means, as he can’t remember if anyone has ever explained that phenomenon to her, much less the possibility that humans with Crests can do so as well. But he hasn’t the time to explain it to her.

After too long, long enough for Veery to worry, Catherine sets her countenance once more. For all their differences, all that they will never understand about the other, one thing they have in common is the battlefield. Catherine is a warrior before all else. She understands well the urgency of battle. She understands that, even if she doesn’t understand the situation or her orders, she must still act immediately or forfeit her life.

And so, she acts. She listens. It’s the briefest of moments, like with Claude, and the most distant of brushes, but he feels her heart and he does not spare the time to allow it to slip away. The moment he feels the opening, he dives in. Wholly and without hesitation, he dives.

And then, he burns.

Catherine winces, instinctively pulling away, but Veery tightens his grip on her and holds fast. Open to each other like this, Veery still cannot possibly hope to understand the why of Catherine’s feelings, of her devotion, but he certainly can understand the feelings themselves.

They are intense, all-consuming, and shrouded entirely in Rhea. Catherine’s very heart, her soul, is flush with her. And that’s ridiculous to Veery, but it’s fine. It’s a whole different level which concerns him. Because it is not just Catherine’s mind and heart, but her body as well.

When Veery closes his eyes, he feels almost as if he can see through Catherine. He can see the myriad systems which make the body. He can see her Crest, tied up in the Crest Stone in Thunderbrand. And he can see the leftover fragments of something foreign – more foreign than the Crest, at any rate.

Rhea. Blood experiments. Veery would not have thought that dragon blood can be used to heal, and so he naturally has no clue what the process might have entailed, but he has that much information at least.

The others who transformed into those white beasts… how many people did Rhea give her blood to? Why? What did she hope to gain?

But Veery has no time to contemplate. He can see that infection mostly because of how virulent and violent it is. It throbs, malevolent, and tries to overtake the rest of Catherine.

Veery thinks, taking in the scene, that the only reason Catherine hasn’t already succumbed is because her own Crest is fighting it. That explains why those other monks transformed so much faster – they are almost certainly Crestless.

There’s a desperate insistence nagging at him, where his soul brushes Catherine’s. Catherine’s worry and plea for him to hurry up so she knows she will not succumb. Veery will grant her desire. Like that day in the Sealed Forest purging a horrible poison, he burns Rhea’s foreign blood out of Catherine.

(He doesn’t have all the information, but a battlefield medic cannot always wait for it. He doesn’t know if Rhea’s blood is important for Catherine’s continued health, or if it is truly just a remnant of an old procedure. But he has suspicions and best guesses, and he thinks Catherine should be okay.)

It all happens quietly, in a flash, and then it’s over. Veery releases Catherine, winces sheepishly before healing the burns on her shoulder and hand where he grabs her, and turns away.

“That did it, then?” Catherine asks. “The headache’s gone…”

“It should,” Veery says, “but I don’t have much more information than you do. We’ll fight together until this is over and we have more time to look closer. If anything seems amiss, let me know.”

Catherine nods. “I can do that. But this is… Lady Rhea’s doing?”

“Something about her blood,” Veery says. “I assume she’s finally lost it and anyone who has her blood is… resonating with her uncontrolled power? But I’m making a lot of assumptions. I don’t know how it works.”

Catherine scowls for a moment. “There’s a rite,” she admits. “Only the highest of the clergy undergo it. I don’t know all the details, but it involves a gift of Lady Rhea’s blood and a shard of a Crest Stone.”

“A shard?” Veery hisses.

Catherine slowly shakes her head. “I guess if Lady Rhea gifted me her blood when she healed me, Thunderbrand’s Crest Stone puts me in almost the same position as those cardinals. Lucky I ran into you so fast.”

“Lucky you have a Crest,” Veery sighs. “If you were Crestless, you wouldn’t have had the time to find me. Having a whole Crest stone versus a shard might’ve helped you too.”

Catherine shivers. “Well, I’m glad you were here either way. Let’s put down the other… dragons? and find Lady Rhea. Whatever’s happening, we have to stop it.”

Veery nods. “I’ll follow you,” he says. He doesn’t think he can convince her, or that she really needs, to sit out this battle. That whole ordeal can’t have been easy on her, but she’s nowhere near weak enough that she can’t fight. “Lead the way.”

He shifts, catches Catherine’s surprised, but assured and steady gaze, and together they set off into the monastery.

Veery isn’t expecting resistance. Aside from the White Beasts, which he can pinpoint due to how loud the destruction they’re causing is, he expects that it’ll be a straight shot to where Rhea is at the cathedral. After all, who would fight them when rampaging dragons are wrecking the monastery?

He’s certainly not expecting to see one of the golems from the Holy Tomb guarding the bridge.

The Immaculate One’s suffering roar slices through the air, confirming their destination, but Veery and Catherine still can’t see her themselves. Instead they find themselves preparing for battle on that narrow bridge.

Veery uses Blizzard, attempting to just cover the whole width of the bridge and toss the golem over the side, but it retaliates with a spear of light which shatters his spell half-formed.

Well. They’ll charge it, then.

Thankfully, the golem is closer to them than the far side of the bridge, so between him and Catherine, they’re more than speedy and distracting enough to cover each other and close the space.

Thunderbrand shreds the thing’s armor, and Veery slowly but surely burns the thing from within, targeting each weak point Catherine opens up. He doesn’t have an opportunity to jump on and hold like he likes to do with the titanus because their arena is too narrow – he’d risk getting thrown off – but he still uses the same strategy, sending bursts in the opened armor until magical fire is spilling out from them.

A buffeting gale suddenly whips by from behind him, cutting savagely into the golem’s flaming wounds, then Sylvain is there, skidding up alongside the golem. He thrusts the Lance of Ruin into its side and shouts.

There’s a concussive boom, a flood of power, and the golem is thrown bodily away from Sylvain and over the edge of the bridge like nothing more than a hare.

“Are you guys okay?” Annette asks, running up to their sides. “We came as soon as we dealt with the dragon that showed up and started attacking people!”

Sylvain huffs, face serious as he turns to Veery and Catherine. “Do you know what’s going on? Best we can figure it has something to do with Rhea; that’s why we were heading to the cathedral. Teach and Claude were going to talk to her there, weren’t they?”

“Veery thinks Lady Rhea lost control of her power,” Catherine says. “We don’t have time to worry about details, but if he’s right, then subduing her should put to stop to everything else.”

Annette immediately starts questioning things. “But what about-”

“Good enough for me,” Sylvain says. He smiles weakly at Annette. “We can discuss the how and why when it’s over.”

Annette makes a face. “You’re right. Sorry. So, if we take down Lady Rhea everything else should stop?”

That may or may not be true. As best as Veery can figure, taking down Rhea will at least stop anyone else from transforming into those White Beasts – although, is there anyone left who fulfills the conditions to transform?

As for the ones already frenzied… Veery highly doubts anything will stop them but being put down. It’s too late for that. Still, everyone should be scattered around the monastery. No one is going to leave the White Beasts behind to raze the place and chase after Rhea while one is still nearby. Veery is really only concerned that one of the cardinals who transformed might have happened to have been in town at the time, in which case there may not be highly-trained war veterans around to stop them before civilians die in droves.

“Hopefully,” Catherine says grimly. And Veery realizes what she says. Subdue, not kill. But… if Rhea is frenzied, if she’s lost control like the Degradation has taken her… they won’t be able to subdue her. Not to mention, even if they can help her if they subdue her… can they subdue her?

Rhea is immensely powerful. Uncontrolled, she’ll be fighting off instinct, not intelligence, which is to their advantage, but Veery is worried that they’ll barely be able to scratch her as-is. Fighting such a powerful opponent while holding back to subdue? Veery isn’t stupid enough to try that.

“Then that’s what we have to do,” Sylvian says. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Catherine says, stalling them all just as they ready to go. Catherine stands there glaring at the stone underneath their feet. “I know what it looks like we’re going to have to do. I know Lady Rhea is suffering. Killing her might be the only way to help her at this point. But… if there is any chance we can save her…”

“Don’t worry,” Annette says. “I think we all understand already. No one wants to kill Lady Rhea.”

“We’ll do what we have to,” Sylvain says. “That doesn’t mean we won’t look for other options. If you get any ideas, feel free to share them.”

Catherine eyes the two of them, but is interrupted by another roar and the bridge under them beginning to shake. “Thank you. Let’s do this.”

Overhead, two small dragons roar. As the four of them sprint towards the cathedral, Veery grins at the sight of Marianne and Claude’s white wyvern flying together to join them.

Even with Marianne backing them up, though… Veery can feel Rhea’s power from here. As he dashes into the cathedral, it feels like swimming upstream. That power of hers blasts away in waves, choking and drowning anything in its path.

Another roar, just as they get close enough to catch a glimpse through the cathedral doors. Veery’s fur stands on end. He yelps and jumps, tackling Sylvain just quick enough to pull his tail out of reach of the glittering blue flames that erupt where he stood.

“The fire is cold,” Annette shouts.

Sylvain grunts, rolling Veery off of him, and says, “Something tells me that doesn’t make it any safer.”

Cold? Rhea’s flames are cold? Veery can imagine his being that way, but Rhea is… that whole line, Sothis, Rhea, even Byleth, they’re all fire. Even the Brigidans always identified Sothis as a spirit of flame. Her Crest is called the Crest of Flames. And sure, Rhea doesn’t have that Crest, but… Veery always thought of her the same way regardless.

But cold? Cold is Veery’s specialty. No one knows cold like an Albinean, and even most Albineans don’t know cold like someone who has spent the winter high in the mountains, or who has wandered the snow wastes.

The cold is Veery’s dominion.

He stands, shakes himself off briefly, and roars. He states his intentions, asserts his dominance, and throws Fimbulvetr through the doors of the cathedral.

The doors slam open, then freeze in place. Ruinous frost spreads not just from the Immaculate One, but Veery as well. Veery steps into the cathedral to see how his ice and Rhea’s clash, and like the earth raising into mountains, so too does their power.

Veery pads up between Claude and Byleth, themselves between Seteth and Flayn, with eyes of winter fixed firmly on Rhea.

She looks more like those malformed dragonlings the priests turn into than the Immaculate One that Veery remembers from five years ago, or even from Shambhala. Her scales have given way to that same vine-like appearance, backlit by a fierce orange glow from within. Her skin, whatever those scaly, thorny vines are… they look like chains. And the glow is…

Veery’s eyes dart to Failnaught and the Sword of the Creator, to Thunderbrand, Crusher, and the Lance of Ruin. It’s the same. It’s like Rhea’s very bones are alight with that selfsame corrupted light.

Catherine sucks in a breath, but it’s Byleth who makes the same connection Veery does. “Veery,” she says, “is there anything we can do…?”

Veery yowls. Maybe, but certainly not while Rhea’s fighting back. Veery can cleanse that corruption from the Heroes’ Relics. He’s done it before. But Rhea is still alive. It might be more similar to what he did with Hoarvug and Sadi, but… that depends on Rhea’s heart being open to him.

He’s not counting on that. And regardless, if he can’t get close enough for long enough, it doesn’t matter.

Rhea roars again. Blue flames sparkling with ice crystals that catch the light spill forth from her maw. With a beat of her wings and a swipe of her tail, half the roof of the cathedral crumbles away.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Claude shouts when she tries to fly. He draws an arrow and looses it into her wing, shredding through the membrane.

Marianne dives through the hole in the roof, right onto Rhea’s back. Rhea thrashes and roars, but Marianne, being smaller, has some space to move and situates herself square on Rhea’s back. She leans down and sinks her teeth deep into Rhea’s neck.

Rhea screams, lashing side to side, until she finally dislodges Marianne and hurls her through the cathedral wall. She lays in a heap under the debris, but Veery can’t get close enough to ensure she’s okay.

“Together!” Byleth roars. The Sword of the Creator segments, growing into a whip which slices clean through its target. Rhea’s dragonskin is tough, but the power of the Sword of the Creator is enough to pierce it. It wraps up around Rhea, tangling her in its blade, and Byleth pulls on the handle like a leash.

By strength alone, that shouldn’t do anything, but the glow of power from the sword, the glow of Sothis’ power, however corrupted, seems to make Rhea hesitate.

It’s enough. Veery Rewarps in with Abraxas on his tongue and more ruinous frost to sink deep into Rhea’s bones. Catherine targets the wings, slicing clean through half the membranes on the one Claude hasn’t already damaged, ensuring that she won’t be able to fly. Claude is less merciful, aiming for her head. The arrow bounces off her tough hide, but Failnaught’s power still impacts her, dazing her for what’s to come. Sylvain drives the Lance of Ruin into her leg, with all his force managing to get it deep enough to damage the tendons controlling her foot. All the while, Excalibur batters her, not strong enough to truly pierce her hide, but enough for her to feel.

Crusher glows in Annette’s hand, and suddenly her Excalibur spell draws blood. That’s more like it.

Seteth and Flayn attack, too, and their sacred weapons are enough, at least, to damage her, though they don’t work as well as the Relics.

Rhea strikes back. She glows with blinding light, then roars. That light falls upon them all, chilling even Veery to the bone. It cuts to his heart like the blood there is freezing through, and slams into him with a force like he gets caught by her tail. Everyone goes flying, sailing into walls or thrown into the hard stone earth.

Veery, used to the cold that pervades him, stands through the pain. Sylvain rises next, leaning on the Lance of Ruin for support.

A wave of magic brushes over them. It flushes the shattered cathedral, and Veery breathes a little easier for it. As he stands there growling, he feels his strength return to him. Flayn stands, Caduceus clutched tight in white-knuckled hands. It’s her magic that fortifies the rest of them, and it’s not long before the others are on their feet again as well.

“Enough!”

Veery jumps, glancing over just far enough to see Sothis glaring at Rhea.

Though the others, Byleth excepted, don’t notice, Rhea herself stops at once, as if someone has cast a Freeze spell on her.

Sothis sucks in a long, shuddering breath, and, trembling, says again, “Enough.”

The others, noticing Rhea has stopped, hesitate in confusion. Veery dashes over to Byleth, brushes against her, opens his heart. With this much ambient magic from Rhea’s power, as well as Veery’s, and what’s naturally here at the cathedral of Garreg Mach, it’s not difficult at all to make sure Rhea can hear Sothis.

He suspects she can feel something of her presence, maybe even see her, but he won’t rely on suspicion. He has the power to make her visible, so he uses it, just to be sure.

“Please, Seiros, my child… haven’t we fought enough?”

Seiros, still aglow with that malevolent orange light in her bones, rattles out, “Mother…”

“I am not the mother you knew.” Sothis’ voice breaks to admit it. “But I am something of her. Can’t that be enough? Can’t you rest? Don’t you know how much it hurts a mother to see her child tormented so?”

“Mother… I…”

Sothis sniffs, and tears begin to fall. The pain, Veery feels it too. His heart is open to Byleth, who shares a heart with Sothis, so he can feel it like his own. He doesn’t know exactly what is shared that leads to this, but he knows how it presses on them. He knows how it feels to scarcely breathe for the weight of it. He knows how loosely their hearts are darned together, and how already those threads are being tugged at.

“Hasn’t there been enough death?” Sothis pleads. “Please, Seiros, let it end. Let us help you.”

The glowing dragon trembles on its feet, then collapses to the ground. A hissing, keening wail pierces the monastery.

All at once, Veery, Byleth, and Sothis agree. Their hearts are one, so it takes only the moment.

Byleth and Veery share a look and a nod. Veery shifts back. Marianne, wincing, shifts back as well, glancing between them, Blutgang, and Rhea.

“One last time,” Seiros begs. “Once more. Mother… My dearest wish… is only to feel your power one last time…”

“Then open your heart, child. Allow us to put an end to this.”

Byleth and Veery approach the Immaculate One. Seteth gasps. “You mean to cleanse Rhea as you have Blutgang?”

“What?” Sylvain starts. “No! Absolutely not! Veery, doing that last time made the Degradation worse! You can’t!”

“But if they don’t,” Catherine says, “what’ll happen to Lady Rhea?”

“I don’t care! I won’t let Veery-”

“I’ll take it this time,” Byleth says firmly.

“You don’t know how, Teach,” Veery counters. “It’s derived from Albinean magic.”

“I saw it last time,” Byleth says. “Even if I can’t do it alone, I can at least take most of it.”

“And how is that better?” Sylvain asks. “So you can take in too much power and we’ll have another person we love slowly dying from it? How is that better?”

“I can do it,” Byleth says numbly. Quieter, she adds, “I was created to do it.”

“Teach,” Claude says cautiously. His eyes move to Sothis. “Sothis, are you sure Teach can handle that?”

Sothis’ watery eyes betray nothing but pain. “I think she cannot bear not to,” she answers.

Claude sighs. “Veery? You’re sure?”

Badb’s power… it makes him even more powerful than he was. Taking in Rhea’s power in the same way isn’t a good idea. It’s why he resolved not to try to cleanse the other Relics without a new method. But… this isn’t the same. This isn’t just ridding a long-dead relic of that corruption, it’s a living person. And Veery is a healer.

He doesn’t like or care about Rhea, and doing this may make the Degradation worse, but… but he can feel Byleth’s heart in this very moment. He knows what toll this war has taken on her. He knows that she has killed people she swore to protect. He knows how that frays her.

He knows how fragile she truly is. And he has faith. Faith that Lysithea and the others will keep looking, will find something, if not to cure the Degradation, then to stave it off.

It’s weighing a worsening of something already inevitable, that may not matter in time, against the life of someone he cares deeply about.

He’ll do it. He’s unsure and unhappy, but he’ll do it. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.

Besides, the truth is that Badb’s power doesn’t make it that much worse. Veery suspects that the Degradation is more a threshold than directly proportional to the power. Yes, he’s getting worse, but is that because he took in some of Badb’s power, or is it because of the passage of time? It’s impossible to tell. He’s certain that his power is growing regardless, so what does one more dragon’s blessing matter?

Plus, Badb blesses him because she likes him. Veery still doesn’t have confirmation that what he absorbs from her power really is from him using it to cleanse the Crest Stone, or something more actively her decision.

There are a lot of reasons to do it, and a lot of reasons not to, but in the urgency of battle, Veery has to make decisions quickly. He decides to help his teacher.

Byleth, Sothis, and Veery all reach out and, together, touch their hands to the Crest on the Immaculate One’s brow.

---

Veery finds himself in a still city. It’s quiet. The birds chirp jaunty tunes and the trees whistle through the wind, but otherwise, there is not a sound.

Towering stone, grand construction of a triumphant and proud people, rises up around him. He takes his first tentative step forward, then another, and rounds a corner to see past the buildings. And he recognizes where he is. Not the construction, but the landscape.

“Zanado,” he breathes. Turning back to the city itself, he murmurs, “This must be what it was like before it fell.”

“Yes,” Sothis says, appearing suddenly at his side. “This is Zanado in the time when the goddess walked the earth.”

It’s uglier than Veery expects. Not that the architecture is ugly, exactly. Veery thinks most humans would find it quite beautiful. Veery just… thought that something built by dragons wouldn’t instill the same hatred that he feels now towards human infrastructure. Deep in his heart, he still finds this distasteful.

He pads under a colorful archway that ironically reminds him of Beyul, slowly wandering. “Why is it so quiet?” Veery asks. This is a construction of memories, so even if they are but figments, Veery thinks he should be seeing faceless blurs if nothing else, and definitely hearing and smelling something. But there is nothing. Nothing at all.

Sothis struggles to push the words past the wet lump in her throat. “Because everyone is dead.”

Oh. That’ll do it. Veery worries his lip. “Where’s Teach?”

“Closer to Seiros,” Sothis answers easier. “It seems, even in her state, she was not willing to let you as close as Byleth.”

“Are we going to face problems trying to get there?”

“No,” Sothis says. “My presence here is soothing her. Follow me, and you will face no resistance.”

Veery nods and acquiesces, following Sothis through the streets. They wind around, navigating towards the center, for what feels like a long while. And they see not a soul.

Finally, they come upon something Veery recognizes. The old memorial wall. Veery touches the names of the Shepherds of Ylisse, frowning.

“That wall…” Sothis says. “It was always an anomaly. The lone thing standing in the dead land, with only a single flower sprouting at its base. It was a like a beacon to me when I left my home. The moment I saw it, I knew this is where I would take root.”

“Did you ever learn more about it?”

“Of course,” Sothis says. “It was built by another god. Anankos, a god of fate. He is also the one who returned life to this land. I merely nurtured it, and I suspect his influence over fate is what brought me here, as well. Unfortunately, he’s as dead as I am. I never did find out why he’d care enough to do something like this – or if I did, it’s among the memories I’ve lost. As far as I recall, he resided in another realm entirely.”

Anankos. That’s one of the big Agarthan gods. The one Veery didn’t recognize. Strange, how it all connects.

Veery shakes his head. He still needs to find Rhea. He follows Sothis down the wall around a bend until he sees her. Rhea lays there in her thin, white dressing gown, sleeping, at the base of the memorial wall, curled on her side in a way remarkably childlike.

(Next to her is a single, wilting flower.)

Byleth stands nearby, not approaching Rhea, and nods to Veery when he appears. Only once she sees him does she kneel by Rhea and touch her shoulder.

Sothis joins her. “Wake up, child,” Sothis says, helping to shake Rhea gently. “This is no time for a nap.”

Rhea groans blearily, slowly rising onto her arm. “Wha…? Mother? How long have I…?”

“Shh, worry not. You are safe here.”

Rhea looks at Sothis like she’s hung the moon in the sky, but she quickly sees Byleth and Veery as well. She smiles to Byleth, like she’s welcoming family, but when her eyes fall on Veery, the smile falls.

“Ah…” Rhea murmurs. “You are here, within my heart. If that is the case, then…”

“You’ve lost it and started wrecking the monastery,” Veery answers. “Yeah.”

Rhea winces. “…I see. I am… sorry.”

Veery shrugs. “It’s… mostly not your fault. I think. I doubt you would have lost control like that if the Koterija hadn’t messed with your heart. That why I’m here, by the way.”

Rhea sighs, closing her eyes. “I understand. Thank you for coming. We have our differences, I know, but I am glad that the others have you to protect them. Even from me.”

“I thought I was the one that was going to have to be put down,” Veery says, thinking about how similar her condition is to the Degradation. It’s like Cornelia’s machine affecting her. All the symptoms, but all at once, instead of gradually over thousands of years.

Or fewer, however quickly Veery’s unprecedented case progresses.

“You should have told us you felt something off,” Veery says. “Marianne and Flayn were doing everything they could for you. If they had any idea it was something like this, I could’ve stepped in earlier.”

Rhea, chastised, hangs her head.

“Do not be so hard on her,” Sothis says gently. “It is not only the Agarthan’s influence which caused this. You were not present for the trigger.”

“Which was?”

Byleth kneels next to Rhea, eyes big and sad. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I never meant to…”

Rhea smiles weakly, reaching out a hand to rest atop Byleth’s head. “I don’t blame you, dear one. You are right to despise me. What I have done is…”

Blood experiments, necromancy, willful endangerment of students… and that’s only the start. And that’s only what Veery knows. There’s more detail there, more that Byleth knows, that they talk about earlier which leads to this whole event, but all Veery knows about that is… “Despair,” he says.

“That’s right,” Sothis answers. “The Agarthans primed her. They hurt her. But the true trigger of today’s events was despair.”

That explains it. That’s enough for him. It’s clear enough that they talked about something sensitive, probably to do with Sothis, and Rhea was disillusioned of her delusions enough to truly give in to despair.

“I told them,” Rhea says quietly, “all my secrets. Everything I have done. And she rightfully denounced me for it. Even Seteth and Flayn…”

All her control was wrapped up in hope. In Faith. When that hope crumbles… so does her control.

“So, what now?” he asks, looking to Byleth and Sothis.

“Now,” Rhea says, “you will kill me.”

“No,” Byleth says. “We’re here to save you.”

Rhea slowly, sadly, shakes her head. “It is too late for me. I am…” She smiles, leans back a little, closes her eyes in the sun. She breathes in deeply, holds it for a moment. “It is time for me. Mother… Veery… you were both right all along. I have stood still for far too long. I cannot bring myself to move forward without…”

Her next inhale shudders. “And now there is no hope. My best chance, my only chance, has failed. I have managed only to house the patchwork remnants of Mother, and even then, she cannot walk this earth with us. Never again will I feel…”

A tear slides down her cheek, even as she smiles up at the warm sun. “Mother’s radiant light… it’s left me behind. And as I’ve stood here missing it, the rest of the world has moved on without me as well.”

“It’s not too late,” Byleth pleads, taking Rhea’s hand into hers. “You’re not gone yet. You can still…”

Rhea opens her eyes to gaze lovingly at Byleth. “Despite everything,” Rhea says, stroking Byleth’s cheek. “Despite what I tried to make you into, you are, and always have been, my granddaughter. I love you, and I am so proud of you.”

It’s then that Veery realizes what’s happening. Rhea has given up. Wholly and completely, she has given up. On her goals, on her dreams… even on life.

He kneels in the grass beside her, taking her other hand. Jasper eyes meet her green and he sighs. “That’s your choice, then?”

Rhea nods, serene.

“Then return to the earth and snow,” he says. “Find peace in the embrace of the goddess.”

Rhea’s hand squeezes his tight. “Thank you.” She looks to Byleth. “Do it now, please. Take my power. Burn Agartha out of me. And let me go. Help me finally reunite with Mother.”

“If this is your resolve,” Sothis says grimly, “then I suppose it will do.”

“Rhea,” Byleth cries, “you can still-”

“I have not truly lived for a thousand years, child,” Rhea says. “The only fleeting moments of life I have had were… my children. And then, only your mother… and you… only you were fit to be called living. I died here in Zanado all those years ago, because I never truly left.”

Veery is torn between agreeing and vehemently denying. On one hand, she’s just like Emile, claiming to already be dead when she still has life yet in her. Even the most worthless existence loses something in death. But at the same time… she’s right. She never really left Zanado. She’s stood still for too long, and the world has gone on without her. She may as well be dead for all the living she’s doing.

But in the end, it’s her choice. If she believes it’s her time, Veery isn’t going to fight her. If he can let Caub go, he can help Rhea pass, too. He won’t take that choice from her. Not the last one she has left.

Byleth hangs her head. “I understand,” she mutters, sniffling.

Veery’s hand is squeezed again. “Don’t worry,” Rhea says. “I know you are strong enough. I would not leave you if you were not.”

“…I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You are so much stronger than you believe. My only request, my last request, is… to take my power.”

Byleth stares through wide, watery eyes.

“Please,” Rhea says, her voice wavering. “The progenitor god’s power… Mother’s power… must be used to protect Fódlan. If what remains of me can be used the same way, I…”

Byleth holds Rhea’s hand and cries. Veery looks away. He sighs. He clutches Rhea’s other hand himself and whispers, “Lend us your power, Rhea. Help us destroy what the Koterija left inside of you. Then… rest.”

Rhea smiles. “I… I hoped you would understand.”

He doesn’t. Not at all. But it’s her choice to make.

Rhea’s power fills the air, saturating it. He feels it in his own heart, and then… together with Byleth, he burns everything.

---

The cathedral of ice, housing a burning dragon, sparkles in the midday sun. Collected inside it, even spilling into the street outside and across the bridge, are the mourners.

Blinding light enshrouds the whole mountain they stand on. All of the cathedral, the Goddess Tower, and even half the bridge. Those in the town later say that the sun itself alights to earth for that moment.

When the light evanesces, and all that is left is the distant, rainbow sun scattered by ice, Rhea lays unmoving on the cold tile floor. A cat stands and turns away, only to be caught by two men asking after his health. And it’s true, he has taken in yet more power. He can tell instinctively. But what he takes is a mere fragment. It is enough to matter, but not enough to worry about.

Left behind, a woman cries. She holds Rhea close and cries and cries until she falls asleep, completely unaware that her hair and eyes have lightened to the exact same shade of green that adorns the dragon she holds in her arms.

#write #fanfiction #fe fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe3h

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 84

Petrichor

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

Daithi drops into the bench across from Veery, sliding one of the two mugs he holds towards his hands. “I heard you favored mead,” Daithi says. “Bit sweet for me, but I’ve an Albinean on the crew, so I got used to it fast.” He grins like she’s sharing a secret.

Veery chuckles. “Trust me, I know what that’s like.”

Daithi snorts. “I did share a drink with Caub back in Brigid. I’ve no doubt you know exactly what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Veery smiles, fondly holding the amulet around his neck. “You said you have an Albinean on the crew?”

Daithi nods. “Aye, Trygve. He’s, ah… well, he’s Albinean. They’re all a little bit crazy, but you’ll never find someone more reliable.”

They’re all a little bit crazy, huh? Veery really only knows three, including Caub, but he can’t honestly deny that.

“So, you’ve finished the war,” Daithi says, drawing Veery back from his thoughts of home. “Have you given more thought to what you’ll do from here?”

“Only a little,” Veery admits. “I need to go home. I need… I want to look Caub’s parents in the eye. I can’t run from that.”

Daithi’s gaze softens. “I understand.”

He doesn’t offer more than that, but Veery feels like he does. He shakes his head. “But after that? I don’t know. I’ll enjoy the wilds a bit, then… who knows?”

“You are welcome to join my crew,” Daithi says. “The offer stands.”

Veery ducks his head, smiling despite himself. Being stuck on a ship for weeks at a time doesn’t like his idea of fun, but… there is something appealing there. To be untethered. To just go wherever the wind takes them. Daithi is a traveler. He’s seen more than Veery can imagine. It might be nice, even if just for a time. “Are you just this focused on recruiting, or is it just me you want?”

Daithi sighs. His eyes hit the table. “I lost a lot of good men to this war,” he answers.

“…Oh.”

Daithi raises his eyes, shrugs, and continues. “Nothing can be done about it now. They knew what they were fighting for. Every one of them gave their all, and I am honored to have been their captain. That said, I’m not pursuing you just to fill in my crew again. Do you have any idea how useful a healer is aboard a ship? When you’re days out from land in any direction, even something as simple as a small cut, if unlucky, can spell doom. Your experience would be invaluable.”

That makes sense. Infection is a terrible thing which can make even the smallest of injuries deadly. When you’re far from land, and thus far from medical treatment, any injury must be dealt with by the crew themselves. “If healers are so valuable, why don’t you already have one?”

“I did,” Daithi says.

Oh. Was it the war…? “What happened to them?”

Daithi smiles. “They settled down.” He takes a long drink and a deep breath. “You must understand, Veery, we are wanderers. For most of us, our ship is the only home we have. Healers are rare because the kind of people who become healers, the faithful, are rarely stricken by our kind of wanderlust. Their very faith ties them. And that’s not a bad thing, but they’re unlikely to be willing to set sail with no destination but the horizon, if you understand what I mean.”

“I think so,” Veery says. The healers he knows are like that. Mercedes would never leave the church for long. She’d take joy in travelling, in healing people beyond the normal reach of the church, but she’d miss being there herself. Marianne is much the same way; she depends on the church. Only Linhardt might be more willing, but he is not so faithful, anyway, and has his research tying him down regardless. Not to mention obligation to the people they already serve. Healers aren’t typically the kind of people who are unfettered.

“Our old healer, we called her Bonnie… one day, we docked at a small village on coastal Faerghus. It was in a bad state, recently raided by the Albineans. Well, Bonnie, she took one look and said ‘we are not leaving until these people have been helped.’” Daithi smiles, shaking his head fondly. “That is the kind of person she is. She cannot see suffering go unaided. Well, we stayed for a while, helping them in any way we could. When they were back on their feet and we were ready to sail once more, Bonnie had already fallen in love. She came to me and she said, ‘I have found where I belong.’ And that was that.”

So, she’s okay. Hopefully.

“It happens from time to time,” Daithi says. “We’ll find somewhere, and someone in the crew will say ‘this is where I belong’ and… who am I to deny them home? Few can wander forever. It is in our nature to seek home. Stability.”

“I understand,” Veery says. “So, she left before the war started?”

“That’s right.” Daithi sighs. He’s quiet for a moment, then, “I only want to do what is best for my crew. I wonder if, had we a healer when this war began… If I had been more proactive about recruiting someone who could fill Bonnie’s role…”

“Daithi,” Veery whispers, “it’s war.”

Daithi smiles again. “I know. But that is why I will not relent until you deny me. You have every skill I’m looking for and mastered them far beyond what I’d hoped for. And, not that it’s pivotal, or anything, but you’re quite beautiful, you know. Selfishly, I wouldn’t mind having you around more.”

Veery rolls his eyes. “I don’t even know how to sail.”

“We’ll teach you,” Daithi says immediately. “You’d be surprised how many on my crew had no sailing experience. I know you do not suffer seasickness, and that’s all that’s required on that front.”

Veery can’t help but laugh. “It might be nice, just seeing the world.”

“There is no feeling like it. And I promise you will be accommodated. I admit there is not much room for privacy aboard a ship, but the crew already knows of your shifting, you will be free to do so whenever and wherever you please. And while we don’t have a proper room, we do have curtains and a space set aside for an infirmary. It is… occasionally overtaken by cargo, but it’s there, and it’s yours, if you want it.”

“You’re really selling this, huh?”

“What can I say?” Daithi grins. “I want you desperately.” After they snicker together, he adds, “Although, perhaps the offer will be more tempting if I recruit Kieran as well. He is cute, isn’t he?”

So, humans think he’s cute, too? Veery had wondered if it was just him. “Kieran has his own ship and crew,” Veery says.

Daithi nods. “True. And, alas, he’s far too devoted to Brigid to sail so far beyond it.”

Kieran is. Veery isn’t. That’s true. Too true. Maybe he should just set sail and go. “Say I agree,” Veery says, watching how Daithi lights up. “What’s the plan?”

Daithi takes a moment, tilting his head to consider. “You are, of course, more than welcome to come straight away, but I suspect you have business at Garreg Mach to take care of first.” Veery nods in agreement. “I also have business to take care of. I’d like to visit Bonnie, just to check on her, see how she’s fared in the war. And I have… a couple house calls to make. Like you with Caub’s family, I have people who I need to face as well.”

Understandable. Veery… respects that a lot, that Daithi is willing to go back to his crew’s loved ones and face them directly. Especially for someone who defines himself with wanderlust, with being untethered, it means something.

“I can meet you… in Derdriu, perhaps? One month from now? Or would you need more time?”

“One month,” Veery echoes. Claude won’t need him for that long. He probably won’t need him at all. It’s enough time to make sure everyone is as okay as they can be, and he really shouldn’t put off going back to Albinea. “I can do a month, if you can take me to Albinea. Probably Hoarvug, too.”

“Gladly. Will you be staying long in Albinea?”

“Ah… what month would that be?”

Daithi hums thoughtfully. “In Fódlan’s time? It is currently the Verdant Rain Moon. A month from now would be the Horsebow Moon.” Daithi winces suddenly. “Ah. Once the Wyvern Moon approaches, there may not be much choice. Definitely not by the Red Wolf Moon.”

“Then I won’t stay long,” Veery says. He’s glad he has the foresight, at least. It’ll be an excuse to avoid the winter, and if he does hate it, he’ll go back home and that’ll be that. “Just long enough to do what I need to.”

Daithi perks up, grinning, “Does that mean…?”

“I’ll give it a try,” Veery answers.

---

Finally back at Garreg Mach, Veery lays in a muddle with Sadi and Hoarvug. They’re not shifted, partly because Sadi is still injured, but they enjoy their time in their quiet, lonely classroom. Hardly anyone ever enters these rooms anymore, so they’re great places to hide out for a while.

They listen to the footsteps come and go, just soaking in, until steps come right up to the door and don’t leave.

Creaking announces the opening of the door, and Claude steps in. He smiles at them. “I was hoping I could talk to you three,” he says. “Do you have the time?”

“Far more than you,” Sadi answers, stretching languidly. “Come, let us discuss.” She disconnects herself from their pile to perch on a desk, inviting Claude to join her. Veery and Hoarvug share a look and reluctantly get up as well, moving to the desks to have this conversation properly.

Claude sits, the only one actually sitting on the bench as intended, and clears his throat. “So,” he says, “the war is officially over. I wanted to thank you again for coming here and fighting with us. You especially, Sadi, Hoarvug, you had no reason to care, but you still came and fought. Thank you.”

“We did not fight for you,” Hoarvug says plainly, “nor for your country. We have our own reasons to be here.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Claude says. “I understand at least some of those reasons. Even so, I appreciate you being here. I appreciate you being there for Veery when I… didn’t know how to.”

“It is no task to look after Veery,” Sadi says. “It is our greatest honor.”

“I could not agree more,” Hoarvug purrs.

Claude smiles fondly, shaking his head. “Of course,” he says. “And how are you recovering, Sadi? No troubles, I trust?”

Sadi hums and rubs at her shoulder. “Improving with each day, though I am unfortunately not in the clear yet.”

“You’re well in the clear,” Veery says, exasperated. “You’ll be able to shift again in a matter of days, so long as you don’t stress it, but you’re in no danger of dying.”

“If I cannot shift soon, I will not be the one dying.”

Veery snorts. “Good threat. How do you mean to kill the humans, then? With their crude weaponry?”

Sadi curls her lip in disgust then, and realizing that she’s really not that dangerous otherwise without being able to shift, huffs. “When everything is done, I’m joining you in hand-to-hand, Hoarvug.”

Hoarvug grins. “The others will quickly learn fear if you are joining!”

“Anyway,” Claude says, not trying at all to hide his amusement, “now that that’s out of the way, what I really wanted to talk to you about is what you’re going to do next. I’ve been going around getting a feel for everyone’s intentions, but you guys… you’re a bit of a mystery to me. I suppose you’ll be heading back to Albinea? I can help arrange transport if you haven’t already done so with Anna.”

Sadi smirks. “Wrong. I intend to stay.”

Claude blinks. “You… do? I know we talked about how to include space for the agell in the new Fódlan, but… Albinea is still your home. I thought you’d want to go back and start trying to handle things there.”

“You think I trust a human to create space for agell without one of us present? Hardly.” Sadi snorts. “I will return eventually, but I will not miss this land’s development. These founding years will be the most important.”

“That’s very true. I’m glad; I’ll be relying on you.”

“I should hope so.”

Claude chuckles, then turns to Veery and Hoarvug. “You two are going back, though?”

“Aye,” Hoarvug says, “we will be returning home.”

“Have you already talked to Anna?”

Veery shakes his head. “Daithi, actually. But yes, we already have a ship.”

“Daithi?” Claude blinks. “When are you leaving?”

“About a month.”

Claude furrows for a brief moment, like he’s hurt by the revelation. “I see. That’s… so soon.”

Veery smiles gently. “We have to beat the winter,” he says. “I need to face Caub’s parents, and Hoarvug just needs to get home, and once winter comes, we won’t have that option.”

Understanding crosses Claude, and he nods acceptingly. “I see. Are you just going to be visiting, then? Will you come back to wait out the winter?”

“I…” Veery rubs his arms, “I’m going to join up with Daithi.”

“Really? With Daithi?”

Veery nods. “I want to travel. I want to see the world. On his crew, I can do that.”

Claude hesitates for a long moment over his words. “I…” he admits eventually, “I didn’t realize. I knew you were interested in seeing more of the world, but… I thought for sure you’d prefer solitude. I didn’t realize you were so close to Daithi – I’ve only talked to him once in person, I think.”

“Not that close,” Veery says. “We’ve only talked a few times, though he and Caub got along while we were still in Brigid. It’s more convenience. Healers are valuable, apparently, and it’ll be easier to travel with a crew that wants me than to try to figure out how money works. I’m not going on another money-making adventure with Anna.”

“Ha! Well.” There’s the smile back. Veery doesn’t realize how his leaving might seem to Claude, especially considering it was always the plan. But not just going home to sit in his mountains, but joining a crew to sail around the world… that is different. That’s people. That’s Veery choosing people, people that aren’t his family here in Fódlan. “I’m going to miss you.”

The truth is, Veery isn’t really choosing people, especially not people over his family here. He just… he isn’t sure how much more time he’ll have to explore the world. Before the Degradation, there was never any pressure to do all the things he hopes he can. He has his whole life – hundreds of years. Now… if he’s going to see the world, he can’t pass up this chance.

And besides that, he needs to be somewhere he can be contacted. He’s going to keep looking for solutions, and he needs to be accessible should Lysithea or Linhardt or the people in Beyul find something that might help. He can’t afford to disappear yet if he means to survive.

“Hey,” Veery says. He reaches out to grab Claude’s shoulder. “Even when we say goodbye, that’s not going to be it for us. We’re brothers, remember?”

Now Claude really smiles. “That’s right,” he says. “I know you’ll be there if I need you. I’m still going to miss you, you know. What am I going to do without your cute face around?”

Veery shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll be busy enough with Fódlan that you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Claude groans. “I wish I could deny it… Though, I’m sure to notice when your devoted followers start coming to me to ask where the precious patchwork god disappeared to.”

“Don’t you dare tell them.”

Claude laughs, and soon enough Veery laughs too, and the moment ends up light. Good.

Claude, still chuckling, turns to the last cat. “What about you, Hoarvug? I expect you’ll just follow Veery to the ends of the earth?”

“Gladly,” Hoarvug purrs in answer. “But my Veery is a cat made for solitude, and we would not want him to tire of me, would we?” He’s teasing, Veery knows, with his sly grin Veery’s way. The truth, though, is that Veery isn’t happy about Hoarvug’s decision. He feels hollow just thinking about it. He respects it a great deal, and he won’t say a word against it, but… he’s going to miss Hoarvug. He’s going to miss his partner.

“Wait, really?” Claude gawps. “You’re really not going to go travelling with Veery?”

Hoarvug shrugs. “Perhaps I will, but not immediately. There are yet things I must do at home.”

Claude blinks. “You? Really?”

Hoarvug chuckles. “You humans are not the only ones who harbor hatred in your hearts. I despise all of you. Most agell do. If you truly mean to create a world where we live in peace, you cannot approach from only one side.”

“That’s… surprisingly insightful. And you’re volunteering to try to change the agell’s minds?”

“Who better? It is not to love the humans which we must preach. No one will let go of their hatred so easily. It is cooperation despite that hatred, and the glorious things that can be done through it, which I will relay. Besides, I suspect many will want to hear how this war has tempered me.”

“I understand that,” Claude says, “I just didn’t expect that you’d care about making peace between your people and the humans.”

Hoarvug curls his lip, affronted that he’s even questioned about that. “My Veery fights for that peace. How can you possibly think I would not as well? His struggles are mine, as mine are his.”

It is, by definition, how their whole relationship works. If an agell was surprised by it, Veery would be shocked, but a human, even Claude… not so much. But that’s why Veery understands Hoarvug’s drive to do this. That, and when he shares hearts with Hoarvug, there’s a bone-deep ache there, under all the sunlight jubilance.

He hasn’t asked, but he doesn’t really need to. Hoarvug misses home. He misses the gatherings, spending time with others of his kind. He’s tolerating humans, and even has fun with them sometimes, but he’ll never be the kind of cat that can make a home among them. While there’s a war keeping him here, there’s no problem, but as the thrill of struggle dies down… homesickness fills its place.

So, he won’t go with Veery. At least not right away. And Veery accepts that. It’s something Hoarvug needs to do.

It’s still sad, parting ways. Veery is going to leave Fódlan, leave Albinea, and leave all of his companions behind. Sharing a look with Claude, Claude is just open enough with his expression that Veery thinks he’s feeling the same way.

They’re together because of the war. Not just Veery, Hoarvug, and Sadi, but all of the Deer. Now the war is over, they’re going back to their respective territories, back to their lives.

Veery leans against Claude. “We’re not the only ones who are connected, you know,” Veery says, taking Claude’s attention. “Every one of us is. The rest of the students, even the others. We’re going different ways because we don’t have one shared goal to walk towards anymore, but that doesn’t mean our paths are diverging completely. Not so long as we choose each other.”

Claude chuckles weakly, ducking his head. “How did you…?” He shakes his head. “You really do know me too well. I…” A sigh. “I don’t know. I know that, I do, I just… last time, I hung all my hopes on a promise. And five years later, there you all were. Even Teach, even when we hadn’t heard from her that whole time. Now everyone is walking away again, but… there’s no promise this time. I kind of want to force everyone together and ask to meet up in another five years, just to reassure myself that I’ll see you all again.”

Oh, Claude. He admits once, a long time ago, that he thinks being alone is one of the worst things in the world. Veery feels for himself, for a moment, Claude’s terror at being left behind. Fear of being left alone, of not having anyone to rely on, to talk to, to care about. Veery cannot imagine how that feels.

It’s true that he’s afraid of much the same thing, but the key difference is that Veery is not afraid of being alone. His fear has already come to pass – he’s had to kill the people he’s grown to care about. They turned on him, they ended up on opposite sides, and he had to kill them to survive. Just being alone, though? That doesn’t scare Veery in the slightest. That’s where he’s most comfortable.

They are both afraid of being left alone, but Veery’s fear is in the how, not the loneliness. Claude’s… is different.

“But you’re right,” Claude says. “We’ve all been through too much together. Even if we go our separate ways now, we’ll remain connected. I have to believe that.”

“Count on it,” Veery says. “I do.”

---

It’s nice to just laze about the academy like Veery used to do during those days. Not that he ever really stops even with the war on, but it feels different when there’s not something like that hanging over everything.

It’s peaceful. Serene. Just him, the grass, and the sunlight. The only scar on that pastoral scene is the naggling feeling he has like an itch in his tail. The war is finished, but something, it feels like to him, isn’t. But he doesn’t know what that is. It must be paranoia, or Caub haunting him until the time comes for him to go back to Albinea and face his parents, but it bothers him still.

Not enough to ruin lazing in the sun, but it does bother him nonetheless.

Marianne collapses next to him, leaning back against him with a mighty sigh. Veery chirps softly, asking what’s wrong through his amusement.

Marianne turns to press into his fur. “Lady Rhea isn’t recovering like she should.”

Rhea? Oh, right, she’s here. Well, no, of course she’s not recovering. She should be sleeping. Although… Veery has a bad feeling about that. Maybe that’s where that itching comes from.

“Lady Rhea is a dragon,” Marianne says. “Her wounds are severe, but there’s every chance she’ll survive them. Dragons are sturdier than humans, even when they’re not shifted. The problem is… I don’t think her wounds are only physical.” Not only physical? Considering she was in the hands of the Koterija, that’s not just possible, but likely.  “Something’s wrong with her, and if we don’t figure out what before it gets worse… I don’t know what might happen.”

Veery rumbles low, turning his head towards the Golden Deer banners outside the nearby classroom to ask his question.

Marianne slowly shakes her head. “No, I haven’t told Claude. I’ve talked to Flayn and Professor Manuela about it, but… Claude has so much planning to do restructuring Fódlan, and we’re not even entirely sure anything is wrong at all. I just… maybe I’m just being paranoid. Now that peace is here, I don’t know what to do with it, so I’m just waiting for the next tragedy. It seems like… so much of my life has been spent that way…”

It's possible. It’s always possible that their suspicions are just paranoia. But Veery gets a similar impression from Rhea, when he looks at her, and if Flayn and Manuela agree… something must be wrong.

Maybe she’ll just die. Veery will be okay with that. It’s her own fault for refusing to just hibernate and heal as her body is supposed to.

But there’s nothing Veery can do about it either way. With no problem except “we get bad vibes” there’s no solution. With no solution… their hands are tied.

(And, frankly, Veery isn’t bothered either way. He’s only tangentially related to Rhea’s care at all, and only because he’s specifically asked to help.)

So Veery just nuzzles into Marianne and purrs.

She giggles, weakly pushing at his snout, but quickly relents and relaxes into him. “…Thank you,” she says. “I should try to relax more. The war is over, after all. And I’m certainly not going to get any rest at Claude’s grand victory feast.”

Ha. That’s very true. Veery intends to avoid the thing if possible. In the meanwhile, he nudges Blutgang, ever-present at Marianne’s side.

She hesitates. “You want me to…” Her eyes dart around, looking for anyone who can see them. They are sitting out in the courtyard where anyone can happen across them at any time, but that’s hardly an excuse. After a while, she smiles again. “I suppose there’s no reason not to. I’ve never just… sat around like that before. I guess it is still new, but… why not? I’ll try it.”

She shifts, then, into her majestic draconian form, and now she’s larger than Veery, so he can curl up against her, rumbling insistently with his purring.

Her scales feel odd, but… she’s warm. It’s not long after she lays down her head that Veery falls asleep.

---

Claude’s victory feast is in full swing. The noise is insufferable. Veery does attend, mostly because Claude drags him there, but after just a hurried bite he makes his escape.

Too many people. Too many of his cultists eager to share a meal with him. It just gets worse and worse.

Claude allows him to abscond without a word, which Veery is thankful for, so he sets off to get away from the noise and the people. Mostly, he wanders, until he finds himself on the bridge leading to the chapel. The wind caresses him, and the view from off the bridge reminds him that he’s still in the mountains and reminds him of home, so he stops there, leans on the wall, and breathes.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, just existing. He’s only broken out of his reverie by the near-silent approach of the one knight he generally has absolutely no problems with.

“I heard you’re leaving,” Shamir says, joining him on the wall. “You’re going to join up with Daithi’s crew?”

“That’s the plan,” Veery says. “I’m going to meet him in Derdriu in a few weeks, then we’ll stop in Albinea, then… wherever.”

“Good,” Shamir says. “Traveling is good for you. I think you’ll like it.”

Veery chuckles. “I’ve liked it so far, despite everything.”

Shamir smiles, shaking her head. They’re silent for a while, staring at the mountains, then, “I’m more a mercenary than a knight these days. I work to get paid. I never was too attached to Fódlan. Even back before we all met here and started this resistance I was considering leaving.”

Oh? Shamir never seemed very attached to this place, nor is she faithful, so it’s not a huge surprise. Still, Veery thought she liked Catherine enough to stick around so long as there is still pay. “Where will you go?” he asks. “Back to Dagda?”

“I think so,” she says. “The war has made me… sentimental. It’ll be nice to see home again.”

“Have a plan yet?”

“Not yet,” Shamir answers. “Do you think Daithi would be willing to take me on for a while? No rush to get to Dagda, of course. I’ll be happy just working until we end up there. Then… maybe I’ll leave, maybe I won’t.”

Huh. Join with Daithi, just like Veery? Veery will appreciate the more familiar presence, but that’s not his decision. “You’re welcome to come and ask,” he says.

Shamir nods. “If not, then I’ll stay in Derdriu until I can get a different ship to Dagda. That’s fine. When are you planning to leave for Derdriu?”

“Friday after next,” Veery answers. “Thought I’d give myself at least a week to get there… Last time Hoarvug and I travelled Fódlan alone, well… none of us are very good with maps.”

Shamir shakes her head, though she’s still smiling. “I know the way,” she says. “We can get there from the monastery in a few days max, but it’s smart to give yourself some time in case something happens. Friday works. We won’t get lost.”

Veery chuckles. “That’s actually kind of a relief. I can get anywhere I want to go in Albinea, but Fódlan…” he sighs.

“The sun travels a different path in the sky,” Shamir says. “Even the stars aren’t in the right places. That happens as you move north or south. If you’re going to be travelling with Daithi, you’ll learn to compensate for it.”

“Yeah,” Veery agrees. “I guess I’ll have to. That should be interesting. I wonder why that is.”

“Lady Rhea could tell you,” Shamir answers. “She’s always been interested in astronomy. Probably Daithi, too. Most sailors I know know something about the stars, and one who travels as far as him almost has to.”

“And you?”

“I know the world we live on is tilted. As we move around the sun, the direction of that tilt doesn’t change, so we get variable seasons as certain parts of the world are in more direct light.” Veery tries to imagine what she’s talking about, tilting a ball in his mind and moving it around the sun. He… thinks he sees how that works. That also explains the long night in Albinea, doesn’t it? Though how close to the pole must he be to get something that extreme? “That’s why the sun changes positions as the year passes. Stars too. But don’t ask me how anyone came to that conclusion. That’s just what the educated people have said about that.”

“Huh. I’d have to spend a lot longer thinking about it but… I think that makes sense.”

Shamir smiles. “I’ll be ready to leave on the Friday after next,” she says, pushing away from the wall. “Sunrise?”

Veery doesn’t have that specific of a time set. It’s equally as likely that he’d leave in the middle of the night as right at midday. But that works. Shamir gives him a look like she knows this full well, even as he agrees, “Sunrise.”

---

As Veery sits on his high perch overlooking the monastery, he’s struck by a sudden pang in his chest. A soft ache, almost wistful, which permeates his bones and holds him tight like a frightened hug.

He still has some time yet before he leaves, but… when will he next see this? When will he see the monastery again? When will he see the people he loves again? Hoarvug is perhaps the keenest blow, even if they will be parting last, but the others are not far behind.

He doesn’t yet regret his decision. He thinks leaving is right for him. He thinks he’ll do okay on Daithi’s crew. But… one problem with being completely untethered is that there is nothing to hold on to. Veery hates promises and debts because they mean someone has to return to be a bother anew to repay or fulfil them, but it never occurs to him through all this that there might be people who he wants to know will eventually find him again.

How strange. When do people usually say goodbye? Veery doesn’t think he can fit them all before sunrise if he waits until the day of his departure. Humans tend to sleep until sunrise, so doing so then will likely hold him up. Or maybe that’s why Shamir decided that time? To give them time here for that and still make good progress towards Derdriu?

Veery honestly has no idea. He’s never had to think about it before. Last time, when Veery left Fódlan, he was captured and sent on his way by Edelgard, so he never had the chance to say goodbye. But when he went on that expedition to Brigid, Claude saw him off at the gates of Garreg Mach. It wasn’t a huge production, though, and Veery can think of a few people he’d like to say goodbye to who may not be at something like that.

“I thought I might find you here,” Petra says, amused.

Veery glances over at her. “Mm?”

Petra makes herself comfortable next to him, carefully shifting the sword at her hip so it doesn’t get in the way. “People have taken notice of your gift to me,” she says, gently stroking the pommel of her sword. “I have been called many things since we took Enbarr. Some have even credited me with winning this war, as if I could do such a thing alone.”

“Perhaps not alone,” Veery says, “but you did win it, didn’t you?”

Petra smiles. “I suppose that is true. Still, Brigid… has Fódlan’s respect, now. The loyalists who still don’t like you have extended that view to Brigid, of course, but likewise all those in Fódlan who believe you are a god have taken your gift to me as a sign that Brigid is in your favor.”

“Everything about it except the climate,” Veery teases.

Petra barks out a sharp laugh then dissolves into giggles. “Veery! I am trying to be serious.”

“I’m being serious,” Veery says. “I do like Brigid, and mostly I like you, but the climate there is probably one of the worst things I’ve ever had to deal with in my life. War notwithstanding, of course.”

Petra scoffs playfully. “Says the Albinean. You tease about Brigid’s climate, but at least we don’t have to hide for half the year to avoid ours.”

“Right,” Veery agrees. “You have to hide the whole year to avoid it.”

Petra rolls her eyes. “It is much better to be hot than cold.”

“Oh, I completely disagree,” Veery says. “In the cold, you just need thicker fur or to move a bit. In the heat, what are you going to do? Drown yourself in the ocean?”

“It is not nearly that bad. The cold though… you must wear so much just to be tolerable that you can’t even move.”

“That’s why fur is better than clothes.”

That sends Petra into another giggle fit. “I have never understood Fódlan’s obsession with clothes,” she says. “Albinea I might understand. Even Faerghus. And the laborers, of course. But Adrestia? It is still warm there, and it is not as if most in the cities need protection from brush, wind, or sun. Why do they insist on wearing so much?”

Veery snorts. “Lorenz tried to explain ‘modesty’ to me once… it doesn’t make any more sense now than it did then.”

Petra laughs. “He’s also talked to me about it! ‘It is improper for a princess to expose so much of her body.’ Perhaps in Fódlan that is true, but in Brigid royalty does not dress in finery like nobles do here. Clothes are for protection.”

Clothes are for protection. “Wait,” Veery says. “So, by wearing next to nothing, you’re actually trying to say almost the same thing that nobles do by dressing up like clowns?”

Petra smirks. “Almost, yes. It is a symbol of status.” Veery blinks dumbly, realizing suddenly that, practically since he went to Brigid, he’s been wearing little but boots, shorts, and a decorative sash around his waist. That’s expressing status? As if he really needs that. “Sailors and other laborers must wear very practical clothes to protect themselves as they work. To be able to go through the day with so little protection is to say that physical labor, or even spending much time exposed to the elements, is not required.”

That, frankly, makes a whole lot more sense to Veery than buying the most expensive thing and flaunting it. But then, he also still barely grasps the concept of currency, much less its value, so that’s not surprising even to him.

“I obviously wear armor,” Petra says, “and that has to be practical. But normal daily wear is different.”

“You wear light armor as daily wear.” Veery points out. “And not very practical armor at that,” he adds, eyeing all the exposed skin in front of him.

Petra laughs loudly. “The trade between protection against assassination – it does cover some vital points ­– my reputation as a warrior princess, and flaunting status. It’s daily wear, so it has to be much more comfortable than normal armor, but because it’s daily wear, it’s actually mostly decorative. Honestly, most days I feel like I’m in a costume. Better to take the whole thing off and go naturally.”

Veery snorts. “Imagine. Fódlan would have a conniption. You remember when people realized I don’t wear clothes when I’m shifted, right?”

“Ha! I do! I laughed so hard! How did they not realize that? I suspected at first that you would be more like the Fódlanders in matters of modesty because you need lots of clothes to stay warm in Albinea, but when I saw you shift for the first time, I realized you would be much more like me. It was quite entertaining to watch as everyone figured it out. Oh, poor Caspar made a scene for weeks.”

“He still blushed whenever I talked to him for months after that,” Veery says. He sighs fondly, even as his chest starts to ache. “Edelgard, too, now that I think back on it, but she was a lot more… composed about it.”

Petra giggles, but the sound is just off enough to be clearly affected by the topic. Still, she presses on. “Ferdinand was adorable when he first saw me naked. We had just finished a mission quite far from any town and went to clean up some of the grime in the nearby river. Of course, I thought nothing of jumping in – we swim nude all the time in Brigid, it does not matter with whom, there is nothing intimate about it. But Ferdinand…” She shakes her head. “He immediately began insisting that all the men must wait at camp, well out of view of the river. Even when I told him it was not necessary. And the whole while his face is bright red and he’s refusing to look anywhere remotely close to me.”

“Which is weird,” Veery says, “because they have open baths here, at least within the same gender, so you wouldn’t think it’d be such an issue.”

“Right? It is not as if men and women can only be attracted to the other. I mean- Dorothea, right?”

“Do you mean she likes girls or you like her?”

Petra giggles. “She is a very attractive woman, is she not? And I’m pretty sure she likes women, as well. So… both? Regardless, in hindsight, I’m thankful Ferdinand did that. Not because I would have minded them seeing me, but because I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason we managed to coax Bernadetta into bathing at all.”

“That sounds about right,” Veery says. “Once, when it was starting to get cold, I found Bernie in the classroom. I think she thought I’d eat her? Well, she fainted there, curled up under the desk. I didn’t know what to do! No one else was there. So, I pulled her out and put her by the fire, then took a nap.”

“I remember that!” Petra says. “I went into the classroom one day and saw you two sleeping near the fire. I thought you’d finally talked and were starting to get along.”

Veery snorts. “No such luck, I’m afraid. I think the first time she talked to me without running away or fainting was the night of the ball.”

“You came in together, right? What did you talk about?”

Veery smirks. “How scary humans are, mostly. I think admitting that I was afraid too helped calm her down a bit, even if that wasn’t really what I was going for.”

Petra nods sagely. “That’s probably it. Speaking of admitting similarities, did I ever tell you about when I admitted to Ferdinand that I felt competitive with Edelgard, too?” She groans fondly. “He was so insistent about comparing everything we did to her that it actually made me less competitive. I eventually got so fed up that for a while I stopped caring whether Edelgard was a better princess than I was. I never wanted to think about comparing us ever again.”

“I don’t know how he did it,” Veery admits. “Comparing yourself to others all the time must be exhausting. It’s hard enough just being around people. Basing yourself on others is… a bad idea.”

Petra chuckles. “In many ways, yes. But it did make him a good man. He always strove to be better. I admired that about him greatly.”

“I see that,” Veery says honestly. A drive to improve is a good thing to have, even if it comes about from something as stupid as competition. “Caspar, too. He always wanted to be stronger. And he’d make me get stronger with him. And louder.”

Petra snorts. “I often wondered if he trained his voice as much as his muscles, or if he was just like that.”

“A little of both,” Veery says. “I caught him practicing his battle roars a few times. He said it’s how he gets himself fired up.”

“Battle roars!” Petra exclaims. “It is very much like your battle roars, isn’t it?”

“A little,” Veery concedes. “They’re mostly for intimidation and to startle, or to draw attention, all of which Caspar certainly did.”

“That is brilliant.”

And from there, they keep going. Story after story of their old friends – mostly the ones who aren’t around anymore, but sometimes veering off into stories about others, as well. Veery hears all about the Eagles, and about Acis and Vanora, Kieran, and even a few stories about Petra’s grandfather. And Veery shares stories about the Deer, about Hoarvug, Sadi, Anna, Vick, Eva, and Caub. They jump from story to story with just the smallest of threads tying them together and a thick blanket hanging over them, but they smile and laugh and that’s what matters.

They stay there, high up over the monastery, talking animatedly through the dull ache in the air and their chests, until the setting sun calls them back to the ground.

The strange thing is, after a bath and a nap and some time alone, Veery feels, despite the ache and the weight that blankets the whole conversation, lighter.

#write #fanfiction #fe fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe3h

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 83

Conclusion of the Crossing Roads

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

“About time you showed up, princess!”

Veery jumps down a tall brick wall to the path below, winding down towards the dock. Fighting uphill to meet them are familiar, friendly faces, grinning ear-to-ear.

“Show some respect, pirate!” General Kaia shouts over the clashing of steel, but even she is smiling at the sight of their princess (mostly) unharmed, with a magical sword, swooping in to cut through the Empire.

Daithi laughs. “Really? You scold me even now? Maybe I should take my ship and crew back to Dagda if you’re going to be like this.”

“That’s your princess, you-”

“It is good to be seeing you again!” Kieran shouts, waving from another tier down the path. He points off to the enormous gatehouse further down the curve of the dock. “There is where we must be taking! They are blocking the harbor!”

From the gatehouse to the identical one across from it, a massive chain hangs. A few ships are well inside, already assaulting the harbor, but many more, the bulk of the navy, remains blockaded outside that gate.

“They raised it on us the moment it was clear we were attacking!” General Kaia shouts. “Luckily, Daithi was fast enough to slip inside before they got it up, but most of our forces are sitting ducks out there!”

“My crew is already clearing a path towards the far gate,” Daithi says, pointing towards the further gatehouse. One of just a few Brigidan ships in the harbor is sailing close to the shore, blasting the soldiers stranded on land with arrows, magic, and explosions from massive weapons something like ballistae sticking out of the side of the ship. “You guys take the closer one, and we’ll crack this egg wide open.”

Veery flinches at the explosions from the ship’s weaponry, and the ensuing blasts tearing up the very foundation of the city.

Daithi grins, close enough now to lean in close to Veery’s ear. “Never seen a cannon before? Don’t blame you. Picked them up on west coast of Dagda, if you can believe it. Hard to sail all the way over there, but they are very creative when it comes to blowing things up. And secretive; remind me to tell you the story of how I convinced them to share those cannons with me when they won’t even let the east Dagdans know how they work.”

Oh, Veery is definitely going to remember to ask after that story.

��Hey, pirate!” General Kaia yells. “Get your ass over here! That gate isn’t going to take itself down!”

Daithi pats Veery’s back and winks. “Once we’re done here, let’s get a drink to celebrate. I promise I’ll only bug you to join my crew a little bit; I still haven’t given up on recruiting you, you know!”

With that, he runs off, joining General Kaia to pick through the flaming remnants that his ship leaves behind.

Veery turns his eyes in the opposite direction, towards the closer gatehouse. It stands so tall, so proud, a yellowed but strong monument to the city’s defense. Veery will enjoy bringing it down.

“Let’s go,” Petra says. “It’s not far.”

(His only regret is that structural damage would be pointless. As much as he wants to tear the whole thing apart, they aren’t actually trying to raze Enbarr to the ground. They just need to get in and take control.)

Kieran ends up following them, adding to their small crowd as they work their way to the gatehouse. Veery is down an adjutant, leaving Sadi at the opera house to recover, but he’s still got Hoarvug. Petra has Acis and Vanora as well as her usual battalion and Dorothea has her own battalion at her back. With Kieran and his crew, there are enough of them that an assault in close quarters like within the gatehouse shouldn’t be an issue.

And it isn’t. It’s almost like raiding the tower on Immram again, back where they found Ambrose. The gatehouse is quite a bit wider, so Veery sees more action despite still not being at the front of the pack, but the essentials are the same. Those in front don’t leave enough alive for those in the back to have to do too much. They form a line and push through, slaughtering any opposition they encounter on the way.

Like on Immram, Veery takes to investigating the side rooms. He cleans up the straggling soldiers there, so they can’t attack from behind. But in those rooms he finds more than just soldiers. Humans in rags. Worn, working clothes. More than a few try futilely to pick up arms. A fallen sword or something more improvised doesn’t matter. Their eyes blaze with fury, hatred, loyalty, patriotism, and they pick up arms.

If they do not heed Veery’s warning growl, he kills them.

Still, more cower, and their cowardice saves their lives. They are not soldiers, but maintenance workers, dock workers, cooks, the people who do the labor the soldiers do not. It is not their war. They do not choose this.

Veery passes them by without a second glance to watch how they tremble before him.

They take the gatehouse. It takes a few of them working together, but they lower the chain blocking the harbor. The walk back down is slow, peaceful, a lull in the storm.

“You…” Kieran starts hesitantly, drifting close to Veery’s side. “You are winter, now.”

A prideful burst like gleaming light carries like laughter from Hoarvug’s heart. “Of course, he is,” it seems to say. “He always has been.”

Kieran sighs, huffs, shaking his head. “I… what I am trying to be saying… War makes ice of our hearts. Your eyes… they were not so cold before.”

Weren’t they? It’s not as if Veery ever cared for the humans he’s slain. Regret that people had to die, sure. Try to avoid killing, absolutely. But care for the ones who must be killed? No. Veery is not that kind of cat.

Veery looks deep into Kieran’s wide, distant eyes and frowns. He might say the same thing of Kieran. He might say the same thing of all of them. Eyes made of winter look back at him, stare out over the ocean, survey the death and chaos of war.

“I have hope,” Kieran says, “that once this war is over, we will finally be able to be thawing.”

Veery closes his eyes for just a moment. There is no judgement, like it sounds at the start. Kieran does mean everyone. War makes them all cold. Cold to the death, to the violence, to the fire and the red.

Death is not a reaper. Death is the earth and snow. It is cold and numbing. It steals everything right down to feeling itself.

Even, it seems, if it is not their own deaths. It still steals away all warmth.

Veery bumps Kieran’s leg, nosing affectionately into his side for a moment. Maybe. Veery doesn’t have much hope for himself, with the Degradation and all, but maybe. Maybe, when it’s all over, winter will finally recede, and spring will come. Fódlan’s new dawn, right? That’s the phrase Claude likes to use.

If only for his family’s sake, Veery hopes that, too.

---

The visiting Brigidans stay behind to push in from the harbor while Veery follows Petra to the Imperial Palace’s rear courtyard. They climb over a pile of rubble at the base of a large hole in the wall, courtesy of Daithi’s cannons, and enter the immaculate gardens. Soldiers are already ready for them, of course, but they cut through.

Once they clear the courtyard, they take a breath. “There are more enemies inside the palace than we thought,” Petra says. “Be prepared; Edelgard is well defended. But this battle is a deciding one. I believe, when we get to the end, it is her wish to face us.”

Dorothea sighs gently. “Ferdie, Bernie, Caspar… now Hanneman too. If Teach and the others have made it into the palace yet, I’m sure Hubie’s gone. Even Dimitri, Ingrid, Caub… We’ll end it. For everyone.”

Hoarvug hums, amused, caring not for the feelings the humans bring with them into this fight. For him, it is the glory of conquest. The test of his strength, to walk through Chaos and come out the other side.

Veery himself… is just tired. They’ll kill Edelgard today, and then tomorrow… who knows? Everyone has their grand plans, but Veery? He’s going to nap. He’s going to stretch out in the sun and rest, and he will warm himself with the promise that this war is over.

Even if tomorrow brings a new war entirely, at least they will still be moving forward. On to something anew.

Edelgard was his friend. Veery accepts that, he remembers that, and he lets it go. He will not hesitate for even a single moment.

And so, today, he fights.

“Onward,” Petra says grimly. “To the end.”

Veery rubs against Dorothea, winds ahead to do the same with Petra, and purrs.

“Thank you, Veery,” Petra says with a small smile. “Don’t worry. I made my choice. I will not falter now.”

“We’ll make it through,” Dorothea says, gripping tight to Veery’s fur for just a moment. “We have to be strong for Teach, too, you know?”

Right. Onward, then, to the end.

They break into the palace. Falling glass frames them as they charge through. Veery shreds into a knight’s armor, tearing open the soft flesh beneath. Petra aims for the weak points, the joints in her enemies’ armor, and even when they manage to move enough that she does not cripple or kill, ice springs from her blade to lock up those joints, and they do not avoid a second strike. Dorothea dances with fire and lightning, and the palace reeks of burning flesh.

In a massive kitchen, Hoarvug knocks down an overhead chandelier of pans, reveling in the chaos it brings when the soldiers there scramble. Veery throws a soldier into the burnt stew and the fire still cooking it.

In a servant’s bedroom, a crowd of people huddle. They survive, but Veery freezes the door behind him as they leave. The ice will thaw eventually, after the battle is won.

In a hallway, Petra’s ice blade freezes three men to the wall, and she is kind enough to simply knock them out with quick strikes to the head.

In a greeting room, Dorothea spins away from an axe, and Veery tackles the warrior into an expensive vase, shattering it over his enemy’s head. Dorothea skewers the swordsman behind him with her levin sword a moment later.

On a stairway, Hoarvug tosses a mage over the railing, almost right on top of Acis, who unflinchingly puts them down. Vanora glares up but just gets her own heap of a mage to kill when Veery throws another down to them.

When they breach the top of the stairs, they run into familiar faces. “Petra! Veery!” Claude grins. Teach stands behind him, ready but smiling at the sight of them. “I take it you took care of the reinforcements?”

“We’re a bit behind, it seems,” Dorothea answers. “But we’ve cleared the path behind us – no enemies are coming up through here.”

“Excellent work, you guys. Just about now, Lysithea should be sealing off-” The palace shakes, and Veery hears shattering glass accompanying a bone-deep explosion some distance away. “-the other passage,” Claude says. “That’s that, then. The enemy won’t be able to send any more reinforcements now. Come on, Edelgard is in the throne room.”

“The throne room is just down this hall,” Petra says. “Let us hurry.”

They barrel through the hall towards the grand doors leading to the throne room. From the opposite end, more of their allies approach. “You all made it!” Lysithea says when they get close. “Good. Just one last fight.”

“Open the doors already,” Felix growls. “We’ll end this once and for all.”

“Ugh, of course, of all the people to make it here, I’m part of this group,” Linhardt sighs. “I hope Caspar appreciates all I’m doing for him.”

Hilda reports directly to Claude and Teach. “Almost everyone else, including Judith and my brother, are still outside. We’ve cut off reinforcements within the palace, but Edelgard still has pockets of troops around the city that are closing in hoping to corner us. Leonie and Judith are trying to stamp them out, while Lorenz, Ignatz, and Raphael protect the common folk. Marianne is with Holst taking on the last of the demonic beasts. We shouldn’t see any coming in here, in any case.”

“Sylvain and the rest of the Lions are with my father and the Knights of Seiros,” Felix says. “They’re in control of most of the city now. Only the Palace District is left, but she’s got that handled.” He nods towards Hilda. “Now let’s get going. Edelgard isn’t going to sit idle while we give reports.”

“Right you are,” Claude says. “No time to waste. Once we take care of Edelgard, we’ll finally be free of this war. Are you all ready?”

Everyone gives their assent, as eager to get this done as much as they dread having to kill someone they know. Only Professor Byleth hesitates. “…I don’t want to kill Edelgard,” she says.

The air is tense following her confession, but Claude reaches out to her, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. She lifts her eyes to his. “I know,” he says gently. “She’s a fellow student to all of us. But she refused the path we could have walked together. Even cornered and with her allies defeated, she won’t yield. I don’t want to kill her, either, but if showing pity will put my allies in danger, I will not hesitate. Are you prepared to do the same?”

Byleth turns her eyes down, then, when they turn wintry once more, she lifts them back to Claude’s. She nods. “I won’t let her hurt any more of my students.”

Claude nods back, they each take position at one of the double doors, and together they push through.

There, alone, Edelgard stands afore her throne. She looks down upon them with disdain across her countenance. Veery’s gut broils as he takes in the scene.

“I must confess I never imagined that you would be able to pursue me this far,” Edelgard says when they all enter. “I don’t mean to belittle your skills, professor, Claude, but you’ve far surpassed my expectations. But having made it this far, I suppose you think you can defeat me. Is that right? But no matter how strong you are, I will never give up. Even if my arms and legs fail me, I would still find a way to move forward. My progress cannot be stopped! I will trample the past underfoot and move on to a brighter tomorrow!”

“What do you mean to accomplish with this, Edelgard?” Claude asks, trying in vain for the last time to talk to her. “We’ve already taken down Shambhala. Your Agarthan allies are no more! Why are you still insisting on this path of war?”

Edelgard actually has the gall to laugh. “Claude… your ideals, they are not so far removed from my own. But even with all your cleverness, you don’t have a shred of self-awareness, do you? This war was never about Agartha. It is about the false goddess and her minion who ruled over Fódlan for far too long. And now here you are, just another of the goddess’ vanguard.”

“I’m no vanguard of the goddess,” Claude says. “If anything, I’ve got my own god to follow.”

Edelgard snorts. “Veery, do you mean?” Her eyes fall on him. “The patchwork god. The winter sun. You… you were a surprise, I admit. But I cannot allow a new god, whoever he may be, to simply take the goddess’ place. I do not blame you, Veery. I know you have no desire to rule. I even still believe that you would be a good ruler. Yet if I permit you to live, Fódlan will never let go of her old habits. When gods interfere in the affairs of mortals, corruption follows. I can never achieve peace so long as you remain. I am sorry, truly, but the option to let you live is long past.”

And Veery will do whatever it takes to survive. And so, they must fight. The worst part, the part that sinks into Veery’s heart and stings, and pisses him off, is that Edelgard is completely sincere.

“And even if I could let you go, even if you were still mortal… I cannot leave Fódlan to you for the same reason I cannot leave her to Claude. Without sufficient knowledge of this land’s suffering, you cannot possibly heal it.”

Lysithea narrows her eyes. “You call us just more of the goddess’ vanguard, but what does that make you? Saying all that about Veery… You’re just the Koterija’s weapon, aren’t you? Not a shred of self-awareness yourself.”

“It is not so easy to understand others,” Claude says in the heated silence of Lysithea’s accusation. “People are more complicated than that. You understand your suffering, Edelgard. No one can understand all of Fódlan’s. The best chance to help the most people is to work together and listen to each other. Please, put down your axe. Let’s end this now.”

“I will not relent,” Edelgard murmurs. “You fools who are so caught up in the sacrifices at hand that you can’t see the future ramifications at stake… I will never entrust Fódlan to you.” She hangs her head for a moment. “It is time. There is nothing more to say. Your path lies across my grave. Claim your victory, if you can.”

She doubles over suddenly, wincing like she’s been stabbed in the chest. “Ugh… This pain is nothing… compared to what I have already suffered…”

Like he’s back in Conand Tower all those years ago, Veery watches in horror as something emerges from the blindingly bright Crest Stone within Aymr. It pulses, like blood is running through it, and flows out of the Crest Stone like thick, viscous liquid. Edelgard grunts, but does not scream. She takes the pain, the change, without an utterance of complaint and without a shred of hesitation. Dark tendrils consume her entirely, quickly encasing her body, then writhing up over her face, into her nose, slipping through the pressed line of her lips, and still she makes not a sound. The sinister substance, wholly surrounding her, expands into a massive hulking form.

“A terrible price indeed for such terrible power…” Claude mutters. His face is set like stone. No hint of hesitation mars his eyes.

A terrible price indeed… to be changed beyond recognition… Veery scowls up at Edelgard, at this black amalgam, and his breath catches in his throat. The odd, long limbs, the massive skirt-like feature… the proportions, the appearance… it’s like those golems in the Holy Tomb.

Claude’s words – Caub’s words – echo in Veery’s head. “A terrible price indeed…” Caub never mentions Edelgard turning into a black beast, but she isn’t, is she? Definitely, there’s some aspect of the change that’s the same, but she’s not a beast. She’s just like those golems. Too human-like. Not a rampaging creature in suffering, but a puppet designed for war.

Veery chirps urgently to Claude, Lysithea, and Dorothea, who also heard first-hand Caub’s warning.

“I see it,” Lysithea answers. “Caub warned us to review tactics to battle something like those golems beneath the monastery. We thought he only meant the titanus. I never would have imagined…”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Claude says. “What’s important is that, thanks to Caub, we’ve trained for a fight just like this. Don’t get complacent, she’s sure to have tricks up her sleeve, but we’re ready. Let’s finish this, once and for all.”

“So, this is the end of the road,” Felix scoffs. His eyes are fixed on Edelgard. He doesn’t speak to Edelgard so much as to himself, chanting in a low murmur. “After everything, this is where your path has taken you. Is this worth all you’ve done to the Kingdom? To Dimitri?” He raises his sword. “…I’ll take your head. For Ingrid. For His Highness. For Faerghus.”

Edelgard starts the battle in earnest by holding up her hand. Smoky purple magic appears, pulling a startled yelp from Veery. Dark magic? It really shouldn’t be as surprising as it is, but Edelgard never favors magic before, so her turning into a black beast and throwing dark magic suddenly is jarring.

And terrifying. The ball of magic she hurls at them is pitch dark with bloody red light deep within and as big as Veery. Everyone close enough leaps out of the way to avoid the massive thing.

“What a fascinating phenomenon,” Linhardt says, eyeing Edelgard when he’s back on his feet. “I haven’t the slightest idea how they managed to avoid turning her into just another Black Beast. Then again, I suppose she’s been groomed for this from the start.” Louder, directly to Edelgard, he says, “So, you’ve finally given in, huh? Whatever free will you still had… now is when you hand it over to the Koterija? When I fought for you, I thought you were resisting them. But it seems you’ve accepted the role they’ve so graciously laid out for you. Are you satisfied, dying as their pet?”

“You understand nothing!” It surprises Veery that she can speak at all like this, but she does. Her voice comes out twisted and malformed, a grating façade of her former timbre. It comes out like stones rolling down a mountain, with just as much impact. It rattles Veery’s bones as he dodges another magic attack. “I have opposed them at every turn! I am protecting Fódlan from them, and from the children of the goddess!”

“Then why are we the ones who had to put them down?” Lysithea asks. “Why is it that we killed them, while you started a war for them? You could have been with us, Edelgard. We wanted to change Fódlan together with you. But you chose to side with the Koterija, and now look at you. This is where your choices have led you. If you have any real agency left, use it wisely and die gracefully.”

“Lysithea…” Edelgard grinds. “You and I are so alike…”

Lysithea scoffs. “Our backgrounds are similar, yes, but don’t compare me to you. I slaughtered the people that did this to me. You slaughtered for them. Whatever our similarities, that’s where any kinship between us ends.”

“I used them!” Edelgard roars, striking out once more. “As much as I hate to admit it, I had no chance against the church alone. I needed their power to defeat another evil!”

“It’s not that simple, you know,” Hilda says, surprisingly kindly. “Fighting an insurmountable enemy isn’t just a matter of strength. House Goneril has held the Throat and kept the Almyrans out of Fódlan for a thousand years, yet all it took to stop the fighting and the death and the enslavement was talking to each other. Now they’re here, in Enbarr, helping us. I know there are some things you have to face with force - that’s why we’re facing each other now. But you had it all wrong from the start; war isn’t the path to your dream. …But don’t worry. We’ll finish the job for you.”

Edelgard roars. Another blast of magic blows Veery clean off his feet, and the following impact as Edelgard slams her hand down rattles his bones. He recovers quickly, notes Felix in front of Hilda holding Aegis over his head. He’s collapsed to his knee, but he and Hilda are both upright, even with Edelgard’s massive form attempting to crush them.

Twin slashes of ice and lightning arc, crossing each other at Edelgard’s gnarled elbow. It’s enough for her to recoil, letting Felix and Hilda escape, but Edelgard turns her hateful red eyes to Petra instead. Specifically, the blade in her hand.

“Petra…” Edelgard growls. “So, even you have chosen a false god. Even one that has nothing to do with your people.”

Petra stands tall, winter blade at the ready. “The patchwork god helped to liberate Brigid, so I don’t know how you can claim he has nothing to do with my people. More than that, I have not chosen a god. I have chosen a friend. If you had been brave enough to do the same, we might still be allies.”

“Liberating Brigid… I must admit, that was masterful work. There wasn’t a thing I could do at any point to stop you. If you had been by my side… But you’ve chosen your path. I will give you the response that deserves. I will crush you with everything I have!”

Petra sinks a little lower into her stance, blade at the ready. “And I will free Fódlan of you, just as I have freed Brigid.”

When Edelgard’s attack comes, Petra skillfully sidesteps it, cutting a deep gouge into Edelgard’s arm for the attempt. The magic thrown at her is diverted with Linhardt’s Wind spell just enough that Petra doesn’t even have to dodge. She leaps forward instead, and her blade meets Edelgard’s rough hide.

Black ice blossoms from the site of the blow, a wide gash across her hip, but, unhindered, Edelgard strikes back, grabbing for Petra.

“Look here, Edie!” Dorothea shouts. Her lightning intercepts Edelgard’s reaching hand. Before she recovers, Petra jumps back out of range.

Edelgard does look to Dorothea, and her eyes, blankly red and hateful as they are, widen at Dorothea’s stance. “How fitting,” Edelgard says. “Dancing magic suits you. You have always been an inspiration.”

“So have you,” Dorothea says. “You were always the strongest. Always unflappable. I admired you so much, because I thought you wanted to use that amazing strength to help people.”

“Dorothea…”

“Look at yourself, Edie,” Dorothea hisses. “This isn’t helping anyone. Even now, people all around Fódlan are killing each other. Just outside, your people, who you trapped inside the city, are dying! Please, Edie, I don’t want to kill you, too. Let this end. Protect someone before the only thing you leave this world with is death.”

Edelgard stares for a tense few seconds. Her head lowers. “…I cannot stop,” she finally says. “I am the only one who-”

“The only one?” Dorothea scoffs. “I really did think you were different, Edie. Even up until now, I hoped. I guess I was wrong. What is it that you even want, anymore? I can’t tell.”

Dorothea doesn’t wait for an answer before she fires Thoron, arcing right for Edelgard’s chest. Edelgard moves to dodge, but Hoarvug barrels into her, stalling her attempted movement long enough for Thoron to strike true. Edelgard cries out – it must hit a sensitive area. It’s a wailing, pained cry not that dissimilar to the demonic beasts. Even the fury and loathing are there, too.

“At least we tried,” Claude says. “There’s no reasoning with her. Everyone, all together now! Let’s end this quickly!”

Claude releases a gleaming arrow. It shoots through to Edelgard, lodging in her shoulder. Without a moment to spare, Linhardt and Lysithea’s rainbow Seraphim spells follow up, drawing another agonized cry from their prey. Edelgard tries to strike back with another dark spell, but Dorothea drops Ragnarok on her before she can release it.

In the wake of the charged magic, the rest of them close in. Petra, Hilda, and Veery open up Edelgard’s thick hide, Felix, Hoarvug, and Petra’s retainers fill in to cut ever deeper.

Edelgard swipes at them like they’re naught but gnats, but like gnats they flit out of the way in time for another round of magic and arrows to punish her for even trying.

They take their time, fighting patiently like a pride, working together to take down prey far larger than them. They pull and twist Edelgard in every direction until she has no choice but to break under the tension.

And it’s terrifying, but it’s pride. It’s Veery’s pride, doing what they do best, doing what they were prepared to do.

It takes a long time, and a lot of patience – a lot of nipping at her heels and running in circles to draw attention – but finally there’s an opening. Claude’s arrow bursts, knocking her hand away. Petra cuts at Edelgard’s legs, encasing them in ice. Veery and Hoarvug together leap onto her, their combined weight enough to topple her before she can break free of the ice around her feet.

Atop his prey, Veery does what comes naturally. He unleashes Abraxas. He claws, he bites. Anything exposed is a target, and anything that isn’t has it’s armor stripped away in a blaze.

Hoarvug does the same, digging in with his claws. Felix and Petra jump on as well, and the others carefully continue striking around the ones so close to Edelgard’s prone body.

And that’s it. Standard golem-type enemy strategy – to distract, immobilize, and pile on. Of course, it takes all of their skill combined to pull it off on Edelgard, but they do pull it off relatively unscathed in the end. They use the result of Caub’s warning and come out victorious for it.

The black carapace encompassing her evanesces. She shrinks back down to normal size. As the heady, dark magic dissipates, all that is left is Edelgard. She kneels before them, leaning on Aymr to manage even that much. Aymr itself glows weakly, then sputters out with the last of the fight left in Edelgard’s heart.

They surround her, ready for any sudden movement, but none comes. She only looks up at Byleth, right in front of her, at everyone else around her. Byleth sets herself. Steels herself for what she must do. “Edelgard…” Byleth says, barely a whisper. “What do you believe in?”

As she witnesses the Sword of the Creator rise, Edelgard says, “Power… and you. I wanted… to walk with you.”

Professor Byleth, gently, says, “So did I,” and brings her sword down on Edelgard’s neck.

In the silence that follows, Veery breathes. Deep, slow, when for a moment after that blade falls everything stops moving, Veery takes in that blooded air, holds that sharp, metallic scent on his tongue, and lets it go.

Hoarvug presses eagerly against Veery’s side, a welcome companion in the silence. He is exuberant and proud from a battle won, but Veery… his chest feels twisted. His friend is dead. The blind, idiot puppet is dead. The one who sits with him over tea and asks him for stories about his people will never kill another again. The one who opens her arms, her country, her home to him without a thought can no longer start or perpetuate another war.

Because of Edelgard, Veery will never again wrestle with Caspar. Because of Edelgard, the only humans Veery knows back home lose their son. And so, yes, Veery has his pride. When he looks upon this corpse, he swells with accomplishment. A peace he hasn’t ever felt before lands upon him like a thrown bedsheet.

He does not pity her. Whatever else she is, whatever her excuse, Edelgard starts a war. That is not something overlooked because she has a reason. That is the end of it. Full stop. There is no answer which makes that acceptable.

He does not pity her, but… he knows not if it’s the atmosphere influencing him or if he just hasn’t gone that far yet, but he cannot feel glad for this.

“It’s done, then,” Felix says, finally breaking the heady silence. His sharp eyes scan each of them in turn, but settle on, “Hilda, let’s go inform everyone.”

Hilda sags a little, relieved for an excuse to leave the ones with much more personal relationships with Edelgard than she has. “Right,” she says flatly. “We should find Seteth and your father first. They’ll need to know.”

Felix just nods then leads the way out the door.

Veery watches them, eyes drifting between their retreating backs and everyone still gathered around Edelgard’s body. He decides, after a moment of hesitation, to leave. He doesn’t need to be here. He’d rather not be here. Edelgard is dead; that’s enough for him. He can’t stand here and pretend to mourn her, even if it’s true that his heart isn’t full only of hate for her.

But as he turns away, his fur is caught. He halts, feeling the tug. It’s weak enough that he can still leave without a fight, but he glances back at Byleth, at her hand on his back, and turns back to her instead.

She wraps her arms around him, holding him tight.

Why? Why him? Of everyone she can go to for comfort, Veery would first guess Claude, or maybe Dorothea. Not him. So…

There’s only one thing he can provide for her that no one else can, but it’s something he never thought humans find the same comfort in as he does. Oh well. If she comes to him over the others, maybe there is something to it. Either way, she’s asking him for help, so he’ll do what he can for her.

He begins to purr.

Rumbling, rolling, it carries out like waves. And maybe there’s a little magic there, too, something Veery only distantly realizes, using his divine power once more without truly meaning to. Byleth shakes just a little, silent as the grave even as his fur dampens where her face presses into him.

For a moment, Claude comes to his side, leans against him, soaking in the purr and the presence, and then he straightens up again and moves away. Dorothea and Petra both spend some time at his side, crouching low with their heads on his shoulder. It’s long enough that he eventually lowers to the floor, laying down to allow them to hold his fur. At that point, even Lysithea comes close to pet him, though her eyes are far away.

Linhardt collapses on the ground next to him, laying back on Veery’s flank. “We’re done, right?” he asks no one, already looking half-asleep. “Let the others handle the clean-up.”

Claude lets out a startled laugh. “Yeah… yeah, we’re done for now. Everyone… you did good. I’m so proud of you all, and I can’t thank you enough for seeing this through with me. Go rest. You’ve earned it.”

Veery catches Hoarvug’s eye, gestures with his nose towards Edelgard. Petra does the same with her retainers. The three of them go to handle the emperor’s corpse – Acis and Vanora, at least, will know what to do with it. In the meantime, Veery slowly rises back to his feet, nosing those still attached to him up as well. More than a few hands stay in his fur as he guides them gently away from the throne room.

Petra leads them to a lavish sitting room close by, and it’s there that they rest. Veery settles down again, Linhardt is asleep over him practically before he’s even laying down. Dorothea curls close to his belly, draping over his shoulder. Petra sits at his back, upright and ready but leaning against him. Lysithea continues petting his neck. And Byleth… she takes Veery’s head onto her lap, doubles over onto him, and holds tight.

Through all this, Veery purrs.

After a while of just being, enshrouded in pride and family, Claude enters the room, too. He finds a place behind Dorothea, leans against Veery as well, and sighs.

“This wasn’t the conclusion I had hoped for,” Claude admits in a whisper.

“It was the only one she left us,” Dorothea answers.

Claude shuts his eyes. “Even though… I… Never mind. The important thing is that we won.”

“Claude…” Petra starts. “Edelgard and Dimitri are both dead now. You are all that is left to lead Fódlan.”

Claude is quiet for a long time. “That’s not true,” he says eventually. “There’s Seteth. There’s- there’s Teach.”

“Edelgard was wrong about so many things,” Petra says tenderly, “but she was right about you. You have other obligations… you have your own people. But you are still all that Fódlan has left. What will you do?”

“I…” Claude sighs again. “Honestly, my plan was to help set everything up, then leave Fódlan to Teach. But I… I can’t do that.”

“Claude.” Byleth raises her head, finally, to stare at him. “I will do it.”

“I know you would,” Claude says, eyes falling to the floor. “That’s why I can’t. Because you don’t want to. You’d do it for us, for me, but you’d hate it. I can’t do that to you. I don’t want you to suffer for my power.” He shakes his head. “I was being too selfish, taking advantage of your care for us like that. Petra’s right. I have a responsibility to Almyra, but… I also have a responsibility here. I just… I don’t know how I’m going to balance that. I don’t have a plan.”

“That’s okay,” Petra says.

Claude’s head rises sharply. “It is?”

“Of course. We’ll help you.”

“I… you will? Just like that?”

Lysithea rolls her eyes. “What do you take us for, Claude? We’ve stuck with you this long.”

Claude laughs, exasperated and disbelieving. “I… I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Truly.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Petra says. “And if ever you need Brigid’s aid, you have it. In the meantime, rest. You deserve it as much as the rest of us. Everything else will wait.”

“Right,” Claude sighs. “Tomorrow’s another day, but for now… it’s over.”

#write #fanfiction #fe fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe3h

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 82

The Chaos of War

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

“Enbarr…” Dorothea murmurs. Her gaze, fixated on the city ahead, is vacant.

There aren’t many Adrestians in the resistance army. The Bergliez defectors who followed Linhardt when he joined them after the javelins of light fell make up an easy majority, not counting those in the Knights of Seiros who may happen to hail from Adrestia. On top of that, Adrestia isn’t a small nation. It makes up about half of Fódlan, after all. So, even those Adrestians in the army are from all over the place.

Dorothea is from here. Despite everything, despite all the reasons they have to do it, despite all the reasons she has to turn her back on Adrestia entirely, they’re about to invade her home.

Veery watches Petra grab Dorothea’s shoulder. A firm touch. He steps up himself, too, to Dorothea’s other side, and presses against her.

“Pardon me.” Veery turns at Manuela’s voice, appropriately somber as someone else whose home they’re about to war in.

“Manuela,” Dorothea says. There’s an almost desperate note to her voice, like a child calling out for her mother.

“I know,” Manuela says. “Trust me, I know.” She shakes her head sadly. “But this might make you feel a little better; I just finished talking with Claude. I was making the case to him that the opera house would be a good location for a pop-up infirmary. I’ll be with you that far, then I’ll stay there to look after the wounded and protect the place.”

“You will be coming with us?” Petra asks.

“Under your command, of course.” Manuela nods. “Until we pass the opera house.”

Veery tilts his head. “Is the opera house actually a good location for that?”

Manuela looks to him, but Dorothea answers before she can. “It didn’t occur to me before,” she says, “but yes. It’s a visible enough location that even those unfamiliar with the city can find it, it’s centrally located so they shouldn’t have to go too far for treatment, and even though the actors come and go, the people behind the scenes have been there forever. I’ll bet Manuela and I know most of them, even after all this time.”

“It wasn’t actually that long ago that I left again,” Manuela says. “I’ll be surprised if there are many there that I don’t know. Most of them will be willing to help us. At least, if it’s me or Dorothea. They’re not soldiers, but if we set up an infirmary there, they’ll help where they can.”

“And they’ll have soldiers there to protect them,” Dorothea sighs loosely. “Thank you, Manuela.”

“Come now, dear. It’s not as if I’m not worried about them, too.”

They hug for just a moment, but Veery thinks they both look a little more relaxed after. “I’m glad you’re with us, professor,” Petra says. The gentle smile on her lips reminds Veery that Manuela was her professor, too. Not as a healer, but as the professor in charge of the Black Eagle house.

It’s strange to think that Manuela was in that position. Considering how things turned out, someone new here, like Hoarvug or Sadi, would probably assume that Hanneman led the Eagles.

Well, Dorothea and Petra are here, too. Even Linhardt. It’s not as if the Eagles are a consensus. And either way, it’s a bit late for reminiscing.

They have a city to burn.

Veery looks out at the rising buildings, tall and stark over the dingier common part of the city. He tastes the air, already scenting the smoke of flame carried on a sea breeze. It’s the latter that is his goal, at least at first. He and the others must push through the city, right through the Palace Square in the heart of the noble district, just a straight shot away from the gates of the castle itself.

Not that square, Dorothea and Manuela say, but Lycaon Plaza just a few blocks away, is where the opera house is located. Their path should take them through the Palace Square, then veer off to Lycaon Plaza, circling around the castle itself.

Understandably, Claude doesn’t want Dorothea and Petra to have to face Hubert, who is almost definitely at the castle gates. More than that, Petra wants to meet up with the Brigid navy, who have already been keeping Enbarr under siege for some time now, and who will close in to join the battle in earnest when they begin.

As part of the delegation who freed Brigid before, and also probably to keep her out of the way so no unfortunate encounters like the one with Ferdinand take place again, Dorothea comes, too. Veery for the first reason as well, if not so much the second.

(Veery suspects Claude also wants him to keep an eye on Dorothea and Petra. Dorothea especially. They are invading her home. But Claude doesn’t say as much explicitly.)

It’s not a complicated path, and Dorothea knows the streets of Enbarr by heart, so they should make good time. The only hiccup is right there in the Palace Square where the fighting will be thickest, but they’ll make it through.

Just as soon as the order is given. Veery shifts on his feet, unable to keep his gaze from darting over to Claude’s positioning for the signal.

So much waiting. They can end this today; they should get on with it.

---

Hoarvug brushes delightfully against Veery. They bask in each other. Luxuriating in their decadence. And, together, they rush to the slaughter.

And, anticlimactically, it is a battle like any other. The terror is there, driving Veery’s heart forward, bursting out of those who face him. As it should. Only fools feel no fear in the face of a predator. In the face of a god?

Credit where credit is due; they don’t back down. It’s a shame that means they have to die, but Veery has never lost sleep over the deaths of humans.

This is the end. No hesitation, no mercy.

It’s an eerie calmness which washes over Veery when he enters the battle. As embers kiss his cheeks, he makes not a sound. He jumps, he runs, he bites, and he claws, but aside from the pounding of his heart, he does not drum with the battle-roar. It is not worth it. Not now. Nor is it necessary.

Veery blazes through Enbarr. The enemy soldier at his feet smolders. Petra slices clean through another. Their slit throat erupts into frosted blood and they fall, clutching at their neck. Petra’s eyes betray nothing but cold determination. Stinging air pierces Veery’s nose as lightning flashes, cracking loudly, deafening them, and three more enemy soldiers fall in heaps.

It’s easy to kill. Too easy.

Manuela pushes insistently on his shoulder, ushering him along. Veery only stops because he smells enemies, but they turn out to be regular citizens. Pathetic humans crying, huddled together in a disgusting alley like winter is closing in on them.

Manuela’s gentle reminder to control himself tells him that it very well may be. The air is growing cold despite the scattered flames in the streets. That can only be his own influence.

Fine. Let them go. Their choice is to hide, which in these circumstances is probably the best choice they have.

Veery huffs and turns away, padding along behind Dorothea towards the Palace Square.

“Birds!” Petra gasps.

Veery looks up, sucking in a breath as well. Birds. Not exactly birds, but flying demonic beasts. But not like the hawks Veery sees once at Zanado, either. These are artificial beasts, like the others the Empire employs. Edelgard must have them left over. How many of those artificial Crest Stones does she still have?

Well, not too many, it seems, else she’d employ them here. As it stands, there are only a few birds in the sky. Concerning, yes, but not enough to stop anyone with experience fighting such things.

“Hurry,” Dorothea says, “we’ll ground them in the Palace Square. Veery, can you…?”

Is that a question? Veery huffs indignantly. Of course, he can. He jogs along with the others, breaking through into the large square, but spares no time to gawk at the scenery. Instead, his eyes remain fixated on the skies.

Those beasts swoop down into the streets occasionally, no doubt wreaking havok on the forces gathered there. Claude is up there, too, on that pretty white wyvern, with his chosen battalion of riders as well. One of the birds gives a great cry, a screeching, jarring wail, as it’s pelted with arrows. One last explosive burst from an arrow loosed by Failnaught, and it’s freefalling. Veery crouches low, holding his ground as the earth shakes from the impact. Part of the ornate gazebo is crushed, leaving the streaks of colored fabric from it fluttering uselessly in the agitated air.

Another of the flying demonic beasts swoops into the square, picking off a small cluster of soldiers. Veery growls.

“So, what’s the plan?” Manuela asks. “Are we stopping to deal with this, or should we go straight on to the opera house?”

“We cannot stop,” Petra says. “But we can assist. Veery, now.”

Veery roars. It’s mostly for Claude’s sake, and by extension the other fliers around who he orders to back off a little. Then, Veery sends Fimbulvetr into the sky.

This is no gentle stirring of winds. This is no gradual zephyr growing. No, when Veery calls, the ice answers. The skies above Enbarr burst into freezing gales and blinding snow. And Veery can feel all that remains inside. He concentrates on those forms of the demonic beasts and he loathes them, and the hail and thunder take care of the rest.

It’s only a moment, then Veery turns his attention back to the group of soldiers in his way on the ground, but it’s enough to hear more of those beastly cries and for more bodies to come crashing down on Enbarr. Veery does not kill them, not like Claude does with his Relic, but he grounds them for now. That’s enough, and he doesn’t want to strain his magic reserves so quickly, so it’ll have to do.

Without pause, without a second thought, Veery and the others cut through the Palace Square, continuing on to Lycaon Plaza.

Veery feels magic saturate the air. It crawls through his fur, making it stand on end, and Veery tackles Hoarvug aside when heat and flame bear down on them from above. Meteor? Veery expects the Meteors and Boltings he has to dodge in the Palace Square and, even, on their way through most of the city, but they should be heading away from the bulk of the fighting now. Not where someone as valuable as a siege mage should be stationed.

“Manuela,” a familiar voice cuts into Veery’s heart. “You’re as predictable as ever, I see. And Veery, too. Truly, what a shame.”

A shame. Veery slowly shakes his head. Yes, it is a shame. It’s a shame that someone so bright and learned as Hanneman should throw away his life here. He still has so much research to do.

“Hanneman.” Manuela’s voice is flat, carefully hiding her emotions as well as her stoic frown does. “Why are you here?”

Hanneman smiles like he’s Veery’s teacher again. Like Veery just made a breakthrough with his Reason magic. “Why, I am here because I knew you would come, of course. This is the end of this war, you know. It’s time we settled our affairs as well.”

Now, Manuela’s voice breaks, just a little. “By fighting to the death?” She sighs. “We never did get along, but I never thought you hated me this much.”

“Oh, heavens no, Manuela,” Hanneman says. “I don’t hate you. I will not survive this war. That outcome is already determined. You are at the cusp of victory, and I do not see any remaining moves for us to take.” He chuckles good-naturedly. “You have checkmate, I’m afraid.”

“Then why not surrender?”

Hanneman sighs, shaking his head. “You know I am a man of science, Manuela. I am not blind to our position as it stands. All the same, I cannot simply give up. I believe in what Edelgard is fighting for. I will fight to the end to achieve it. But, as a realist, I’d also like to choose where that end will be. I’ve chosen you.”

“For someone who likes his science so much, you sure don’t make a lot of sense, you know,” Manuela says.

“Let me ask you something, before we finish this,” Hanneman says. “I believe in Edelgard’s dream. A world without Crests, where talent, skill, and effort decide our merit, rather than some inherited power. Though through a different method, I have always strived for that dream.”

That’s why he studies Crests? To negate them? To take them away, or give them to everyone, so they don’t matter anymore?

“Tell me, Manuela,” Hanneman says. “What do you believe in?”

Manuela spares enough time to look down at her sword. “I know it sounds ridiculous coming from me,” she answers, “I am the former professor of the Black Eagle house, after all.” She is coming to kill some of her students, after all. “But I believe in my students. I believe in all the hard work that they, and those girls at Mittelfrank behind you, put in every day to make the next day better.”

She lifts her blade. Likewise, Petra and Dorothea sink into battle stances next to her. All of them stare down Hanneman, ready to strike. “And I believe in my responsibilities as a healer,” Manuela continues. “I will not, cannot, abide what you have chosen by siding with Edelgard.” She pauses, shaking her head. “I guess you’re right, as usual. You are going to die here. No matter your reasons… you’ve chosen war.”

Hanneman watches them carefully until Manuela is finished, then he ducks his head. “I see,” he says. “As always, I admire your spirit, Manuela.” He nods to himself, like he’s just confirmed something he’s long suspected. “But with that, I suppose there is nothing more to say.”

Manuela’s brow furrows, despite the firm line of her lips. “I suppose not.”

Petra steps forward. “Please accept my apologies, professor. We must cut through.”

“Think nothing of it, princess. As Manuela rightfully pointed out, I chose my side.”

Petra nods sharply. “Then the only remaining honor I can give you is an honest fight. I will give it my all.”

Hanneman smiles proudly. “I expect no less.”

“Watch me, professor,” Dorothea says as she steps forward as well. She speaks quietly, more for herself than Hanneman, but her eyes, dewy as they are, are fixated on him. “I’ll show you what I’ve learned.”

Veery himself offers nothing. He only pads forward, approaching with the others. Hanneman does have something left to say to him, however. “Truly,” Hanneman says, countenance filled with regret, “such a shame. If you and Linhardt had remained, why, the discoveries we could have made! Letting that opportunity to work with you and him pass me by is my greatest regret, I think.”

Is it? Veery tilts his head. Hanneman needn’t worry about that. He’s going to be dead soon enough, anyway. That work, that Crest research… Linhardt will carry it on without him. And Veery will gladly help, if asked.

Maybe it won’t be Hanneman who makes all those Crest discoveries, but he shouldn’t worry that those secrets will remain uncovered. That much, Veery thinks, he can offer his old professor.

That, and a quick death.

Veery doesn’t know who throws the first spell, but it shatters whatever fragile peace hangs over the plaza like glass. As the shards of all their love and nostalgia and respect for each other rain down upon them, they fight.

Before Veery and the others can close in, Hanneman conjures up a wall of searing flames. Veery hisses, wincing at the embers blowing into his face, and counters with Blizzard. An ordinary mage may not have the power to cut through something like this with a basic spell, but Veery is a god. This will not stand in his path.

His ice shoots straight through the flames, then bursts out, extinguishing them all in a wave of flash-frozen air.

Unperturbed, Hanneman throws a dense volley of magical arrows at them all, forcing them to scatter, diving to the side to avoid them.

“I’m outnumbered,” Hanneman says, “and fighting a losing battle. But in war, just one mistake can determine the outcome. Do not underestimate me just because I am an old man.”

As if. Hanneman is one of if not the most skilled Reason mage Veery knows of. Age has nothing to do with it, and Veery is far from underestimating him.

“To me!” Manuela shouts. With a glance, Veery can see her using a Ward spell on Petra, so he pushes Sadi and Hoarvug her way. Veery can resist magic well enough on his own, though he’ll take the help, as can Dorothea, but those two have have no skill with magic to speak of, and thus little resistance.

And against a warlock like Hanneman, they’ll need all the resistance they can get.

“Eyes on me, professor!” Dorothea shouts. She flips her levin sword around, wielding it in a reverse grip, and settles into a different stance. With a confident smile, she looks utterly at ease here on the battlefield.

Veery isn’t sure if she’s talking to Hanneman, who looks like he’s preparing something to deal with Manuela setting up those Wards, or Manuela, though. Something in the tone of her voice doesn’t make it clear.

Either way, Hanneman sends his next Fire spell her way. Instead of dodging, though, Dorothea slashes through it with an upswing of her sword. She twirls on the ball of her foot and spins into a Thoron.

When Hanneman dodges it, it’s all he can do to counterattack and avoid Dorothea’s follow-up Thunder spell. But Dorothea… she sets off this volley, a mage battle between her and Hanneman, and she knows it. She spins, she twirls, she moves like water. Some of her motions are a little unrefined, a little under rehearsed, but she moves like she’s dancing on stage in an opera.

As she spins, embers follow her movements. Dancing along her fingers, following the trail of her limbs. Watching, Veery is filled with something inexplicable. His heart swells. Like Flayn or Mercedes has just used Fortify, he feels as if a font of power has sprung up in front of him, washing over him, but it wells up in his own heart and drives him forward.

With a sly grin, Dorothea slices through another spell. Manuela joins in with a shout, sending Nosferatu at Hanneman, drawing his attention, but Dorothea yells, “Don’t you dare look away, professor! I’ll leave you breathless!”

All the embers kicked up by her dancing follow Dorothea’s outstretched hand, floating gently but insistently towards Hanneman. It’s only then that Veery realizes what she’s doing. He holds his breath, watching in awe as those little embers close in.

And then, they explode.

Compared to Brigid, to Celica’s, Dorothea’s Ragnarok spell is like a drop in a bucket. All the same, in the streets of Enbarr, it burns blinding and scorching. The pillar of flame is like a beacon, warning all in the city that they should flee. It singes Veery’s fur even across the plaza from it.

But when the light dies down and Veery squints through, Hanneman is still standing.

He doesn’t really expect that one attack, impressive as it is, to take down Hanneman, but Veery still sighs, ready to step in himself. Watching Dorothea fight like a dance fills him with energy. He wants to get it out. The best way to do that right now is to fight on.

Hang on. Dancing? Was that…?

No, there’s no time for that right now. They’re in the middle of a fight. He’ll ask Dorothea about it later.

(But he’s glad for her. He doesn’t help her much, really, but she’s been searching for the key to dancer magic since Caub’s vision. She’s worked so hard for this, so to see it happen… It’s more inspiring than the magic itself.)

The smoke clears. Hanneman, red with burn, gawks at Dorothea. “In all my years,” he mutters. “My, my, Dorothea. You truly are most impressive. If I were any slower at using magic to ward, you would have taken me out with that alone. Forgive me for saying this as your enemy, but as your teacher, I am so proud of how far you’ve come.”

Dorothea pants in place, grinning wide despite how her voice trembles. “Thank you, professor.”

“Thank you, Dorothea,” Manuela says as she approaches Veery and casts the last Ward spell. “You’ve bought me the time I needed to Ward everyone. Now how about we end this?”

Dorothea glances back, smiles, and bows. “My pleasure, Manuela. Let’s.”

Leading the charge, Manuela rushes headlong across the plaza. Dorothea, primarily a mage, stays at a distance, but Veery and Petra follow at Manuela’s tail to close in on their target.

Hanneman, still calm as ever, frowns at them. “As if I would make it that easy!”

Of course, he won’t. Hanneman’s strength is his magic. He’s a skilled archer as well, Veery remembers, but he has no bow on him today, and even that too is a ranged weapon. Hanneman doubtless has many clever and deadly tricks up his sleeve for opponents who do manage to close that gap and get in into a melee with him, but when those fighters are people like Petra? Like Veery? Hanneman’s greatest advantage here, and perhaps only chance of survival, is distance.

Getting close enough to rip his throat out is the most dangerous part of this battle by far.

With a casual wave of Hanneman’s hand, Veery’s side of the plaza frenzies. Shards of wind whip through the air in every direction, buffeting and slicing from above, below, and all sides, utterly unpredictably.

Veery hisses through it, carving deep gouges in the stone underfoot as he sinks his claws into them to avoid being thrown off his feet. It feels as if his fur will be pulled out for how the gales tear at him. Rubble patters beside him when the Excalibur spell shreds into the building there on the edge of the plaza.

The only thing that protects Veery from those winds is the Warding magic around him like a second coat of fur. Even with it, Excalibur cuts into him. Nothing serious, thankfully, but significant as surface wounds go. And damn painful. They sting so sharp.

That’s enough. Veery tries to look through the gale, to Silence Hanneman, but winces as the wind cuts at his eyes. Veery’s own resistance protects sensitive places like that in addition to the Ward, so thankfully it doesn’t actually go through, but it still forces him to shut them again and cuts off his aim.

He can’t even hear over the roaring of the wind. An attack which hurts, blinds, and isolates all at once. The question is, with all of them warded, can Hanneman keep it up long enough to break through that resistance?

(Veery can tear this spell apart with Fumbulvetr, he thinks. Replace Hanneman’s windstorm with his own. But he holds himself back because he doesn’t think he can do such a thing and not accidentally catch his allies up in it.)

Boom!

Something solid hurdles into him, throwing him clean off his feet and landing on him, knocking all his breath away. What the…? With it pressed against him – a warm, furry mass – even in this wind Veery can pick up the scent.

Sadi. And blood.

Veery blindly grabs her by the scruff of her neck and Rewarps. The alley they enter the plaza from should be far enough that Excalibur won’t reach. Doing the warp while blind isn’t a great idea, but he needs to assess the situation, and the damage.

The Albinean magic tears through him as always, and he opens his eyes. He sees Sadi’s cobalt fur, the red – he follows the red – and then his breath catches.

There’s a hole in her shoulder. Shit.

It looks fairly clean. That’s good. There’s some burning around it – magical, obviously. Sagittae? No, the arrows produced by that spell are too small. They don’t burn, either. This is too big for an arrow – it tears up her whole shoulder. All the musculature there will have to be practically rebuilt.

Fuck, fuck, fuck… That impact before Sadi flies into him… Agnea’s Arrow.

(If she weren’t Warded, Sadi would be dead.)

(Even with the Ward, if it were a more direct hit…)

Okay. Okay, Veery can handle this. He takes a deep breath and gets to work.

He’s set firmly into this work of blood and gore when he feels a great chill. The winds are wild already; though they’re out of the Excalibur spell now, it still riles up gales pushing outwards from it. But that wind is hot with fire and ash. Suddenly, all at once, it freezes.

Veery ensures he’s at a place in this operation where he can afford to and glances up to see what’s happened. Hanneman is skilled in all forms of magic, but ice was never his forte. Fire and wind, those are his strengths. Dorothea favors thunder and fire magic, and Manuela isn’t much of a Reason mage at all, but even when she does use it, it’s always fire or thunder. And Petra’s only skill with magic is Brigidan curses. Hoarvug doesn’t even have that. No one out there should be using advanced enough ice magic to summon this chill.

The question is answered quickly. With a mighty battle-cry, Petra slices the very air with her glowing sword. From the blade, frosted crystals form and fly in its wake.  And she cuts once more, and the blade glows brighter. White with just a hint of blue underneath, like snow atop a great glacier.

On her last swing, the light arcs out in a captivating crescent, and slices clean through Excalibur.

(Veery is too far, and too focused on Sadi’s wound, to give any thought to the curiosity of whether she cuts through the wind itself, or through the magic creating it. Having made the sword she uses to do so, Veery suspects the latter.)

But the clearing of the winds gives Veery a clear view of the battle, and Sadi is not the only one lain low by Hanneman’s onslaught.

As Veery gasps, Dorothea shouts, “Hoarvug!”

Veery’s fur itches. He stays his ground, healing Sadi through, but he crawls with need. That’s his partner. That’s the cat Veery promises to fight all battles with. Loath as he is to even consider leaving Sadi to tend to Hoarvug, it tears into his gut to just turn away and leave him to Dorothea. To a human.

To leave either of them to a human.

He is more distracted than he should be – than Sadi needs him to be – but he has to know. His attention is firmly on Hoarvug, some distance away, as Dorothea falls to her knees beside the great lump of golden fur. He’s aware enough that Petra and Manuela keep fighting, only enough to know if the battle will threaten him, really, but he has no idea what’s really happening there.

His chest is tight. He can’t breathe. But there’s a strange sensation. A comfort. A purr.

It’s enough to drag Veery’s eyes back to Sadi, to notice that her heart is wide open for him, to tentatively expose himself in return.

In Sadi’s heart is a single feeling. A single ideal. Just one. A mother’s pride. Pride in her children (and both Veery and Hoarvug are her children, no matter their own opinions). Pride of a duty fulfilled.

She protects him. Takes the worst of it, at least. She does for Hoarvug in the piercing winds of Excalibur, under fire from Agnea’s Arrow, what she has always regretted not being able to do for her first cub.

(What Caub does for Veery.)

The realization brings wetness to Veery’s eyes, but it also swells up his chest. Some measure of pride is there in him, too, yes, for someone he loves accomplishing what they want, but most of what he feels in the moment is pure indignation.

Veery will not allow Sadi to die for such a stupid reason. Not for anyone but herself.

(It is for her, her heart cries out. She’s a mother. It is a mother’s greatest joy to help her child thrive. No matter the cost to herself, her child is worth it. It’s worth it, her heart pleads. You’re worth it.)

Fueled almost equally by fear and spite, Veery redoubles his efforts and his focus. Sadi will not go the same way as Caub. He knows it’s her choice, but it’s his choice to save her. He can do this. He will.

Hoarvug will be okay. Veery doesn’t know the extent of his injuries (It must take a lot, to put him down.), but Dorothea is already seeing him and Sadi is confident that she’s succeeded, so he must be fine. He wraps that assurance around his shoulders like a blanket, like the gentlest purr, and lets it sit there. He does not have the time to spare any more thought to it.

No, his mind must be only torn muscles and seared arteries. It is pathways shorn open, cords snapped, and red. Red, red, red.

It’s always, only, red.

Veery chokes on his breath, his own whimpering cut off unsteadily as he shakes. Not this time. Not again. Veery gave up with Jeralt, but saved Claude, saved Petra, Leonie, Teach. He… he let go of Caub, but he’s not letting go of Sadi.

Not while there’s still time to keep trying.

He can do this. He must.

As red writhes under his hands, molding unnaturally, Veery switches gears. Fódlander healing… it’s too inefficient. He’ll burn out before he’s done here. He might – will – save Sadi, but he won’t be fit to keep healing and keep fighting in this final battle. That’s unacceptable. There are still things he needs to do. Things they all need to do.

The Albinean method. Veery hisses, can’t stop the tears, as he shreds his body for her. But the red moves faster. Too fast, really, but it’s hard to hold back when all he wants is for her to be okay. For the red to be gone.

Spluttering, sweating, aching, and chilled to his bones, he collapses, panting desperately. He’s done all he can. The possibility that she will still succumb is there. People, even agell, are remarkably fragile. It doesn’t take much to kill. But she’ll only die if it’s truly her choice to. So long as she fights, so long as she keeps moving forward, she’ll recover.

Veery isn’t concerned about that. Sadi has always been a fighter. In many ways, more than him. Even more than Hoarvug. She will not die until she’s forced back into the earth and snow. Even then, she may come crawling back out.

Back to the battle, at some point Petra is removed. From this distance, she looks unharmed, mostly, but one of the bravest (stupidest?) civilians Veery has ever seen is halfway out the door of the opera house, where Petra sits on the doorstep, tending to Petra’s sword arm while she holds her blade ready in her off hand.

A burn on her sword arm, perhaps? How bad? It’s impossible to tell from here.

Dorothea is still over Hoarvug, but with more attention to spare, Veery can see the rise and fall of his ribs. Steady, not weak. Something worth Dorothea’s attention, but likely not life-threatening.

And Manuela is dueling with Hanneman. They’re both flagging, that much is obvious. Chests heave, magic doesn’t have the bite it did before Veery stepped out of the fight, even the flash of Manuela’s blade is slower than before.

Something needs to be done.

Manuela charges, rash and bold, and like they’ve done this a million times before, Hanneman fractures the earth under her feet with fiery Bolganone. It’s enough to drive her back.

Veery can jump in himself, but… His heart leaps, drawing him back to Hoarvug. To his Hoarvug. Sadi will be okay. Her heart, still open to him, urges him on. He carefully steps around her to bound to his partner.

He nudges Dorothea aside, taking in the injury. It’s really not as bad as he fears.

“Mostly just dazed,” Dorothea confirms. “He hit his head pretty hard when he was thrown off his feet, but I’ve already taken care of that.”

His fur protects him from scraping on the brick, which just leaves the ugly, bloody burn on his side. It’s not nice, but it’s thankfully not huge, either, nor is it deep. Dorothea must have already repaired most of that, too.

Veery will finish up. Hoarvug will have to be careful, but he’ll be back in the fight. In the meantime, they still have the one who does this to deal with.

Veery butts Dorothea insistently with his head, pushing her to Manuela. She gets the hint, standing and taking up her sword once more.

As Veery gets to work on Hoarvug, Dorothea runs far enough away from him and begins her assault with Thoron.

Just like before, she draws Hanneman’s attention. Just like before, she moves like she’s dancing. Just like before, eagerness, power, something light and easy wells up in Veery. Hoarvug heals. Veery barely has to pay attention to it. It’s not faster or less taxing to heal, but it’s easier, like all the effort is washed away.

Hanneman tries to cut off another charge from Manuela, but this time when he sends Bolganone her way, she dances just as gracefully as Dorothea right around it. The Wards she sets up save her from even flinching at it, and she closes the distance.

Hanneman tries, of course he tries, to fight in that close range, but he’s outclassed by a trained melee fighter.

He survives for a time by relying on purely dodging, but when Dorothea starts targeting openings and it becomes clear that Manuela is faster than him, he pulls out a wind spell Veery has never seen before and manages to cut nastily into Manuela’s side like he’s stabbed her with a dagger. An offensive, a last hope.

At the same time his blade of wind cuts through Manuela’s skin, her blade of steel pierces his heart.

Hanneman falls, a crumpled, reddening heap on the ground. Manuela only clutches her side, bent over in pain. She still manages to find the strength to heft her sword and step closer to Hanneman’s dying body.

One more. Through the heart. She sends magic after it, too, just to make sure his death is as quick as possible.

Then, muttered so quietly no but Veery and maybe Hoarvug can possibly hear it, “I’ll miss you, old man.”

One sharp sniff. Manuela raises her head. Her eyes are clear, not a tear to be seen. “Who needs to be seen?”

“Sadi and Hoarvug were both injured,” Dorothea reports. “Veery is unharmed. He took Sadi out and dealt the first aid while I tended to Hoarvug. Petra got burned, too.”

Manuela looks over, sees Petra is the only one who’s gone without professional treatment thus far, and hurries to the doors of the opera house where she’s standing.

Veery noses Hoarvug, delighting in their sharing and how unaffected it is from Hoarvug’s injury. Hoarvug rises to his feet. He limps, at first, but walks it off.

Together, they carry Sadi to the opera house, to leave her with Manuela. Their twin glares and growls warn off the volunteers.

“Honestly,” Manuela sighs. “Go. She’s in good hands with me.”

Go, Sadi’s heart whispers. Create a world where mothers and children are not parted by war. She flicks her tail dismissively, as if to say that, weakened though she may be, even if she cannot rejoin the battle, she can still slaughter these humans if needs must.

Warmth fills him. Veery trusts in her, and purrs into her neck for only a moment before he leaves the opera house behind.

They still have some ways to go. First the docks, to rendezvous with the Brigidan navy. Then, as the resistance army batters down the front gates, they storm the castle from the coast.

He pads up to Petra’s side, quickly joined by Dorothea and Hoarvug. They’ve already stopped here too long. Time to go.

#write #fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe fanfiction #fe3h

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 81

The Accession of Power

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

Veery frowns to himself, sitting alone in the hot, humid greenhouse, sensing the magic still pouring off of him. Holding his breath, he carefully pushes his hand to the earth in an empty plot. He doesn’t want to use active magic for this, and admittedly part of him doesn’t want this to work at all, but… he focuses on life and growth and giving and the kind of vitality that Brigid has and leaves behind… something there.

It feels like Brigid. Gentler, more localized, but like those places of power where the gods’ remnants linger. Blessed land? Or perhaps cursed, depending on the god’s will. This little plot, Veery thinks, is blessed. From him.

He plants some seeds, despite the plot being newly harvested and, by all rights, needing new soil and fertilizer, and after another quick discussion with the greenhouse keeper, ensures that it will receive neither of those things.

It’s a slow test. Even if the plants grow quicker than normal, he shouldn’t have anything conclusive until well after the final battle in Enbarr, which is fast approaching. But he needs to know.

He returns from chatting with the greenhouse keeper to find the tiniest hints of fragile green sprouts already peeking up over the soil, and flees, shaking, out the door.

Veery grows up in the frozen mountainside, in a land where even the humans barely farm because nothing meaningful grows in the permafrost. He freely admits that he doesn’t know the first thing about agriculture. Even the idea of depleted soil and the necessity of fertilizer is something he only learns from the greenhouse keeper as he’s preparing this little experiment.

But even he knows that seeds shouldn’t sprout that quickly. He asks specifically about it – the seeds he plants (inexpertly, he should note) are supposed to take at least a week before they sprout. And that’s in optimal conditions that Veery deliberately doesn’t provide.

But the truth is there, growing faster than it has any excuse to. Veery sucks in cold, shaky breaths, hugging himself, lashing his tail, purring quietly as he stalks away from the evidence of his power.

This shouldn’t be happening. That shouldn’t have worked. The legend is that Sothis once restored life to Fódlan when it was barren and corrupted by another god’s power, and he’s experienced for himself divine blessings encouraging life and growth, but… he shouldn’t be able to do that.

His heart hammers loudly in his flattened ears.

It’s not the same thing, accepting the title of a god and the power of one. Veery knows he has more power than he should, but to actually call his own power on the level of the divine… that’s absurd.

Veery slams, hard, into something solid. At first he dimly registers it as a wall, but then arms wrap around him and the thunderous purring starts and a sharp, stubbly chin plants itself right between Veery’s ears.

Veery doesn’t even think about pushing back up into it and holding on tight.

He feels the openness, the invitation, and hesitates only a moment before opening his heart to Hoarvug.

It’s been… too long. They don’t share like this as much as they should. As much as they used to, after Veery accepts Hoarvug as his partner but before Caub dies.

Why does he stop? Hoarvug is so… bright. Despite everything, he’s so bright.

“Be not afraid, my Veery,” Hoarvug murmurs. “What is yours is beholden to you alone.”

What’s his… Right. It’s just another way of saying that what’s outside of his control is beyond him, and what’s in his control is his to exploit. Hoarvug is right. The title, the faithful, all of that is beyond Veery yet he already accepts it. The power itself… that’s Veery’s. In the end, it may kill him, but in the meantime, it’s his to use.

He can’t be afraid of his own power. He can’t be afraid of himself. How he’s used, where his power takes him… that’s his own choice, so there’s nothing to fear.

“I think…” Veery whispers back.“I actually am…”

“Of course, you are.” Hoarvug’s heart and tone carry such fondness that Veery cannot possibly sink into his doubts and fear. “So what?”

So what? That’s what Horvug has to say about Veery actually being a god? As if it doesn’t matter at all?

“Power, my Veery, is the right to impose yourself upon the world. It is not an obligation to. What matters is that you have the strength to walk your chosen path with pride. Can you still do that?”

Veery takes a moment, feeling Hoarvug’s resolve and certainty more than any of his own, but it’s still comforting. Can… who knows? “I will,” Veery asserts.

“Good. Now come cuddle a while. I have missed feeling you inside of me like this.”

Veery chuckles, sighing. “Of course, my Hoarvug.” Veery misses him, too. “Thank you.”

---

Veery stops outside the door, needing a bracing breath before he dares knock and let himself inside. “Seteth?” he says, standing in the threshold. “Can you spare a minute?”

Seteth glances up, smiles shortly, finishes scribbling something on the paper on his desk and sets down his pen to fold his hands together in front of him. “Of course, Veery. How can I help you?”

Veery fully enters the room and closes the door. There’s no real good way to ask this, and he suspects he already knows, anyway, but… it feels important, considering how Fódlan turned out. Jittery, he sits across from Seteth. “I’m…” he says, “getting stronger. I think.”

Seteth frowns, understanding the implications. “I see.”

“I might have, uh… experimented a little? In the greenhouse.”

Seteth sighs, closing his eyes. “What needs to be fixed?”

“Nothing! Nothing got broken and no one got hurt,” Veery stammers. “But… I shouldn’t be able to bless land. Right?”

“You…” Seteth furrows his brow. “How exactly do you mean?”

Veery tells him of his experiment, of the sprouts appearing far too quickly, of absurd growth in that blessed plot. Seteth doesn’t outwardly appear as discomfited by it as Veery was at first, but his scowl does deepen slightly. After a while, he sighs. “I suppose it’s not entirely unexpected. I wouldn’t have thought you’d so easily promote that kind of life, given Albinea isn’t a prosperous land… though I suppose you are a skilled healer… but that you have power like this is only natural. Still, that you’re accessing it now… I do not know if it means your power is growing, or if you are just becoming more accustomed to utilizing it.”

That’s a question Veery has, as well. He’s also not sure it matters, since technically Sothis’ power is in him for five years before he actually starts using it, and it’s only then, as far as he can tell, that it starts affecting him negatively.

Which does lead to the question of power accessible versus power accessed, and how they affect the Degradation, but for Veery’s sanity he’s going to think about that as little as possible.

“Me neither,” Veery admits. “I’m not sure it actually matters.”

Seteth hums, not committing to agreeing or disagreeing with him. “Well, thank you for informing me of this development. But you are not just here to give me an update, are you?”

“…No. No, I wanted to ask…” Veery holds his tail, nervously fiddling with it. “How, exactly, did you give Crests to humans? You had to have been a part of it, right? Ferdinand had your Crest.”

Seteth winces. “…Indeed he did. The Aegir family had possessed the position of Prime Minister just as long as the Hresvelgs have been Emperor. At the time that Rhea gifted Emperor Wilhelm her Crest, so too, did I gift the emperor’s closest advisor. It was… Rhea’s idea, but I admit I had grown fond of the family, if only through distance. I am ashamed of what Ferdinand’s father has done, but Ferdinand himself…” Seteth shakes his head. “Enemy though he may have been, he held fast to his duty. I respect him a great deal, and mourn that the world is lesser for his loss.”

“…I didn’t know that,” Veery sighs. “I guess it never occurred to me to question just how you knew the ones who bore your Crest.”

“It is in the past,” Seteth says. “But you asked about the process. You are not intending to…”

“No,” Veery answers. “Maybe? No, no. What would be the point?”

“A great deal, I imagine. It may surprise you to hear this, but I am not wholly against the idea. Another Crest on our side would be advantageous. And I did once do it myself. But the choice is yours. Who would you choose, if you were to take that path?”

Veery shrugs. He honestly has thought about it, but not as much as he should before actually doing something like that. “Petra or Leonie, probably. Maybe Dorothea.”

“Wise to choose those without Crests already.”

“I don’t know how that would work, and I wouldn’t want to make another Lysithea. Or another me.”

“Keep in mind, Petra has much greater political ramifications, if it’s her.”

Veery nods. He knows that much. He hasn’t fully thought it out and doesn’t think he can – he’d probably ask Claude and Petra herself if he were going to consider something like that – but he does know that she’s more complicated than someone like Leonie.

Of course, the point is moot since he has no intention of granting anyone his Crest. His interest in the topic lies more in the blessing of people than actually granting Crests. He wants… if he has this power, he wants to help the people he cares about. Veery hears chatter all the time from believers. People asking the goddess for protection, the Almyrans have their own gods they ask for favor from in battle, and even smaller things like using that growth-promoting blessing to assist in the infirmary. Perhaps even curses? He wonders how much is actually possible, but finds himself reluctant to try placing any power of that sort on an actual living person.

Now that he thinks about it, Brigidan curses may be a good point of reference.

Seteth nods to himself. “About the process itself, however, I’m afraid I can’t tell you the details. I am not keeping secrets; I just don’t know them. Rhea is the one who performed the procedure. All I know is that it required my blood. Knowing the experiments she got into later… I do wonder. At least the ones to whom we gifted our Crests believed them a blessing, so I do not think it could have been a terrible process.”

“I get it,” Veery says. “That’s fine. As I said, I’m not planning on giving my Crest out, anyway. I just want to know the limits of this power. What it can do, what to avoid… that kind of thing.”

“I understand entirely,” Seteth says, smiling gently. “I am proud of you. Many with such power would waste no time in utilizing it. You are taking a very mature approach.”

“Well, I did panic and cuddle with Hoarvug for a few hours, so I feel pretty okay with it now.”

Seteth sighs. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” Veery says. He looks around for his other reason for coming here. It’s here, propped up standing surprisingly irreverently in the corner. He points to the Spear of Assal. “Can I borrow that?”

Seteth’s brows raise. He turns to eye his spear, ever shimmering with that bluish pale blessing, and tilts his head thoughtfully. “That is an artifact from when I was at my strongest. Wielding it allows me to access a portion of that power which I have since sealed away or have yet to recover. As you know, Flayn has made her own, as well.”

“Caduceus, yes,” Veery answers. “She let me study it for a while when I was researching the Crest Stones’ corruption.”

Seteth clicks his tongue in a way that makes Veery think he probably shouldn’t have admitted that Flayn let him borrow the thing. “You may not have made the connection yet,” Seteth says, “but Rhea actually made a pair of artifacts like that, back when she was still known as Seiros. A sword and shield – her favored arms. The shield you’re familiar with; Professor Byleth now carries it into battle.”

That old shield they get from the Holy Tomb? That was forever ago. Well, isn’t Veery dumb for not making that connection sooner. It has Seiros’ Crest printed on it and everything. And the magical glow is the same, as well. “The sword?” Veery asks.

“Stolen,” Seteth answers. “During the five years this place was abandoned. I believe Edelgard currently has possession of it.”

“Wonderful.”

“Just marvelous,” Seteth says drily. “You don’t use such arms yourself, so perhaps there is little reason for you to consider making one. But if you do not trust a human with your Crest, granting them a boon like that would be a strong statement even still. And, no doubt, be very effective in the coming battle.”

“I don’t want to make statements,” Veery groans. “I just want to keep myself and my family alive.”

Seteth sighs softly and smiles. “I know. But you should understand before you take action that giving blessed weapons to a human will mark that human as your champion. If only in the eyes of the people. To whom would you give such a weapon to?”

Good question. Not using weapons himself, that means any blessed weaponry he makes is essentially just for his allies. He shrugs. “Felix? And the other options. Petra, Leonie, maybe Dorothea. Really, anyone without a Relic could use a better weapon, couldn’t they? It’s just a matter of whether I can or would make one. Or give it to a human.”

“Would you?”

“I’m thinking about it. I kind of want to try just for curiosity’s sake, and if I succeed, then it’d be a waste for no one to use it.”

Seteth hums thoughtfully. “You should know, then, that some such artifacts already exist, beyond the ones from us saints.”

“The Axe of… what was it called again? It’s Lorenz’ Crest, right? But he doesn’t use axes, so Alois has been using it.”

“Exactly so. The Axe of Ukonvasara. Ukko created it long before Nabatea was destroyed.” Veery mentally marks the name as possibly (probably?) the dragon that the Gloucester Crest comes from. “Unlike you cats, we Nabateans trained in arms, and did not war exclusively while shifted. Many of us were… ah… too large to accommodate indoor battle.”

Veery snorts. That’s as good a reason as any.

“Of the surviving Crests, I also know of a bow whose blessing is tied to Mercedes’ Crest, and two swords bearing Claude’s and Felix’ respectively. There is a second bow, but it’s tied to the Crest of Indech and, to my knowledge, is still in his possession. And a shield that I created myself, alongside this lance. That one was unfortunately gifted to House Aegir long ago. It was not recovered when Ferdinand fell, so I can only assume it is still in a treasury somewhere.”

Huh. “I never thought there was so many of them,” Veery says. “Where are the others?”

“The sword bearing Felix’ Crest is actually being used by Rodrigue at the moment. The one with the Crest of Riegan is held far from here by Macuil. The bow, however… I’m afraid I do not know. The Tathlum Bow was stolen long ago and has popped up here and there through the years, but we’ve never managed to recover it.”

“So, nothing we can use in the war, then.”

“Not that isn’t already being used, no. Not unless we want to pay a visit to Macuil or Indech and… frankly, doing so would probably be more trouble than it’s worth. Especially when we’re so close to the end.”

Seteth pauses just a moment before saying, “If I might be so bold, Petra is in possession of quite a beautiful blade. Brigidan masterwork. Fit for a princess at war. And the quality of the smithing is important to carry more powerful enchantments, of which a blessing like this is one.” Petra? She’s one of the options, sure, but she’s also the literal most complicated one for political reasons. Veery doesn’t pretend to understand those politics, but if Seteth is so explicitly saying that blessing Petra’s blade is a good idea… he’s not going to argue. Seteth smiles conspiratorially before offering a shrug. “Just a thought.”

---

Veery starts small. Anna helps him get a few miniature blocks of steel, each small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, which he spends most of the day playing with. He applies, reapplies, changes, and alters the blessings on each of them so often that, though he ends up reasonably exhausted, he feels much more confident about not only what his ability to “bless” objects is capable of, but also how to control the outcome.

He thinks he’s getting the hang of it. He shouldn’t have any more divine power going wild like in Rhea’s chambers, hopefully, since the root of that and these blessings is the same.

He also talks to Petra at length about Brigidan curses and how they work. She’s not intimately familiar with the details and so can’t help as much as someone like Ambrose might, but she can use a few and they spend some time in the afternoon snickering with each other as they use mild curses to play pranks on people around the monastery.

It’s all lighthearted and fun, but it does serve the purpose of letting him observe and figure out the curses on his own, and it’s no time at all before he’s mimicking the effect with lingering curses on his steel cards.

It’s only when he’s completely confident that he’s not going to accidentally make her sword explode or something that he brings up the idea of blessing her weapon.

Petra frowns, palming the pommel of her sword. “My understanding is that such power would only be accessible by one with the proper Crest,” she says.

Veery shakes his head. “While it’d certainly be stronger in my hands, it’s not like I’m going to make a Relic. This is just a blessing. An enchantment. Not actually using the power of my Crest Stone directly. It’s like Alois’ axe, or Seteth’s lance.”

“Oh, I see. In that case, it will only make the coming battle easier to have the blessing of the patchwork god.” She grins, good-natured and teasing in her use of his title. “Have you thought about what you’d be saying to the people of Fódlan by gifting me with such a blessing?”

Veery levels her with a flat look. “Petra, I’m Albinean. I’m not and never have been a Fódlander. What do I care about where you’re from?”

Petra laughs. “It’s not just that, you know. A Brigidan, fine. You’re foreign, too, so I doubt they expect you to overly favor Fódlan. But directly blessing the rulership of a foreign nation is a different thing entirely.”

“Saying what?” Veery asks. “How will they take it? As approval of you as the next queen of Brigid? Because you have it. My approval is meaningless, but I eagerly give it. You’ll be an excellent queen.”

Petra smiles gently and looks away. “Do you truly think so?”

“Definitely,” Veery says. “I don’t know much about leadership, so I don’t know exactly what’s necessary to be a queen, but… you care. You care and you want to be the best queen you can be for Brigid. That means that, whatever qualities and skills you need to be the best one there is, you’ll work to get them. You’ll be a great queen.”

“…I hope so,” she sighs. “Ever since I was taken prisoner by Adrestia, I have always felt as if I am not doing enough. Once, it was because I could not move freely, but now…”

“Now you’re fighting a war. You’re making allies and ensuring that Brigid survives with its freedom for a long time to come. How much more do you want to do?”

“Ah, heh.” Petra sharply shakes her head. “You are right. Thank you. I should be careful of such feelings, I think, and mindful of my true accomplishments. Too much feeling of lacking may lead to… inadvisable overcompensation.”

“You can say Edelgard; it’s okay.”

Petra barks with laughter, more out of shock than true humor. “Veery! That is not funny!”

Veery grins, unabashed. “Why are you smiling, then?”

Petra scowls weakly and smacks his arm gently when she can’t hold the expression. They chuckle quietly together, but the levity quickly drains away. The air changes along with Petra’s thoughts. “Edelgard…” she says, more to the wind than to him. “You know she will not be surrendering.”

“…I know,” Veery says. He does. “I know she won’t. Even though she must know that she’s lost. She admitted herself that she can’t do this without the Koterija, that’s why she allied with them in the first place. So… I can’t understand why she’d throw more lives away.”

Petra furrows her brow. “Edelgard is… a woman of great conviction. And of great lacking. We have made her helpless, now. She is cornered.”

Petra needs not elaborate. Cornered prey is more dangerous than one with an escape route. Desperation, conviction, and… lacking – that need to claim power, to assert her will where she never was able to before… that is a potent and dangerous combination.

“She’s not, though,” Veery murmurs. “She still has the choice to save Enbarr and the last of her men.”

“At the cost of her own life?” Petra asks without judgement. “If she did surrender, she would not be prisoner for long. You know this.”

Yes, he does. And in that way, he does understand a little. If it were him, he’d flee. He’d abandon Enbarr entirely, maybe ask the people to surrender peacefully, and run off to Dagda or Morfis or somewhere that isn’t here.

She knows she’s lost. If she can’t surrender, then she should run away. It’s better than dying, and sending all her soldiers to their deaths, too.

“Not to surrender,” he says, “to run.”

Petra smiles sadly. “When have you known Edelgard to run from anything?” She shakes her head. “As I said, she is a woman of great conviction. She is also someone who abhors failure and suffers from lacking. She needs to be strong. She does not know how to survive without strength.”

Maybe. “It’s not as hard as it sounds, you know,” Veery says. “You don’t need the kind of overwhelming strength it takes to fight a war like this just to survive. Edelgard is smart, and- and yes, she’s strong. She could do it. She’d be fine.”

“We know that,” Petra says gently. “But weakness to her is not simply a more difficult way to survive. To her, weakness is the cell the Koterija kept her in. It is complete and utter helplessness as everyone she loves dies around her and she herself is tortured regularly.”

Petra says it all calmly, but with a surety in her voice that draws Veery’s attention. “How do you know?”

Petra shakes her head. “I was treated well, all things considered. I even thought Edelgard was my friend. But I was still a prisoner. I was still helpless. I could still do nothing, for over five years, as Adrestia ruled over my people. I could do nothing for them, or for myself.” She sighs. “I do not understand the horrors that Edelgard and Lysithea have lived through, but I do understand helplessness and having what you care about taken from you. Edelgard and I… we are not that different.”

Not that different? Petra and Edelgard? Is she insane? Veery sees what she means about being trapped, but… they’re as different as night and day.

He’s struck suddenly by a flash of… clarity? Inspiration? Whatever it is, it compels him. He palms his steel tile, shoves it into his pocket, and firms himself. “Can I borrow your sword?” he asks.

Petra blinks. “Now? You mean to try now?”

Veery nods. He can do it. He will.

Petra frowns, unsure at the sudden turn in the conversation, but carefully removes her sword, scabbard and all, from her belt to hand over.

Veery finds human blades distasteful, to say the least. The metallic stench they carry bites at his nose and the crutch they represent is simply embarrassing. They’re stiff and unwieldy, awkward and odd. Veery can acknowledge their usefulness, but he still hates them. But, as blades go, this one is… pretty.

It’s a short sword, simple in principle, but shinier than most blades Veery sees. The detail in the handle is literally a work of art, showing complicated knotting patterns and what Veery suspects is a prayer to the spirits.

One doesn’t have to know about blades to know that this one is a step above the common swords the army is wielding. Considering it’s the weapon of a princess, and Petra no less, it is by necessity both needlessly dramatic, to show her station, but also deeply practical, capable of being taken onto the battlefield.

“You and Edelgard,” Veery says, carefully unsheathing the blade, “could not be more different.”

“Veery? I don’t understand…”

Veery takes a deep breath and shoves his magic into the blade in his hands. Ordinarily, it’d be impossible. Only specialized materials like the kind they use to make levin swords absorb magic in such a way, but Veery is a god who doesn’t care much for what’s possible or not.

“When Edelgard chose war,” he says measuredly, his attention still on saturating the sword with his magic, “what did you choose?”

Petra shuffles a little. “I…”

“When Edelgard chose submission to those who imprisoned her,” he says, spitting exactly what he thinks of her choice, “what did you choose?”

“Edelgard does not-”

“I don’t care what she thinks she’s doing,” Veery hisses. “Even if it was the easier option, wouldn’t siding with the Empire have been easier for you? They already had power over you and Brigid. You chose the more difficult option because you did not accept that.”

Petra shuts her mouth. Her head turns down to the earth.

Veery growls harshly at the sword. A tool for war, but it should be used for peace. A weapon to throw off shackles. But most importantly…

“When Edelgard sends her men to their deaths, when she murders her own friends, what do you think she does?” he asks, voice frigid as winter. “I saw you, once, a princess crying on the forest floor after a victory, because the cost was too great. Do you think Edelgard cries for her men? Even Caspar or Bernie?”

“…No,” Petra says quietly. “She said once… the little girl who cries is dead.”

“And what do you think that means?”

Petra worries her lip. “Edelgard meant to say that tears do not solve anything. She refuses to cry, but instead takes action. Tears are… weakness. Something done because you do not have the power to do anything else.”

“And?”

“And she’s wrong.” Finally, Petra’s voice takes a harder tone. Firm and sure. “Tears are… feeling. We cry when we’re angry, when we’re sad, even when we’re happy. Tears mean only that you feel so much you can no longer contain it. Crying for those we’ve lost… only means that we cared that much about them.”

Exactly. “When Edelgard cut out the part of her that feels so deeply,” Veery says. “You unashamedly showed that part of yourself to us all.”

“I… Veery, I don’t know…”

“Don’t ever compare yourself to Edelgard,” Veery says. “She cannot even see what she’s become. She lies and hides and uses all of that great power of hers to push a delusion onto herself.”

The sword begins to glow brightly, so much so that Petra shields her eyes from it. Veery just glares, determined to set it to rights. “Edelgard, in her mind, has separated the emperor from the girl. She’s sacrificed herself for her strength. While she did that, what did you do?”

“I… I am Petra, princess of Brigid. I feel, sometimes, that too much of myself is tied up in my homeland and my people, but… I also do not regret it. I hope that my heart makes me a better queen, when the day comes.”

“It will,” Veery says. “Because you’re honest. Because you know who you are. Because you care. That’s what makes you so different from her, and that’s why you’ll be a great queen.”

“…You truly believe this?”

Veery smiles gently, the light from the sword dies down. The strain on his magic dissipates, already beginning to refill, and when Veery looks down at the blade in his hand, an unmistakable blue sheen glitters within the metal. He meets Petra’s eyes. “I do,” he says, holding the sword out to her. “What do you believe in?”

Petra silently reaches out. She hisses and recoils when her fingers touch the leather of the grip, but she overcomes that shock quickly and takes a firm hold. “It’s cold…” she whispers, “like the ocean.” She takes a deep breath, feeling the sword. Veery can see gooseflesh crawl up her skin, but it dies down quickly. “I believe… the heart can give great power. I believe in truth and honesty and freedom. And I believe… in you.”

Veery blinks, taken aback by the last statement.

“You saved my life, once,” Petra says. “You helped to free myself, my grandfather, and Brigid. You are a dear friend, and a noble god. And I will make full use of this blessing.” She nods determinedly. “I will never lose heart. I will keep myself and Brigid alive and free. Thank you.”

“None of that,” Veery says. “You know how I feel about that kind of thing. Just take it and follow your heart with pride.”

“I will.” Petra ties the sword back to her belt. “Now, perhaps we should go see what this can do, yes? Will you come to the training grounds with me?”

“Of course.” He can’t lie, he really wants to see the sword in action. He wasn’t focusing on the blessing doing anything, really, just more broad strokes, which his magic responds to almost instinctually. Protection, power, clarity… that kind of thing.

Which is why it surprises even him when Petra takes a swing at a training dummy and the slash it creates flash-freezes.

He stares for a few moments, right alongside Petra, at the ice left behind, creeping along the dummy. They grin at each other. That is so cool.

---

“What do you mean you gave Petra a magic ice sword?”

Veery fidgets awkwardly. “I don’t really know how else to say it,” he says. “I was going to ask you, but Seteth said it was a good idea, and… I might have gotten carried away?”

Claude just starts laughing. “I can’t turn my back on you for five minutes without you getting into something, can I? Gods above.”

“…Should I not have?”

“What? No, the sword’s fine. It sounds cool, and it’ll definitely come in handy when we go to Enbarr. I’m just jealous that I don’t have one.”

Oh. Good. “Seteth said the dragon your Crest comes from made a sword once. I think he said Macuil has it at the moment?”

Claude opens his mouth, shuts it, then says. “…We’ll definitely be talking more about that later. For now, though… a magic ice sword? Really?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Claude is still grinning as he leans in close. “I want the details! What, exactly, did you do? Is it like the Relics?”

“Closer to the Spear of Assal,” Veery says. “Honestly, I was only trying to bless Petra’s sword to be like that. Mostly just to find out if I can. The ice… was unexpected, or I guess not so much in hindsight, but pretty cool.”

Claude giggles. “I love you so much, Veery. You always keep things interesting.” With a satisfied sigh and a shake of his head, Claude says, “I’ll talk with Petra and get a closer look at it later. Anyway, you have good timing; I wanted to run some things by you. Come here for a moment.”

Intrigued by the papers Claude’s referencing, Veery steps around Claude’s desk and perches on the arm of his chair, leaning over to rest his head atop Claude’s. The papers themselves are… some kind of reports. Maybe Veery can make sense of them if he takes the time but for now they’re just pages of dense scrawling. “What am I looking at?”

“This,” Claude says, idly reaching up to scratch near Veery’s ear, “is what’s coming out of Enbarr at the moment. Among other things.” He shifts a particular report with his last statement, one in Mercedes’ handwriting about the state of Emile.

Emile is technically one of Veery’s patients, so he spares a glance. Things are going… not well, but Mercedes swears there is progress. Veery thinks that between the trauma of losing two of his limbs, the use of his magic, and all the myriad problems he already had before that, Emile suddenly turning into a stable person – or even stable enough to be let back into society – is slim to none. So far, Veery is right. The treatment is young yet, though.

(Veery honestly thinks that any perceived progress on Emile’s part is due entirely to Mercedes spending so much time with him rather than the actual magical treatments, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Oh, and there’s another paper that says Rhea is doing well. Veery is a little more familiar with her progress than Emile’s, but he’s only a distant participant of both. Something is still nagging at him about Rhea, though, like there’s something everyone is overlooking. Something he should see but isn’t. But he doesn’t care enough or have any real reason to perform more extensive tests to investigate a gut feeling about something he can’t even identify.

Still, his stomach turns. So, he turns his attention to the Enbarr reports.

“As we all expected,” Claude says mutedly, “Edelgard refuses to surrender. Apparently, she’s locked down the city, with her citizens inside.”

“She’s not going to evacuate the people?”

“She hasn’t made any move to, yet, no.”

What? “What does she think is going to happen?” Veery curls his lip just thinking about it.

Claude sighs, equally disappointed as Veery, but if he ever was angry about it, that fury has died away. “She’s probably planning to use her citizens as a shield to protect the castle.”

“No, I get that,” Veery says, “but what does she think is actually going to happen? Because she’s not that stupid.”

Claude huffs. “Don’t ask me. What are you going to do if the citizenry gets in your way?”

Veery just looks incredulously at Claude. “Is that a serious question? Shouldn’t you be the one being asked that?”

Claude snorts. “Yeah, I guess so. I just…” He shakes his head.

“If they get in my way, they die,” Veery says simply. “Either they’re smart enough to realize Edelgard is just using their corpses as barricades and they’ll hide or run before that happens, or they’ll stand up and I’ll cut my way through them. It’s their choice to make. I’m not going to insult them by assuming they don’t know that they can’t fight a trained army. If they want to die, then so be it.”

Claude quietly stares at the reports. “…I wonder if that’s what you would have said before.”

Veery flinches like Claude just stuck a knife in his heart. It almost feels like it. He knows he’s getting worse. He knows he’s getting crueler. He knows he’s enjoying suffering when he shouldn’t. So, he stops to think. In the end, the only conclusion Veery can come to is, “More or less. I probably would have said it nicer, but I don’t think I’m wrong, am I? If the people choose to get in our way and fight, what choice do they leave us with? We’ll still let them go if they run or hide. We’re not going to raid and loot their homes. There are going to be deaths, but that’s Edelgard’s fault for not letting them evacuate. We can’t control that. What else can we do? Surrender the war because Edelgard is willing to sacrifice noncombatants?”

“…No. No, you’re right.” Claude leans back into Veery. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just… I promise, it wasn’t meant to be against you. Honestly, I… I wonder if that’s what I would have said before. Whether I would have agreed with it.”

Oh. That’s… different. Veery isn’t sure about that anymore, either.

After too much silence, Claude admits, “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about you at all when I said that. I was thinking about Caub.”

“Caub?” Veery echoes. “What do you mean?”

“Do you remember? He gave me a warning. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, since.”

A warning? Does he mean after Caub’s vision, when he warns about the price of power? “What did he say?” Veery asks. “Power always comes with a price… something?”

“He said that Edelgard is mistaken in her belief that she’s paid the price for her power. He said he saw the Arcadia that I’m going to help create and warned me not to make the same mistake.”

Right, that was it. Veery still isn’t sure what the big deal is, though.

Claude sighs. “I keep wondering who’s paying the price for the power I have. The power to change the world… that’s a high cost. How many people are going to have to pay that price for me?

“I’m tired, Veery. I’m so tired of war.” Tired of doing horrible things. Tired of justifying, of moralizing, of finding any way to convince himself and everyone else that what they’re doing is good and right when so many people are dying. When people keep dying on his orders. Veery doesn’t have any real command, but he understands that much, at least. He understands why he doesn’t want it.

Veery is tired, too. All of them are. After everything, how could they not be? Caub… is this the price? Maybe they aren’t the aggressors here, but how many people have they slaughtered? How many people suffered for and because of them?

…No. No, that’s not the price of power. That’s just the reality of war. To say power always comes with a price means only that power must be bought. It does not mean that price must be blood, nor that the blood must come from the one who gets the power. The power to survive does not come at such a blood cost. It comes merely with great effort. Veery sees no reason why greater power cannot come with greater effort.

And by the gods, they’re trying.

 “Everyone is,” Veery murmurs. “But this is it, right? We’re almost there.”

Claude presses a little more insistently against Veery, then abruptly pulls away. “Right,” he says, nearly glaring at the papers on his desk. “Almost there. So, let’s finish this.”

#write #fanfiction #fe fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe3h

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 80

A Necessary Discussion

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

It happens, as these things are wont to do, just as Veery settles down to nap. Seteth comes around the corner into the courtyard and calls to him, pulling him from where he lays splayed out on the grass.

Veery opens an eye to look at the one interrupting him, but Seteth is obstinately unapologetic. “Veery,” he says. “I thought I might find you here. Are you busy?”

“I was going to take a nap,” Veery says. “I guess I’m about to be doing something else, aren’t I?”

Seteth doesn’t even smile. Boring. “I’m afraid so,” he says instead. “While I understand that you may not personally care about her fate, now that the other outstanding issues have been resolved, I must ask you to lend your expertise to help Rhea recover.”

Oh. Right, Rhea is still down from being tortured by the Agarthans for five years and then taking a couple javelins of light to the ribs. In all the business of getting the refugees to Beyul and coming all the way back to Garreg Mach before their final invasion of Adrestia, Veery honestly forgets about Rhea.

“Please,” Seteth says with a similar desperation as when he asks for help with finding Flayn five years ago. “I know you do not care for her, but Rhea is… she is family, and I cannot bear to lose her.”

Veery sighs. “You don’t need to beg. I’ll go. Not sure there’s much I can do that Flayn can’t, though.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Seteth says. “Do not forget that you have ascended to godhood. The same level as the goddess herself. You are capable of more than you think.”

That’s probably true. It’s not like Veery thinks he’s capable of most of his “miraculous” feats before he does them, after all. He may know the theory, even know that he should be able to do it, but believing it? That’s another matter entirely.

It’s hard to reconcile the power he has with the scared little cat hermit he still thinks of himself as.

Veery doesn’t respond to Seteth, only dusts himself off and sets out towards Rhea’s room.

The way is clear. He doesn’t stop at the door. With only a small knock to announce his presence, he slips inside quietly without waiting to be called on. (He’s a little surprised that Catherine, standing guard at the door, allows it, but she actually sags a little when she sees him, as if him being there is a relief somehow.)

“Oh! Veery, you are here! Please, come in. I was hoping we could get your opinion soon,” Flayn says, quickly dragging him to Rhea’s bed side.

Rhea looks terrible. She’s ghostly pale, nearly translucent, so that the veins under her paper-thin skin are unmistakable. Sporting dark bags under her eyes, her long hair is neatly brushed, but still left wild against the stark clean bed underneath her. And, strangely, she’s in only a thin, flowy dressing gown, which is only weird because Veery has this image of her in his head that’s all proper and fancy.

He’s only really met her three or four times, and only really talked to her twice or so, so he freely admits he doesn’t know her personally at all. Still, seeing someone he’s accustomed to having so much power be so dressed down is odd.

Though, it probably shouldn’t be considering he regularly bathes and naps together with Claude. Even Byleth, sometimes. He’s in casual situations with people of great power all the time, it’s just… those are his friends. Rhea isn’t.

But she doesn’t have much power anymore, either, does she?

Both Flayn and Rhea remain quiet, allowing Veery to get straight to work examining Rhea. Though Veery still doesn’t like her, he’s happy to realize that Rhea is a remarkably good patient. Whether it’s because she’s a dragon or because she’s a healer herself, Veery can’t say, but it’s nice to have a patient to listens unquestionably and doesn’t get embarrassed about getting clothes out of the way.

Her injuries, though… these five years haven’t been kind to her. Between the malnutrition and wasting of her musculature, Veery is surprised she manages to shift at all back at Shambhala, and that’s not even starting on the still-inflamed, irritated and raw skin on her arms where ugly pricks betray what Veery imagines were needles to draw blood.

And then, of course, the wound on her side. Even Veery winces at the sight of it, and he’s no queasy novice at this.

“If you weren’t a dragon,” he says, “you’d be dead right now.”

It’s unsettling, seeing her like this. Veery has seen many great threats lain low by now, but even seeing Emile like this, the closest analogue Veery currently has to his feelings towards Rhea, doesn’t fill his stomach with foreboding like she does.

It’s just a feeling, one Veery can’t even identify the source of. It’s completely unquantifiable, but… something about this leaves Veery with something nagging at him. He wants to look deeper, examine more closely, but he’s just not sure what he’s looking for, or what baseline he should use to determine if something is wrong at all.

Still, he is confident about this. Were she not a dragon, Rhea would be dead. Dragons are sturdy creatures, so Rhea might recover, but dragons also have a natural biological process they go through to recover from great ordeals and injuries like this.

“Several times over, I imagine,” Rhea agrees drily.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Dragons should go into a healing sleep with injuries like this. The best way for a body to heal is through its own natural processes. Veery doesn’t know enough about dragons or their healing sleep to predict the consequences of not doing so, but he assumes it is involuntary, so he doesn’t think he needs to consider those kinds of consequences.

“That is what I said!” Flayn groans. “But the dragon’s healing sleep is not a quick process. There is no way to guess just how long she might sleep, and she refuses to do so while things in Fódlan are still unstable.”

“If I sleep, it could be a thousand years before I wake. You know this well,” Rhea says evenly. “I cannot disappear like that. I am still needed here.”

Is she serious? “No,” Veery says in the same voice he uses to order unruly patients around, “you’re not.”

“Excuse me?”

“You haven’t been needed in the last five years of war, and you won’t be needed when we end this,” Veery says. “If you just tell the people that you’re going into seclusion for your convalescence, no one will be bothered if you don’t come back.”

Rhea flinches back as if stricken. Flayn shouts out in indignation, “Veery!”

“What?” he asks. “No one but the church loyalists ever bother thinking about her, anymore. Between Shambhala and now, I literally forgot she was even here. She doesn’t matter. And that’s a good thing. Because it means you can let your body heal the way it’s supposed to.”

Flayn slouches into a deep sigh. “You must remember that most do not think the way you do,” she says gently. “I understand that you would prefer to do so, must most people take great offense at being told they do not matter.”

Oh. Right. Veery would rather mean nothing, but he does forget that saying someone else doesn’t so bluntly is kind of rude. Still, it’s Rhea. He’s not going to worry about the bruised feelings of someone who murders commonfolk unnecessarily. Veery rolls his eyes. “That might matter if I cared. I was asked to help make sure Rhea doesn’t die, not lie to her because the truth offends her. She’s irrelevant. She’s not necessary here. If she goes to sleep, Fódlan will be fine. Or at least no worse than if she stays awake. But if she insists on refusing to rest, we don’t know that she’ll recover.”

Flayn bites her lip, eyes darting to the floor as she looks for all the world like she wants to argue with him, but ultimately, she doesn’t. Because he’s right, and there’s nothing to argue with save perhaps his tone.

“Flayn,” Rhea says kindly, “would you please go fetch us some tea? I think it’s about time that Veery and I… talk.”

Veery can’t imagine what they might possibly have to talk about except for Rhea’s convalescence, but as he’s the one with power here he doesn’t see any reason to refuse. Aside from just not liking her, but he’s going to use the time to examine her more thoroughly anyway, so he’ll have to put up with her regardless.

Flayn looks between them uncertainly for a moment, then scurries out the door.

Rhea turns her gentle frown on him. “Veery… I must admit, when I gave you a place here at Garreg Mach all those years ago, I never imagined that fate would bring us here.”

“I don’t believe in fate,” Veery says, almost reflexively. He means it but doesn’t quite mean to say it. Still, when his own words catch up to him, he doubles down. “We brought ourselves here. One way or another.”

Rhea stares, her eyes cold, all the threat Veery knows her to be. Someone who does not care who she must trample, who must die, who must suffer, so long as she reaches her goal.

(Veery is getting closer and closer to being no better, and that thought makes him tremble fiercely.)

“Perhaps,” Rhea says, acquiescing. “Though, one of us rather more… actively.”

Veery’s eyes narrow to slits at her tone. The implication it carries. “I have little patience for passive-aggression. Say what you mean.”

Rhea huffs humorlessly and hisses through gritted teeth. “You’ve stolen everything from me. Everything I have dedicated my life to building… this land, the church… even mother.”

The pure, unadulterated hatred in her eyes is almost funny to Veery. It reminds him of five years ago, when he comes to Garreg Mach to the glares of the knights and Rhea’s kindly façade. (Or, perhaps, back then, she really does want to welcome one who is, on the surface, so similar to her, considering all he knows now.) Now he has the worship of the people and her loathing.

But he is not afraid of her anymore. Her loathing has no power over him. It’s actually almost nice to be reviled over revered again. It’s nostalgic.

“Your mother,” Veery says coldly, “is dead. The patchwork memories within her Crest Stone have denounced you. And you blame me for that?”

“It all started with you.”

“It all started with you,” Veery says. “With your obsessions and your mistakes. Even after what Sothis said to you and all this time to think on it, you still refuse to take any responsibility?” Veery shakes his head in disbelief. “You are even more like Edelgard than I thought.”

Rhea hisses. “You dare-”

“I told Edelgard to her face that she’s just like you. And she’s a lot more frightening than you are. Of course, I dare. Don’t forget, Seiros,” Veery growls, “who’s stronger here.”

Veery is glad that he needn’t threaten more than that yet finds himself deeply satisfied by the flash of fear in Rhea’s eyes, looking up at him over her like a trapped hare.

“I have not forgotten,” Rhea growls darkly.

Veery sighs, shaking his head, letting go suddenly of the tension and aggression despite his outraged heart. He wants to retaliate for what she thinks of him. He wants to punish her. And it is those thoughts that make him realize he needs to step back, and that he might be letting her anger push him a little far. “You truly believe that I planned all this from the start?” he mutters in disbelief.

He supposes he should be flattered, that she thinks him so capable as to be able to conjure and enact such a plan, despite the truth being so much less impressive.

“You said it yourself, didn’t you?” Rhea says. “We brought ourselves here.”

“We walk our paths,” Veery answers. “We do not control what we find upon those paths. For the longest time, I have been certain of only one thing, and that is that I will not ever truly understand humans. I can’t. The thought that I could manipulate people to such an extent…” He actually laughs, thinking about it. “You’re crazier than Dimitri.”

“Not from the start, perhaps,” Rhea admits. “I do believe that, in the beginning, you were simply looking for understanding. But do not think I do not know what your mentors get up to. Claude and his schemes, Hilda manipulating everyone to do her work for her, Sylvain lies with every breath, and Lorenz taught you how important people think. And that girl… Even Mother’s natural magnetism… you have the means to learn, and quickly, and I am ashamed I did not suspect such action on your part, since you have always been honest, at least, about your motivations.”

It takes Veery a moment to wrap his head around all that. To be fair, what she says about the others isn’t wrong. Claude schemes, Hilda manipulates, and Byleth does have… something about her that draws people in, but Veery is pretty sure that’s just that she’s nice. Generally, anyway. Or maybe it’s her sincerity. Veery’s friends seem to appreciate that about him, even when he’s not being particularly nice.

But Sylvain? Veery doesn’t know Sylvain to lie. Does she mean how he’s always fawning over girls but really hates them? Because Veery never thought he was actually hiding that. Veery may not be the best at picking up on the nuances, especially at the beginning, but he always just assumes, given how exaggerated he is about it, that he’s not actually serious.

At least, after the others tell him not to take Sylvain as a standard, anyway. Before that, for all he knew, all humans might approach romance that way.

If that’s what Rhea’s talking about, Veery doesn’t think he’d consider that lying. Not when he’s so obvious about his insincerity. And even if he were more subtle, Veery can’t believe it’s insidious. After all, it’s not like Sylvain ever gets money or sex out of the girls. He pays for dates almost exclusively, being noble and all, and to Veery’s knowledge he’s never actually bedded anyone, though Mercedes does insist that number is somewhere around two.

Sylvain has certainly never asked Veery for anything explicit. Only for his company. Then again, Veery is male, and Sylvain does treat men differently. Even the ones he flirts with.

Veery shakes his head. Rhea’s opinion of Sylvain probably isn’t worth the energy thinking about. So, he elects to ignore it and address the bigger issue. “My motivations?” Veery asks. “What motivations would a cat hermit have to… what? Pretend to accidentally stumble into divinity? That’s a bit complex of a plan, even for someone with any reason at all to want divinity in the first place.”

Rhea scoffs. “Don’t play the fool. We both know you’re wiser than that. It’s not about isolation. It’s about safety. You claimed so much power that people won’t touch you anymore.”

“And walked into a war, where the enemy explicitly believes there’s no place in the world for gods. Good plan.”

“…You mock me.”

“Well, you’re being an idiot, so, yes, I’m mocking you.”

The door opens suddenly, welcoming Flayn and her tray with cups and a teapot. She glances between Veery and Rhea for a moment, somehow managing to look both nervous and unimpressed as she takes in the scene. She sighs, and looks distinctly uncomfortable saying it, but says nonetheless, “Can I not turn my back on you two for five minutes? Must we be at each other’s throats? I should remind you that you are not each other’s enemies.”

“You don’t tell me who my enemies are,” Veery says petulantly. Flayn’s discomfort vanishes with her crossed arms and tapping foot. Unbidden, Veery’s ears flatten back against his head. “She’s still dangerous, besides.”

“Then perhaps you should not antagonize her.”

A fair point, objectively. But it’s still easier said than done.

Rhea sighs heavily. “You are right, as usual, dear Flayn. I… want so badly for a scapegoat, and I cannot convince myself you have no part in this all, Veery, but you are not my enemy, nor would I want to make one of you.”

This is the only thing thus far that truly throws Veery off. Rhea admitting she’s wrong? Rhea wanting peace?

…Maybe it’s not so surprising. Everyone wants peace when they’re the ones who stand to hurt the most from conflict. When Rhea had power, when she was untouchable, she could kill and torture without recourse. Now that she’s in a position where she can be the victim, suddenly, she aches for peace.

Veery wishes he can blame human nature for that, but the truth is that that selfishness and willingness to abuse to get ahead is a trait of the living, not just of humans. And Rhea is no human besides.

The worst part is that Veery doesn’t even have a problem with it in principle. Of course, those who are in danger wish to not be so. Of course, those with power use it. Even he, who never wishes for power, uses all that he knows he has and pushes that boundary further yet.

All of that is perfectly normal, and Veery will do no different. He will not murder people for disagreeing with him, or execute subdued prisoners, or even slaughter militia if he can help it, but he does exercise his power and that power does lead him to some influence over people. It even leads to a lot of death.

The problem, really, what rakes in his gut and throws his tail lashing, is the dishonesty. It’s the veneer of a kindly holy woman used to commit atrocity. It’s the duplicity, the lie of the untouchable archbishop in stark contrast to the scared little girl Seiros really is when everything else is stripped away from her. It’s not exactly that she acts different with power and without, because that makes sense, too; it’s that she can’t just be honest about her own nature.

Veery is a prideful creature. Most agell he knows are. All he hears of the dragons imply them to be as well. (Naga is distinctly special and remembered as such in part because she was humble.) While he may be willing and able to put his pride to the wayside if necessary, so long as he comes out the other end alive, that doesn’t change the fact that he is prideful.

He cannot fathom having the kind of power Rhea did and lying so thoroughly about his intentions with it. He has that power and possibly more now, and he has never once lied about his purpose with it. Help Claude win the war, figure out how to fix the Crest Stones, then disappear back into the Albinean mountains and, hopefully, irrelevancy to the wider world.

The thing about power is that those with power have the power necessary to show their true selves. That’s why, Veery thinks, sayings like “power corrupts” come about. Those with power want more, because they recognize that having power means being free.

Those in Abyss have little power and cannot even leave their underground home. The commonfolk in this very war have no power and must suffer through armies and bandits razing their land. Veery had no power and could not dare approach the humans openly.

But with power? That’s a different story. Dorothea is a good example of a commoner with power – first she improves her station with her talents in the opera, and she’s now a general making decisions in the war which will shape Fódlan’s future. Even Veery, with his power… what are the Albineans going to do to him if he just waltzes into the next village he sees? Nothing. Because they cannot do anything.

Well, they might die trying, but that’s not the point.

Power, is expression. That’s why it’s so coveted. That’s why, even though people do terrible things with and for it, it is not a bad thing in itself.

But Rhea… she used her power to hide. Even to a hermit, who desires so greatly to hide away, that is just ridiculous.

…Funny. Veery doesn’t fully realize until just now, but his feelings towards Rhea shift at some point. He never likes her, not even for a moment, considering he is introduced to her orders for the indiscriminate murder of militia before ever even hearing about her personally. If he ever has any fondness for her, the whole deal with trying to kill Byleth and replace her with the patchwork fragments of a dead goddess would have destroyed that quickly, anyway. What he did feel towards her was fear. And, in a way, a sort of respect – the kind borne from fear and the acknowledgement of something so powerful.

He doesn’t respect her anymore. He doesn’t fear her, either, though he’s not sure which one, fear or respect, vanishes first. Now, she disgusts him. It’s hard not to show on his face, as he takes tea, how much sitting down with someone like her offends him. The only reason he tries is because Flayn stays to keep an uncharacteristically severe eye on them, and her he does care about offending.

He doesn’t think about Rhea when he’s not forced to, and now that he’s in her presence, all he can offer her is disdain. She’s just… pathetic. No one who understands pride should be able to stand her. Once, she could have called herself a god and Fódlan might even have listened. But now…

She still hasn’t taken a single step. Her stagnation is her death. It’s just embarrassing.

“Every one of us has lost someone we care for,” Felix says to him once. “This is war.” Veery lashes out at him at the time, but Felix was and is right. Veery clutches idly at the amulet hanging from his neck. He remembers the ones he cares about. He remembers Ferdinand, Bernadetta, Caspar. He remembers Ingrid, Dedue, Dimitri… Caub. He does not accept death, only acknowledges it, but he accepts their choices. He accepts that they walk themselves down their own paths. And he moves on. He’s still fighting, still living.

Rhea, no matter the tragedy she’s witnessed, has fallen to a standstill for a thousand years.

She is everything he denounces. She is everything he strives to rid himself of.

How can he not hate her?

“Veery,” Rhea says gently, expression so much softer now that they are not alone. “In many ways, we are kin.”

It’s like she reads his thoughts and chooses exactly what to say to piss him off. “You are no family of mine,” Veery growls. “Family is more than blood, and our blood is so far removed I’d hardly call us that, anyway.”

“Veery…” Flayn sighs.

“What?” he asks. “Are Claude and Petra blood because they are both human? And we are even more removed than they. Just because there are fewer of us does not mean we are kin.”

He growls under his breath, stewing in the implication that he has anything to do with Rhea, until Flayn knocks him out of his brooding with a sharp gasp.

Veery blinks, looking to Flayn clutching her hand to her chest, and only then notes the shaky wisps of breath visible from all three of them.

When does it get so cold? And indoors, too?

“Veery!” Flayn shouts. She drops her hand, allowing Veery a glimpse of frost-encrusted, off-color fingers. She notices his gaze and, with a quick burst of magic, repairs most of it right then. “Control yourself! You are freezing the room!”

“I’m…?” There’s nothing else it can be, so it must be true. But he’s not…

“Your power is far greater than any mortal,” Rhea says, strangely calm considering even Veery’s dull panic of the moment. “Did you truly think it no different than ordinary magic, controlled the same way?”

Okay, yes, in hindsight it is pretty stupid to assume something like this won’t come up with his increasing power, but that doesn’t make this any better. He’s not using magic. So, why is the room still getting colder? Veery thinks it’s still getting colder.

“A certain level of this is to be expected,” Rhea says softly, sadly, turning her eyes down to the bed. “If… you truly are a god, your power will affect the world according to your will regardless of active casting. I… admit I did not…” She shakes her head, choking quietly on her words. “Even new to it, with your emotions uncontrolled… you shouldn’t… it’s started, hasn’t it? Already?”

Her eyes meet his, strangely pleading, and Veery does not need to ask what she means. “I’m not a dragon,” Veery says simply. “It makes sense that it’d start sooner.”

“I do not remember you to be prone to anger. I assumed it was the war that changed you, not…”

“The Degradation,” Veery says dully. “Yeah. It’s been in its early stages for months now. I’m… angry all the time, now. I never used to be angry. It’s getting worse.”

“I-”

“We can worry about this,” Flayn snaps, “after we are no longer in danger of frostbite!”

Ah. Right. It is still getting colder. Veery only hazily notices it at all, but Flayn is shivering violently now, and Rhea is also curling in on herself, hugging herself for warmth, clutching at her too-thin sheets.

It’s his power. The onus is on him, he guesses. But he doesn’t know how he’s doing this in the first place, so how is he supposed to shut it off?

Well, if it’s his magic, that’s the first place to examine. Veery takes a deep, frigid breath and closes his eyes, slipping easily into that half-meditation he learns so long ago when trying, initially, to first summon magic.

All mages’ first hurdle in their magical journey is that, learning to push out the magic within their bodies. Overcoming that challenge is perhaps the single greatest wall to becoming a skilled mage. Has Veery really grown so powerful that he must now learn to keep his magic in?

Stupidly, and obviously, the answer is yes.

He looks into himself, at the magic flowing through him, and it’s true that he’s not pushing out any magic. No, instead, magic is just… releasing from him. Rolling off of him at a steady stream. It’s more subtle than the usual flexing, but unmistakable in the air now that he’s looking for it.

Thankfully, he doesn’t think it’s dangerous to him. His own magical reserves are appearing relatively unchanged. Overfilled, if anything, like when Sothis’ magic burns through him, far more powerful than his body is able to handle, except this is his power and does not hurt him, which is probably contributing to the spillover. So, at least he isn’t just leaking power and in danger of uncontrollably running dry.

That doesn’t help the people around him who’ve been newly introduced to winter, though. Is it starting to snow? Inside? That can’t be good.

He hasn’t a clue why this is happening or how, though Rhea’s words make him suspect it’s tied to his emotions somehow. Responding to his will, even if not his conscious will. But why make it cold? Is it just the nature of his power?

He whimpers softly, realizing with too much certainty, as if it’s whispered into his ear unbidden, that his magic manifests itself so well and so often as cold without him meaning for it to (the storm in Brigid, more recently the thundersnow over Shambhala, most of his larger displays of magic are unintentionally wintry) because to him, the cold is home.

It’s not the nature of his magic to lean cold, it’s responding to his desires for safety by simulating his home.

Why does he know that? Why now? It’s a theory which makes sense, yes, but not one Veery thinks he’d just come up with without longer and deeper thought, and not one he should feel so certain about. Veery doesn’t do certainty. He maintains his path through doubt and his own painful brand of faith. This knowledge, so sudden and clear, feels… foreign.

“Veery!”

He’s just made it even colder, hasn’t he? Strange that he can’t feel it. It’s still just a pleasant chill to him. Like summer. When he goes back to Albinea, will he be able to weather the winter like this? That would be… interesting. Food will still be short, and the snow will make navigation difficult regardless, but if he doesn’t need to fear freezing to death, he does have many more options than normal.

Flayn and Rhea, though, do not have that cold immunity and Veery would really prefer they don’t die.

Well, Flayn, but she doesn’t make any move to leave despite the cold and Rhea’s death would… complicate things with Flayn and Seteth if no one else. Especially if he actively causes it. Or passively causes it.

He has a feeling that this room isn’t the only part of the monastery beginning to freeze over, anyway.

Okay, deep breaths. It’s cold because the magic coming from him is responding to his will, one way or another. So, all he needs to do is exert his will over it in a different way. Cutting off the magic is… beyond what he knows how to do right now, but he can alter the nature of the magic easily enough. It’s tied to his will after all.

Veery hesitates a moment, thinking of something adjacent enough to feasibly pull of quickly, since he doubts thinking of warmth will work very well, and yelps in shock when the door bursts open.

“Veery?” Sylvain’s voice cuts through. “It’s snowing! Are you okay?”

Veery looks over to Sylvain, already hovering by his side, and Catherine, who follows Sylvain inside. He spares enough thought to be shocked that Catherine doesn’t come in a lot sooner, before refocusing on fixing this freezing spill-over. “Shush,” he snaps. “Let me think.”

Obediently, neither Sylvain nor Catherine say a word. Catherine joins Flayn and Rhea in shivering, but Sylvain just watches him carefully, tense, ready to… do something if something needs to be done.

If that’s killing him, defending him, or something else entirely, and whether or not even Sylvain knows which it is, Veery has no idea, but he doesn’t have the time to spare it the thought at the moment.

The cold is about home. Familiarity. At its root, then, is safety. Which makes sense, for Veery. He does have an injured patient at the moment, so he thinks about Brigid and the magic there, how it demands life, almost forcing what lives there to thrive. That’s a god’s power, the remnants of it, according to Celica. And magic can heal, if used right, so… why not?

The heart of it is the same. Health and safety. And there’s no reason why magic shouldn’t be able to make a general “be better” area, though it shouldn’t be like active healing. So that’s what he focuses on. Life. Living and growing and encouraging it. And despite not feeling any difference, he soon gets that same feeling of certainty that he doesn’t understand and simply knows that he’s managed something.

So, he opens his eyes and looks up to the others, silently asking.

“Better,” Sylvain confirms. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine,” Veery says. “Like Rhea’s a threat to me like this, anyway. No, she just made me mad.”

Catherine curls her lip, but it’s more of disbelief than fury. “All that just because you got mad?”

“This kind of power is new to him,” Flayn says, “and new to us all. I’m a little surprised we haven’t had a similar incident before this.”

“Right,” Sylvain says, “I get that, but, seriously, Veery, you’re okay, right?” He finally touches Veery, who realizes that the reason for his uncharacteristic hesitance to do so before is likely the risk of touching him actually giving Sylvain frostbite, and looks him deep in the eyes.

“I’m fine, Sylvain. I barely even felt the cold.” But looking into Sylvain’s eyes, he knows with a sinking heart that that isn’t what Sylvain is asking over. Veery sighs. His eyes fall to the floor. “…No. I know what you mean, and no. I’m still… okay, I think. This right now really was just me letting my temper get the better of me. But… it’s getting worse.”

Rhea’s eyes widen. “You told Sylvain about it?”

Veery glares. “Of course, I did. I like Sylvain. I trust him. Two things I can’t say about you.” Sylvain’s grip on his shoulder tightens, drawing his eye to Sylvain’s reddening cheeks.

“How much worse?” Catherine asks.

“Catherine knows?” Rhea groans. “You can’t tell me you like her, too. You two can’t stand each other!”

Catherine shrugs. “We had a drink and talked it out. Or… didn’t, really, but we had a drink and that worked well enough.”

“We said what we needed to,” Veery confirms. It’s something he legitimately appreciates about Catherine. She does apologize, but it’s brief and more of an acknowledgement than anything else, and then she changes her behavior. That’s exactly what Veery means when he says he hates apologies. He’d much prefer if everyone who realizes they do something wrong just fix their behavior and move on, like Catherine does with him. “Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t come running in here sooner.”

Catherine snorts. “Look, I’ll never agree with you, but I’m past thinking you’re at all malicious. I know you wouldn’t hurt Lady Rhea on purpose, so I figured I’d be better off guarding the door.” Really? After finding out about the Degradation, she’s that willing to trust him? Catherine glares weakly at Sylvain. “For all that worked out.”

Sylvain glares back, with just as little heat behind it. “There’s no one who could make snow over the monastery at this time of year but Veery. You really thought we wouldn’t come check on him?”

“Him,” Catherine mutters, “and no mention at all of Lady Rhea.” She sighs, shaking her head. Are they really so bad that she’s resigned to this now?

“Speaking of,” Veery says, “you said that like the snow is outside, too? There’s no way Claude missed that. Where are the others?”

“Last I heard, Claude is in Abyss, so he’ll probably rush up here as soon as he comes out of his hole, or someone goes down to tell him what happened. The others…” he shrugs, “weren’t fast enough.”

Veery narrows his eyes.

Sylvain squirms. “And aren’t Faerghan. Look, it was cold, okay? And the closer we got to this room, the colder it was.”

“He means,” Catherine says, “he basically just shoved them aside to get to you, and the others know you’re close and let him go ahead so they wouldn’t have to deal with freezing to death.”

That’s… fair enough, honestly. And kind of cute. It’s flattering that Sylvain cares. Veery chuckles, seeing Sylvain’s still-red cheeks, and rocks up on his toes to kiss one. “Thanks. I’m glad you came.”

Sylvain’s eyes are warm, full of fondness. If he’s surprised at all, he does an admirable job of hiding it. “How could I ever do anything else?” he murmurs. Gently, he passes his trembling fingers through Veery’s hair and presses his lips to Veery’s forehead. “You’re okay,” Sylvain whispers, not loud enough for anyone but Veery to hear it. Veery isn’t even sure he’s supposed to hear. “We’ll figure out the rest.”

Veery… might have scared Sylvian more than he thinks. His chest hurts with the thought, so he grabs Sylvain’s hand hoping that something about the gesture is comforting to him.

Sylvain’s words, unintentionally heard or not, are a comfort to Veery. He’s okay. They’ll figure out the rest. All he needs to be in the moment it okay. They can work on anything more.

“Veery?” Catherine says, “You didn’t answer. How much worse?”

Sylvain’s grip on his hand tightens. Veery sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Not bad enough that you or the soldiers are in any danger, yet, but… I guess it’s like… there are lines being drawn, and they’re getting deeper.”

“And on either side of the line?”

Veery shakes his head. “Allies and enemies.”

Catherine hums. “It’s war. That doesn’t sound so concerning.”

“You don’t understand,” Sylvain says grimly. “For any of us, maybe it isn’t concerning, but Veery doesn’t do that. He’s never thought like that. For him, it was always more… acceptable risks and threats. Allies and enemies is…”

“Too fixed,” Rhea says. “Much too permanent. Remembering all that I know of you, Veery, lines like that always seemed ridiculous to you.”

“They still do,” Veery says. “Consciously, I know how stupid it is to put up borders like that. Especially since our goal is to tear them down. But I can’t control feeling so easily.”

Sylvain shifts to hold Veery closer, draping over him from behind like Hoarvug likes to do. Veery allows it, continuing as if he isn’t there, as he usually does. He thinks Sylvain needs the contact – needs to see that the contact is still allowed. That Veery is still in control and has not gone so far that he’s unwilling to accept a human so close to him. (That he has not rejected Sylvain the way that Dimitri always rebuffed attempts to help him. That Sylvain can still do something, even if he doesn’t know what, because Veery will still accept what he offers.)

(Veery means what he says to Sylvain, before. He does help. He brings levity, something soft and good and happy, through the degrading anger. He makes it feel a little more like those warm and halcyon days at the academy, when things were simpler and there was no reason to think things would come to war.)

“Veery, I…” Rhea stutters to a stop, then says simply, “I am sorry. You should never have had to fear this.”

Veery rolls his eyes. “What, not going to say it’s my own fault? The goddess’ punishment for claiming what shouldn’t belong to me?”

Rhea’s gaze slowly falls. “…No. Mother… The goddess would never inflict that on anyone. She was strict, but she would never be so cruel.”

She doesn’t admit that it’s not Veery’s own fault, he notes. To be fair, it sort of is. If he hadn’t claimed that power as his own and just left that spark dormant, he likely wouldn’t be facing this now. Not that he could have predicted this when he made the decision to chase that power, but not seeing the consequences of his actions doesn’t excuse him from facing them, nor absolve him of his part in bringing them about.

But Rhea at least takes enough pity on him to no longer be hostile. So that’s something. For all their sakes, Veery thinks he should do the same for her. He’ll never like her, but she’s beaten down enough, was just tortured for five years. She’s lost everything. He should at least try not to antagonize her.

He quietly checks to ensure that the slowly dissipating cold hasn’t hurt Rhea at all as the first step to that. Then, once he’s finished here… he’s going to slip away to be alone for a while. This whole thing has given him a lot to think about.

#write #fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe fanfiction #fe3h

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 79

Area 4: Beyul

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

In an effort to make the march to Beyul feel a bit less like a funeral procession (Veery is not convinced anyone has actually told the refugees that they’re going to be released into the hands of their fellow Agarthans, provided things go well) Veery decides to, for the first time, take initiative with the ridiculous reputation he has and do something with it.

So, he approaches the Agarthan refugees, hoping that talking calmly with them will set them at ease, but also that seeing the patchwork god (Holst has been spreading it, and the cult is starting to adopt it, too, with a lot of speculation on what “patchwork” really means.) reaching out will help the Fódlanders involved on the march relax a little.

It’s essentially the reason he comes to Fódlan to begin with. This tension between the two peoples will lead to war and death if nothing is done about it, and regardless of his actual capability to do anything about it, his are the only actions in his control and no one else is doing anything, so… he may as well do something.

After a few false starts, including some people who do believe he’s a new god but who unfortunately believe he’s a god determined to finally eradicate their people, Veery ends up spending a large part of the march chatting with a greying, heavyset man who claims to be nothing more than a cook. And who is positively offended that Veery has so few opinions on food beyond “edible is good”.

He’s very enthusiastic, and does most of the talking, and Veery frankly wants to walk away but the man does get into some details on how he acquires his ingredients which is interesting. Veery’s plan to ease some of the tension in the air seems to work as well, as despite the numerous eyes watching curiously, cautiously, or both, things do relax somewhat.

Veery is still happy to slip away when they finally approach the gates of Beyul.

Between Asura’s description, the history book, and a few of the refugees’ chiming in (and a few others attempting to shush them), they still only manage to find the narrow, hidden entrance tucked away on a relatively gentle mountain trail by Veery picking up on and following the sound of moving water.

Slipping through the opening in the wall, Veery finds himself gawking up at a massive statue of a great beast standing in front of a small cave opening and on top of a pool of water which seems to originate here and flows into the mountain. He gasps out, “A mammoth?”

“An elephant?” Claude wonders at the same time.

The two of them eye each other quizzically, then glance to the rest of their party who, by and large, look at the massive statue with none of the recognition that Veery and Claude have, only confusion and a healthy dose of fear.

“What in the world is an elephant?” Veery asks.

Claude shakes his head. “That,” he says, pointing at the statue. “They’re native to southern Almyra, though I heard they’re spreading in Dagda after the Dadgans took some home.”

“Oh.” Veery looks back at the statue.

“What in the world is a mammoth?”

“That,” Veery says, likewise pointing to the statue. On closer inspection, he frowns. “But mammoths are really hairy, so maybe that’s an elephant, then.” He assumes the hair is just difficult to carve into the stone. It’s not a particularly detailed mammoth. Elephant. Whatever.

“Oh. Why didn’t I learn about those when I was researching Albinea?”

“They’re pretty rare. Usually, you only find them deep in the snow wastes, where humans can’t get to even if they wanted to. I think Caub mentioned something about restricted trading? Same reason you don’t get agell fur down here; they don’t like to sell much more than the ivory to anyone outside Albinea.  Even that’s too useful to not use ourselves.”

The Agarthan cook still next to Veery eyes the elephant statue, then Veery, then asks, “Have you ever eaten mammoth?”

Veery curls his lip, turning his disbelief towards the man. “Do you really think I’m stupid enough to hunt one of those things on my own? They’re herd animals. And even if you can get one on its own, it would still take a whole pride to actually kill it.”

“Really?” Claude asks. “Not once?”

“I’ve stumbled across a body or two in the snow wastes, but you all apparently think raw, frozen meat doesn’t count as good food.”

The cook is definitely offended, though Claude nods sagely. “You’ve got a point.”

Veery still isn’t convinced they’re telling him the truth when they say they can’t eat raw meat. But even he can admit that cooked usually tastes better. Insomuch as taste matters at all when it’s food in their stomachs.

“If you all are done,” Lysithea huffs (with no small amount of fondness), “can we get going, now?”

“Ha! Right,” Claude says. “Sorry. I just didn’t expect to see an elephant here of all places. Let’s get going.”

Veery has just enough time to hear Dorothea murmur to an equally impressed Leonie, “Creatures like that exist?” before he’s following Claude and the stream under the elephant’s feet into the cave.

They walk deep into the mountain, but it doesn’t take too long. They go far enough that the humans start muttering about the dark and the mages begin conjuring lights, but not far enough that Veery has any complaints about his vision.

But it’s only there, nested in the cave, where they find large metal gates.

Unlike those of Shambhala, which were draconian and military, the gates of Beyul are ornamental to the point of ostentatious. Every inch of the metal face is carved or molded into a complicated mural that towers over them all, easily matching the size of the doors to Rhea’s hall in Garreg Mach.

(Oh. Veery realizes just now that the size of those doors is probably for dragons, not humans. That makes sense, now.)

Veery and the others gather there in front of the doors, either examining the mural or considering how best to open it, when mechanical buzzing rings out and the doors open entirely on their own.

Tension rises, they prepare for whatever is on the other side to attack, then an old, tremulous voice cuts through. “So, the fell star and the winter sun grace the exalted halls of Beyul,” it says. “We greet you both, and your allies, with tidings of peace.”

Veery knows that “fell star” refers to Sothis, and it’s no surprise that Beyul knows about her and Byleth (though there is some surprise at the obeisance paid to her), but it isn’t until Veery sees the old man in flowing robes looking directly at him that he realizes he’s picked up another epithet.

The winter sun. Veery snorts openly when he realizes that it’s him that refers to. That is the politest way of calling him a fake that he’s heard. The church loyalists who still deny his divinity usually just call him heretic, but to name him after something that isn’t there, or only barely appears, is actually quite funny.

Strange as it may be, Veery thoroughly approves. It’s passive-aggressive, meant to insult, but it’s clever and Veery doesn’t think of himself as a god, anyway, no matter how he’s accepted that others do. He almost wishes he’d come up with it himself and told Holst to use it before spreading around his patchwork title. Since the sun doesn’t disappear for winter down here in Fódlan, most of the cult probably wouldn’t even realize what it implies.

In fact, no one at all except for Sadi and Hoarvug, after Veery openly expresses his humor at the title, seem to have any idea why. And though Sadi and Hoarvug clearly don’t find it funny in itself, they both roll their eyes at Veery’s reaction.

After a moment, it clicks into place for Claude, too, but instead of finding humor in it, he scowls, tensing for conflict, and asks, “Winter sun?”

The lone old man who greets them bows. “The fire of winter,” he explains, “named partly for his feats of ice magic and signature flames, as well as the more symbolic warmth in the midst of the greatest cold for his healing prowess.”

Oh. Oh, that’s so much worse. And here Veery was giving them credit for being clever.

The old man eyes Veery’s disappointment and Claude’s subtle relaxing for a moment, then has his own realization. “Ah, you were thinking of the polar night? My apologies for any disrespect. We clearly have failed to consider where the young god hails from.” He turns to Veery and bows deeply. “We beg your forgiveness for our oversight.”

Veery just shrugs. “I thought it was funny,” he says, knowing he shouldn’t fully admit that he prefers if it were insulting.

The old man clearly takes this as forgiveness for the unintended slight and rises once more. “Generous indeed. I should introduce myself. My name is Cadros. I am the current high priest of the silent dragon Anankos and have been asked to receive you guests to Beyul.”

“Been asked by who?” Claude asks. “We admittedly have very little information on Beyul, and I’d like to know who I’m going to need to be dealing with.”

Cadros smiles indulgently. He turns and speaks only as they walk. “Beyul is ruled by a council of religious leaders. As high priest of the silent dragon, I am among that council, but I am not the sole leader of our city.”

“I see. And how would you like to begin?”

“I see that you’ve brought the rest of the survivors of Shambhala with you,” Cadros says, smiling to the refugees behind them. “I assume, since you’ve brought them to our very first meeting, you’re willing to part with them?”

“Ideally,” Claude says stoically. “Fódlan is still at war and Shambhala is too close to the border with Adrestia. And I know Edelgard is no friend of Agartha. We can certainly give them refuge ourselves if necessary, but as a temporary measure, Beyul is the safest place for them.”

Cadros nods slowly.

Claude continues. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about the state of Shambhala itself…”

“Little,” Cadros answers. “We’ve taken in a few survivors already, but they escaped during Thales’ attempt to collapse the city and do not know how much has survived.”

Oh, so Asura’s group does make it here. That’s good to know. Claude hums and says, “Most of the city’s infrastructure survived thanks to Veery and Marianne taking care of those javelins of light. Although, we don’t have the experience with your technology to examine much more than that. The center of the city, where Thales was holed up, is damaged from the cave-in, and we haven’t had time to determine if the rest of the cave is still sound, not to mention the exit path is also caved-in, so we evacuated the people that remained, pending investigation and clean-up to determine whether it’s safe for them to return to their homes.”

“All of which cannot be done until your war is over,” Cadros says sagely, stroking his beard. “You have already risked a great detour by focusing on Shambhala before Adrestia, and Shambhala lies close to the Adrestian border – if these people returned there to repair their home, there is a good chance that Emperor Edelgard will try to finish the job, even if you won’t.”

“We’d like to prevent that,” Claude says. “We, at least, realize that not all people are the same. Thales’ Koterija is our enemy, not Agartha as a whole, and certainly not Beyul, who we don’t have any evidence has taken part in any of Thales’ crimes.”

“Then you have proven yourself more reasonable than past generations. Of both our peoples.” Cadros frowns in thought for a moment, then says, “We will take the refugees off your hands. We also beg that, when the war is over, it will be safe for us to investigate what is left of Shambhala.”

“Naturally,” Claude says. “You understand we’ll have to provide an escort as you pass through Leicester.”

“I would expect no less,” Cadros says. “I hope that this meeting marks an era of openness and honesty between our peoples. That means we will both naturally need to respect each other’s boundaries and borders.”

They come upon another door which, when opened leads to a vast, light space. Veery blinks, trying to adjust his eyes to what he at first believes is daylight.

Abyss is dark by necessity. They don’t have the technology to make sustainable lights and torches are both dim and limited. If they want to keep having light at all, they need to ration their torches to match how quickly they can supply more from the surface.

Shambhala, however, has these strange, cold lights that can only be magic, or some magic-technology mix. Yet still the city is dim, like it’s permanently nighttime.

Beyul, however, is as bright as the midday sun. Massive blocks of light which hurt to look at almost as much as the sun hang suspended, dotted above the city. Deep shadows do find themselves to the distant cavern walls, but most of the whole open space is shockingly well lit.

Veery can see the same Agarthan script which lines the walls of Shambhala decorating the walls here, as well, but unlike the more draconian, military design of Shambhala, the walls of Beyul are alive with art.

Veery even hears Ignatz suck in an excited little gasp when he sees it.

Murals and decorations in all mediums appear as they walk through Beyul. Statues sit proudly in the middle of the streets, colorful banners like Veery has only ever seen in Derdriu hang across them from the buildings, paint and vibrant stone line the walls. The skill these artisans have is impressive, but Veery is just taken by the color. (Color like this is part of why Veery comes to Fódlan in the first place.)

He wants to explore.

Of course, despite the scents saturating Beyul, they don’t see a single soul as Cadros leads them into the streets. Clearly, they’re prepared. And cautious. As they should be. But that does mean Veery shouldn’t wander off.

They eventually enter a large building and are greeted inside by a large collection of people, most dressed in fancy, ornamented robes.

Just as he’s wondering who all these people are, one of the fancy ones and one with decidedly more plain robes separates themselves from the group to approach Professor Byleth and Veery together.

“Divine god,” the pain-clothed one says, bowing low, “exalted vessel, we greet you and welcome you to Beyul. I am Serin, priest of the winter sun.” Priest for Veery? Yikes. Veery meets cultists devoted to him all the time now, but someone calling themselves a priest… Gross. “I understand that you may wish to stay for the discussions to come, but if I might ask for a moment of your time before you depart, we would be honored to have our god visit our temple.”

The other man in fancier robes makes the same offer to Byleth.

Veery suppresses a weary sigh. When he says he wants to explore, this is not what he means.

“Go on, Kitty,” Hapi says. “Claudester and the rest of us will handle things here. You should go take a look around.”

Seriously? Granted, Veery has no interest in the details of whatever agreement they’re going to be negotiating for the next few hours, but he doesn’t consider visiting a temple dedicated to him to be an improvement.

“You too, Teach,” Lysithea says, with a look in her eye that gives Veery enough pause to think that there’s another reason they want someone outside the meeting room. “This is going to be mostly the boring part, anyway. You have time to visit the faithful.”

Surely, they can’t think that sending two high-profile targets to be alone with the Agarthans is a good idea. Veery might be on the side of giving an alliance with these people a chance, but trusting them like that? It’s laughable.

Do they think that they’re in danger, and they need someone outside to break them out if necessary? But the Agarthans approach them with the offer, so it would just be part of the Agarthan plot if so, so there’s no way that will work.

Or… are they on an information gathering job? That… does make sense. Byleth and Veery will have the chance to see more of the city and meet more of the people, which may yet be important for such a new relationship.

If that’s the case, Veery has very little room to refuse, does he? Still, he asks Serin, “You won’t be needed for the talks here?”

Serin shakes his head. “As we follow you, if you say that Mister Claude speaks with your authority, then he also speaks for us. My presence will be superfluous.”

Huh. Well, that’s stupid. Even Veery doesn’t so eagerly cast aside his voice in matters like these, always at least showing up to listen to war meetings. But if that’s his choice…

Veery is still unsure about it all, but he nonetheless agrees to follow Serin out of the building. Sadi and Hoarvug naturally stick to his side, as does, strangely, one of the random Knights of Seiros with their delegation, while several more knights accompany Byleth, who, along with her own priest, walk together with Veery for a while before eventually splitting at a corner.

It takes Veery an embarrassingly long time, until well after Professor Byleth’s group parts from them, to realize the knight tagging along with him is that Antony Garnel character who lost his marbles and decided to worship Veery after Veery healed him from a typical battlefield magic burn five years ago.

It’s not that long ago that he tells Veery his life story, or whatever, back on the road between Arianrhod and Daint Mach Monastery where Mercedes harbored Emile before they all returned to Garreg Mach, but Veery honestly doesn’t remember much more than that.

(He just really doesn’t care.)

Beyul, however, he does care about, if only because it’s a beautiful place. He’s sure that with more people milling about the streets he’ll have a different opinion, but the color and art all around him just makes him smile.

The temple that Serin leads him to is much less decorated, though that looks to be at least in part due to it being new. A few of the temples they pass are similarly bare of decoration but look much more worn. Here, however, everything is shiny and fresh.

It’s weird. Veery doesn’t like that newly constructed look at all. Then again, he doesn’t like human architecture as a whole, so that’s perhaps not surprising. He does find it within himself to question the difference, though, and turns to Serin. “Why is this building left so plain? I see murals on almost every wall here, but this one and some of those other temples are blank.”

“To decorate the walls of a temple,” Serin says, “the god the temple is dedicated to must approve.” Which, despite the fact that Veery is so far the only actually living god to voice an opinion on the matter, is fair enough reasoning. “As such, it is much more difficult for artists to gain the necessary permits to do so. Most temple murals are commissions requested by the high priests themselves – few others manage the honor.”

Veery hums.

“How do you feel about decorating your temple in such a way?”

Oh, boy. Veery sighs. “Beyul is a beautiful city,” he says. “I like the color. But I won’t tell you how to make your temple.”

Serin visibly hesitates. “…I see. In truth we, that is, all of us priests at this temple, were hoping that you might be willing to meet with the proper candidates and appoint an official high priest. As well as offer insight into how we can best please you that we are… regretfully unable to obtain due to our isolation.”

Veery curls his lip, blinking dumbly. That… is the worst thing he has ever heard.

It’s Antony who speaks up in Veery’s disgusted silence. “Might I ask, this being such a new religion, are you struggling to gain the respect of your peers? Is that why you need a high priest?”

Serin inclines his head slowly. “Yes and no,” he says. “We do not lack for the respect of the other religions. Merely following a living god in the first place elevates us and overcomes any bias for our inexperience. We are not lesser than the other religions. At least not to any below Beyul’s two favored ones. That said, as we cannot appoint a high priest, we do lack for power in certain affairs. Only our god’s appointment of one for us, or another proxy dictated by terms set by our god, can fulfill that position in our government.”

“Ah,” Antony says, “so simply by answering a few questions, the patchwork god can elevate your religion’s position within Beyul.”

“Just so.” Serin nods. “But do not mistake, we do not ask solely for the purpose of gaining influence. As faithful to our god, we wish to know how best to worship. That is more important, and if he so chooses to ignore those aspects which will empower us, we will still be satisfied with whatever guidance he is willing to give.”

Veery only just resists scoffing. Like he believes that for a second. So, it’s all a power play. Good on Antony for figuring that out so quickly.

“Divine god, if I may…?” Serin presses. “Would you be willing?”

Veery gives in and finally rolls his eyes. “It is the utmost foolishness to believe one can speak for another,” he says. “Feelings can only truly be understood by the one feeling them. To claim to speak for the dead, who have no feelings or thoughts to share, god or no, is even more ridiculous.”

Serin gawks, jaw agape, floundering for words.

Hoarvug snorts. “What you must understand about my Veery,” Hoarvug says, “is that he is not a leader because he chooses to guide. He is a leader because he has those who choose to follow him. We choose to follow him because he spoils us so.”

Sadi shakes her head, smirking. “Spoiling us, he means to say, in that Veery does not dictate. He has no interest in controlling the lives of others, especially if he is asked to. One of the many reasons we follow him is precisely that he refuses to impose upon our agency.”

“Yes,” Antony says, “we of the cult on the surface were similarly baffled for a time. Especially after coming from the Church of Seiros and its doctrine. But we learned quickly, and I hope we are correct in this assessment, that the patchwork god values freedom and agency beyond most things. He would never appoint one man to speak for him or guide others in his name because he would never purposefully steer the course of another’s fate. You will find no guidance in begging for it, only in watching and finding meaning in what you see. You must find your path for yourself; it will not be shown to you.”

Serin frowns, thinking deeply on what he’s told. After a long moment, he mutters, “Symposium.” Louder, more confident, he says, “No high priest, because as per our god’s beliefs, no official leader makes sense. So instead, a symposium of ideas. All priests will be encouraged to bring their thoughts to improve the temple and the city forward, and we can act upon well-reasoned and well-planned ideas. Our seat in the government can be taken by an elected representative of the symposium itself. If our god approves?”

“I have no need or desire to be worshipped,” Veery says. “I certainly won’t tell you how to do so. If you want to gather together, that is your business, not mine.”

“I believe that’s a yes,” Antony says, chuckling lightly. “Or rather, it’s approval to arrange your temple as you priests see fit. As I said, you must find your path for yourself. He does not tend to look favorably upon those who beg for guidance.”

“I… I see,” Serin says, unsure.

“Fret not, friend,” Antony says. “We also had the same fears. When I say he does not like those who beg for guidance, I mean merely that he will not tell you what to do. If you need help upon the path you’ve chosen for yourself, that is another matter entirely.”

“There is no shame in asking for help,” Sadi says slowly, with a meaningful look at Veery. “Even us prideful agell can sometimes find this to be true. However, if you mean to consign your fate to another’s whim… that is shameful.”

“There is no meaning to life as another’s tool,” Veery huffs, thinking of Catherine, of Dedue, of Ingrid and Dimitri. “Even the most despicable among us lose something in death – our lives – that’s why survival should always be our priority. But to sign away your agency to another’s will is… I can understand serving someone, especially under threat. There is little debasement my pride cannot handle if it means survival. But to submit yourself like that, to become more object than person… in doing so, you kill the person. If nothing left of you remains, no matter if the heart still beats, that is not survival.”

It is this very reason why Veery is so terrified of the Degradation. The affliction itself doesn’t kill the body, but it does kill the mind. And, to Veery’s best estimate, the mind is where the soul truly resides.

“We know and agree, my Veery,” Hoarvug purrs.

“I think,” Serin says, “I am beginning to gain some understanding. The prioritizing of survival and agency over all else does explain much of what we have heard.”

“Life and the freedom to enjoy it are the basest of needs,” Hoarvug says. “All else is built for ourselves upon that foundation. Where else ought our priorities lie?”

“You’ve a fair point. The question then is what ought we build upon that foundation?”

“Whatever your heart yearns for! My path is determined by my heart in the present moment. None save perhaps my Veery would know enough to even begin carving that path for me, even if they could.”

“What you do with your agency,” Veery says, “is what makes you, you. What you strive for is yours to determine and yours to reach. No one can choose that path for another.”

“And what,” Serin says, “may I ask, are you striving for?”

“Arcadia, for one,” Veery answers with a shrug. “I believe in Claude’s ideals, and want to see the Fódlan he’ll create. So, in essence, I want to end the war.”

“As do many,” Serin says. “And beyond that?”

“I hope to refine a method to cleanse the old Crest Stones of the Nabateans.”

“I have heard you succeeded in undoing Shambhala’s dirty work.”

“I have,” Veery says, “at a cost I’m not willing to continue paying. The method must be improved if I’m to cleanse any others.” A method that doesn’t include the patchwork memories within the Crest Stone deciding to gift Veery with their power. Veery has more than enough power already without adding more to it.

Then again, Veery still needs to do more research to determine if that gifting of power is necessary, as it was necessary for Sothis to gift him power in the Sealed Forest, or if that was just Badb’s decision which he might convince others not to make.

He has a sneaking suspicion it’s the former, considering how it all resolved. Even the initial plan was to use Badb’s power, just not to take it into himself in a way that it sticks.

Whatever the case, that’s all part of what Veery needs to refine about the process before he’s willing to consider trying that with any other Crest Stones.

“I see,” Serin says.

“There are other atrocities committed by Shambhala that need to be corrected, as well,” Veery says. “The specifics will likely be brought up in the peace talks but suffice it to say that it is not only the Nabateans who have been hurt, and I plan to keep thinking on how to remedy that.”

“Our symposium will be glad to assist in any way we can.”

“If that’s what you want to do, then bring it up next time you see the other leaders. I won’t tell you anything that the victims don’t want me to, so they’ll have all the information we’re willing to share on that.”

“I most certainly will,” Serin says. “It will be our honor if we can be of assistance to you and your friends.”

“I’d appreciate the assistance,” Veery admits. “Limited knowledge of Agarthan technology has been probably the biggest reason we haven’t already found a solution. If Beyul does agree to help, we might be able to resolve it much sooner than expected.”

“Even if the others do not, I and my fellows will,” Serin assures. “We have many brilliant minds here, even in such a new temple. We will find something.”

Yeah, somehow that’s not reassuring. Veery only says, “We’ll see.”

Veery sighs. He really does have a lot to do, doesn’t he? Perhaps he should stop being quite so lazy as he normally is if he ever wants to get back home.

The problem being… he’s not sure he can safely go home. He’s not sure he can safely stay in Fódlan, either, but his friends here and, to an extent, the temple here in Beyul, are likely his best chance to find some way to stave off the Degradation. If he disappears on his own for another five years, there’s no telling how far it will have progressed, and whether Veery will still even have the wherewithal to bother fighting it by then.

But it’s not like he doesn’t plan on coming back, right? It’ll be fine.

Still, he hopes the Agarthans here figure out Lysithea and Hapi’s problems. That’s one less thing Veery has to worry about his divine power being necessary for. It makes going back home more feasible.

Or… or perhaps there’s another option. Veery wants to go home. Bleak and cold as it is, Albinea resides still in his heart, and he misses it dearly when he’s away. All the same, there is still more he wishes to see. To run the plains of Almyra, Shamir recommends visiting Dagda, and Veery can’t deny it’s tempting to look. Veery recalls his visit to Brigid. It was dreadful in so many ways, especially the climate, but it was also wonderful in many more ways. A new land, with new culture… he still wears the shorts and, now that the weather here in Fódlan has gotten warmer, he wears them much as he does in Brigid, with little else but them.

Innovations like that, things Veery would never experience in his isolation… they’re worth seeing. Worth doing. And that captain, Daithi… Veery can’t explain exactly what’s changed – maybe the end is just more real to him now. As an agell, his lifespan means he never expects to see the end approaching like this. He knows well that he’ll die any way but old age when he goes, but that means that there’s no date hanging over him. A life well lived extends beyond his perception.

Not so much, anymore. Not with the Degradation. Perhaps he will be fine until his death day, or perhaps… It feels looming. Maybe that’s why. That’s why Lysithea is so frantic, so unwilling to relax and laze. Now is the first time Veery feels he at all understands her on that matter.

Maybe, when the war is over, after he visits home just for a little while, he’ll look for Daithi and take him up on that offer. It might be fun to sail the world for a while, to see all there is to see. Though, he should probably decide that before the final battle. Daithi will be there, after all, and that’s the best chance Veery has to meet him again if he intends to join the man’s crew, even temporarily.

Something to think more on.

Those seem to be adding up. At least they’re coming upon the end of the war itself.

“Veery,” Sadi murmurs gently, “we should relax while we can. Once we’re done here, we’ll be back to Adrestia.”

“And thus to Enbarr,” Antony says. He holds a hand to his head. “I still can’t believe we’re so close to the end.”

“How do humans make merry?” Hoarvug asks. “There is no reason our business cannot be pleasurable.”

“Ah, there’s an idea.” Serin smiles. “Of course, when we heard of your visit, we prepared celebrations. The attendance of a god is a rare thing, indeed. We were simply holding everything until we could ask what might be appropriate, given the political climate.”

Veery snorts. “Politics.”

“We take our pleasure where we make it, human,” Sadi says. “And we are but one step away from victory. It is you who is in question.”

“Many in Beyul mourn Shambhala, it’s true,” Serin admits, “but few do not understand that they were a severe threat not only to you, but to everyone. While opinions are mixed, there are those who will find cause for celebration even in Shambhala’s fall.”

Oh, great. A party. Just what Veery wanted to put up with today.

---

Predictably, when the celebrations begin, Veery is far from the center of things.

That is to say, he literally Rewarps himself away from the center of things, because he is not willing to put up with that today. It’s too many people, too close together, being too loud, and to make it all worse, they revere him.

That’s not to say that Veery doesn’t participate, though. He does wander a bit, taking in if not particularly enjoying the festive atmosphere and waving celebrants. Hilda finds him at one point and drags him to a few pop-up stalls just outside the temple district where they’re given some sort of food on skewers that Veery thinks is primarily mushroom.

There isn’t much meat around, though Veery supposes it must be hard to hunt while trapped underground. He is given fish, and apparently fish do populate the four streams coming from the four entrances to Beyul, but even then, it’s treated as a sort of delicacy.

(Though admittedly the reverence with which they all share this food with him makes it hard to tell what’s special for them and what’s not.)

Still, for a primarily plant-based diet, it’s not that bad. Veery learns long ago that he’s far more carnivore than humans tend to be, but this is surprisingly good for something he generally associates with raw berries and frozen roots dug out from the tundra.

The day actually ends up being quite nice, all things considered, when Claude finds him and Hilda and the three of them spend time at some of the games put on in the square. They even have an archery competition, which Claude obviously dominates at, but which he somehow convinces Veery to try.

Veery obviously and unashamedly cheats, since he knows he won’t win with or without doing so, and barely even draws the bow before just using wind magic to guide the arrow towards the target. Claude sticks his tongue out at Veery, who eagerly returns the gesture. “I’ve never used a bow in my life,” he says, smiling slyly. “What did you expect?”

“I expected you to be subtler,” Claude answers.

Veery just laughs at the mere thought.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

While they wander, Veery sees a familiar face. His eyes meet with Asura’s, but with nothing more than a subtle nod, they silently agree to not address each other and pass each other by as if they have never met before.

They eventually stumble across Professor Byleth, Lysithea, and Hapi as well, and spend the next while with them doing – and it’s equally exasperating and interesting that this is a party game here – logic puzzles of all things, complete with debates with other teams about their conclusions.

(Veery steers clear of the debating itself, but it’s overall surprisingly fun. Caub would have loved it.)

And then Dorothea finds them, intent on Veery, and all but latches onto his arm and drags him, the others following bemusedly, towards a theatre. Despite himself, Veery gets a little excited when he realizes where they are.

They catch the tail end of an amateur drama production, during which Dorothea informs him that’s it’s an open stage and all they need to do is sign up. With a lot of heckling, she informs Veery that she’s signed up the both of them and that they’re performing something she’s written herself about the patchwork god.

Veery only agrees because she’s so very excited. She used to perform often, but rarely does she perform her own work, so this is a unique opportunity for her and Veery just… apparently has a soft spot for her.

It does go well, though, despite him having little time to prepare. Mostly because Dorothea lets him ad lib most of his part, and only teaches him a few important points that have to be there, but also because this is hardly the first time Dorothea has dragged him off to an impromptu drama practice.

Performance. Veery is doing his level best to pretend it’s just another practice in her room with no one but the occasional visitor watching.

Out of breath and satisfied, the two share a hug once they’re off the stage, then along with the others, they share a beer as well – or the Beyul equivalent, anyway.

It turns out, in the end, to be a delightful day. One, Veery thinks, they all need.

#write #fanfiction #fe fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe3h

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 78

Lost History

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

Veery doesn’t get a chance to sit down and study the books Asura gives him until they get all the way back to Garreg Mach. Which works out well for him, since more and more he’s certain that he should at least ask Hapi if she wants to go with them when they investigate Beyul.

Normally, they might have set up base at the Great Bridge of Myrddin considering where they were and where their next step is (finally getting through Adrestia to Enbarr) but Claude elects to leave most of the army there but return with the leadership and his inner circle to Garreg Mach for the time being for several reasons.

First and foremost of which being that it’s easier to coordinate with Rodrigue and the Kingdom army from Garreg Mach than from Myrddin, not to mention coordinating with Brigid, and this last assault is an all-out with all their allies, so Claude needs to get all that squared away.

Also in consideration, which Claude admits to him quietly, is that he really wants to wait to invade Adrestia until Veery’s full report is ready and investigated, rather than the summary he gives at the mission debrief earlier. Because if Beyul is a trap and the Agarthans there are hostile, then they may be accidentally giving Edelgard an advantage by assuming her nefarious allies have been removed from play when they really aren’t.

The last reason for the delay of the assault, though it’s not stopping them from starting the siege, is that certain voices within the Resistance have decided that, now that Edelgard’s worst allies, the people she herself admits to needing to accomplish her goals, have been ostensibly defeated she should be given the opportunity to surrender.

Veery is not one of those voices, but he hardly begrudges them. They have a point, and if it saves them the trouble and bloodshed at Enbarr, it’ll be worthwhile.

He’s not optimistic, though. In his opinion, they can cut off all her limbs and she’ll still try to bite them. Edelgard won’t surrender no matter what they do.

But all this means that Veery is back at Garreg Mach when he finally sits down and studies the books, which is both more fun and informative than he expects.

It’s easy to forget about because it’s so rarely ever relevant, but Veery loves language. He also loves stories. A job just sitting down and translating a history book is practically a dream come true for him. It has all the fun of translating and comparing languages, interesting revelations about the past, and best of all? This is considered a priority, so no one dares bother him while he’s working.

All things considered, it’s bliss.

Agarthan is an interesting language, too. Grammatically, it’s almost identical to Church Common, which shouldn’t be surprising considering they’re likely derived from the same root (And, in fact, once Veery figures out the different script, translation is almost too easy because they are very obviously related – which does lead to some questions about the Agarthans looking down on Common for being primitive, but Veery chalks that up to him just never being able to understand humans in general.) but lends credence to Veery’s standing theory that old Nabatean, which is almost just as obviously derived from Ancient (or, both languages derive from the same historic one), and Church Common, which for some reason has an entirely different structure to it, are completely unrelated languages.

Which calls into question all sorts of things when tracking the history of Fódlan. Veery thinks it’s safe to assume that, since Sothis was the effective start of life in the land, her Nabateans got their language from her, and she says she comes from Nabata, where Arcadia lies. Veery doesn’t know anything about that, but the fact that a completely independent language evolved in the humans of the land is fascinating.

It’s only after Veery spends hours staring at the translation book that he realizes Agarthan script looks a lot like the script on that memorial wall in Zanado, which is a connection that takes so long to make not just because the last time he so much as thinks about it must be five years ago, but also because for one, it’s also vaguely reminiscent of agell script (though further investigation with actually having some understanding of both now shows that its merely an aesthetic similarity in the script itself, and the languages are not in any way close) but also that Zanado is the absolute last place he expects to stumble across Agarthan writings. But Sothis has already confirmed Veery’s assumption that that wall predates Zanado, which means that that script is more ancient than the Nabateans!

Which means there’s a very real possibility that the language that both Agarthan and Church Common are derived from is, in fact, the language of the people who lived in Fódlan before the mass extinction. Which is extra exciting because it means someone, somewhere, and somehow, survived to spread that language around again after Sothis restored life to the land.

Though, admittedly, the language might also come from a (relatively) nearby surviving land like Albinea. But there aren’t any obvious suspects if that’s the case. Neither Brigidan nor Albinean are remotely similar to Common, so it’s nearly impossible for them to be the root Veery’s looking for. Almyran is its own beast entirely. But Veery admittedly knows very little about Morfian. (Nor, indeed, whether Morfis survives the extinction in the first place.) Annette, Mercedes, and Lorenz are passingly familiar with it on account of it apparently being common in the Fhirdiad School of Sorcery (or more precisely, Morfian mages are common there, and lauded as particularly skilled) but Veery never encounters it even in his short visit to the place.

Dagdan, perhaps? Veery should learn some basic Dagdan, if only to slake his curiosity. Maybe he’ll ask Shamir about it.

He does go out of his way to find those old rubbings from the wall in Zanado, which are somehow still in his old room from the academy days five years ago. He’s baffled they’re still there mostly just because he hardly ever used the room even back then and now with so much of the town still in ruins and so many visitors from the several armies represented in the Resistance force, he figures someone will have appropriated the place if not been given it outright.

Either way, they’re still there and comparing them to the Agarthan translation guide does give him names. Specifically, and it stands out as odd enough to take note of, the block of names isolated from the rest of the wall which Veery notes in his journal is headed with the title, “The Shepherds of Ylisse.” Why shepherds of all groups would be in a prominent place of note is beyond him, but there aren’t too many names there if Ylisse is what they called the whole country. Maybe it’s a special group of shepherds?

(Veery does get somewhat paranoid over finding one of the Shepherds’ names to be Cordelia, but nothing else comes up to imply that its similarity to Ordelia is anything but coincidence.)

Things to consider, but regrettably not relevant to his mission, so they’ll have to wait to be looked into on his own time. Claude will get a kick out of his theories, though, if Veery finds a reasonable time to share them.

---

It feels like no time at all, but Veery is informed by Lysithea, who seems equal parts irritated and amused, that Veery in fact takes several days to translate the history book and make notes on everything relevant.

In Veery’s defense, he’s learning a whole new language, so he thinks a few days is quite reasonable. And he comes out of the experience with what he feels is a passable understanding of Agarthan, which considering the timeline he thinks is actually impressive.

He still doesn’t know how long it takes him to learn Albinean and Common, but he knows it’s at least several years because he distinctly remembers having to accommodate for not being able to wander down to the human villages to eavesdrop due to the weather. It’s a big part of why he bothered learning to read, too, and why he stole pages from books to achieve that.

Regardless, while he won’t be having conversations in the language any time soon, he’s memorized the script and the actual spoken language is close enough to Common that together he feels he can at least understand if someone speaks it. Slowly, at least. And nothing too complicated. And slang is obviously right out.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that he finishes that work and is proud of it. Unfortunately, that also means he’s now obligated to give his report, which is the much less fun part of it all.

He only calls the most important people – Claude, Byleth, Lysithea, Linhardt, Manuela for her experience as a physician monitoring Lysithea’s and Hapi’s conditions, Hapi herself, Seteth, and Catherine reluctantly, but he feels he has little choice considering the circumstances (he remembers her comment before about not being informed of things, and though he knows they’re going to butt heads at this meeting, he can’t bring himself to purposefully exclude her when this is so relevant to Rhea, who is only not attending for her convalescence). But even then, he just doesn’t want to deal with it all.

Mostly because he knows this will end in a fight. He knows how some people will fall, and isn’t quite sure about others, but he’s certain that he’s going to end up in the middle of an argument.

Technically, he’s supposed to open the meeting, but the reluctance holds fast, and it ends up being Hapi who draws everyone in with the question, “Hey, Kitty, why am I here?”

Claude answers for him. “We’re here to discuss our immediate next step in the war. Veery’s information will guide us on that.”

Hapi fixes Claude with an expression that’s vaguely offended. “I’m not part of this. The war is a surface problem. Abyss has its own. And if you want us involved, you should be talking to Yuri-bird.”

“That’s not it,” Veery says. “You’re here because of an opportunity, and your opinion will likely play a part in how we proceed.”

“An opportunity?” Hapi scowls. “Just get to the point.”

“Remember when I said I’d look into your Crest issues? The sighing thing?”

Hapi raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“Well, I haven’t found anything as such, but I might have found people that can help.”

Hapi casts a baleful look at Seteth and Catherine, “I haven’t had great luck with people that might be able to help.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Catherine snaps.

Wow. Great. This is going even better than Veery expects. They’re already getting aggressive, and he hasn’t even brought up Beyul yet.

“That’s why you’re here,” Veery says quickly, trying to head off any friction between Hapi and the church. “So you can hear what we know about them and decide for yourself.”

Hapi eases, thankfully, and even offers him a somewhat sheepish smile. “Huh. I appreciate that. Thanks, Kitty.”

“Perhaps,” Seteth says, “we should listen to Veery’s report in its entirety before opening to comments. I am beginning to get the impression that this will be… contentious.”

Lysithea snorts. “Contentious,” she repeats. “Knowing only the briefest of outlines, I already know this is going to be a disaster. But yes, Veery, let’s hear everything you know and your own recommendation for how to proceed. I trust the rest of us can at least keep quiet until that much is over with.”

“Please,” Professor Byleth says, gesturing for him to begin, “when you’re ready.”

Veery very much wants to leave and never deal with this ever, but unfortunately his second option is more reasonable. That being to just get it all out and done with so that he doesn’t have to think about it anymore.

“As you all know, I think,” Veery begins, “during the battle in Shambhala to take out… the Koterija, I was asked to focus on searching Shambhala rather than fighting in the battle itself.”

“Sorry,” Claude says quickly, “I know we just agreed not to interrupt, but… Koterija?”

Veery shrugs. “I’m half-guessing at the pronunciation, but that’s what Thales’ group called themselves. Agarthan isn’t actually that different from Common once you get past the different alphabet. As far as I can tell it pretty much directly translates to ‘coterie’. Of course, I had to look up what that meant because it isn’t used that often, but… that part doesn’t matter.

“The important thing about them being named at all is that it means that the Agarthans we’ve had problems with here on the surface is a known and recognized subgroup, and not necessarily indicative of general Agarthan culture.”

There are a few around the room, especially Catherine, Lysithea, and surprisingly Seteth, who look on the verge of protesting, but unlike Claude they do manage to stay quiet for now.

“That said,” Veery admits, “I did find evidence that, if joining wasn’t required outright at least in some areas of Shambhala, the children were explicitly being groomed to join once they’re old enough.” More tension fills the room and Veery groans because he just can’t manage to address things in the way that makes sense. Tangents and distractions are a weakness of his. “But we’ll get back to that later. It makes more sense once you learn a bit about their government, so, let me just start from the beginning?”

He places the Agarthan books, and importantly all his notes for reference, on the table in between them all. “While I was looking for information, I came across a school. I… may have been convinced to let a teacher go out of reluctance to torture and kill him in front of the group of students he was protecting.”

“Torture?” Catherine asks, immediately homing in on that.

Veery shrugs. “We needed to know both where Rhea was – even though I wasn’t the one to find her in the end – and whether there are other groups of Agarthans around. I wasn’t convinced anyone would just hand over that information freely.”

Catherine grumbles, but nods acceptance. “I’d given that some thought myself but resigned myself to not knowing and just keeping an eye out. Didn’t even think of just torturing it out of someone.”

That does not make Veery feel better. Claude, Lysithea, and Professor Byleth’s collective wince demonstrates their feelings, too.

“Anyway,” Veery continues, “so, I fixed him up after Hoarvug subdued him, and ended up leaving him alone mostly because I didn’t think he’d leave the students to come after us. I did end up finding someone else to get the information out of, but it turns out that teacher I left alone did come after me in the end and made an effort to talk with me. He gave me these,” Veery gestures to the books, “and told me enough to look deeper into it for myself. He… hoped that by giving the information freely, we’d learn more about the Agarthans and not carry over our vengeance against Shambhala on the other Agarthan settlement.”

“So, there are more of them,” Catherine growls.

“Disappointing, but not unexpected,” Seteth says. “Many attempts have been made to destroy Agartha, but they always manage to come back.”

“What do you know?” Lysithea asks. “Tell us about this other settlement.”

Veery shakes his head. “This,” he indicates the book again, “is a history book. Obviously published and meant to be used in schools, so it might be biased, but I doubt it’s outright lies. Mostly because what they’d lie about to their own children and what they’d lie about to us is probably very different.”

“Fair point,” Linhardt says. “So, what this teacher told you is probably at least mostly the truth, if it’s verified by their own history texts.”

Veery nods. It’s important that everyone understand that. Asura can say whatever he wants, but with nothing else backing him up Veery has no reason to believe he isn’t lying through his teeth. But with a history book created and intended for Agarthan children saying the same thing… either Asura is telling the truth, or Agartha tells very strange lies to its own people.

“That’s my feeling, anyway,” Veery says. “But the teacher, Asura, he did admit to me that he felt more like a propagandist than a teacher. That’s one of the reasons I suspect children were being groomed to join Thales’ Koterija. Asura seemed to think that himself.

“But more to the point, Agartha is split into Areas which are roughly equivalent to different territories here. Usually, a city and the immediate surrounding areas, though with it all being underground, ‘surrounding areas’ gets a bit odd. Shambhala, which we invaded, is more formally known as Area Seventeen.”

“Seventeen?” Seteth gasps.

Veery barrels on, wanting to get past the only partly correct assumption quickly. “Agartha itself is made up of Seventeen Areas, though only two, or perhaps one, depending, survives today.”

“Two,” Linhardt clarifies, “including Shambhala, which is partially collapsed and mostly inaccessible at the moment?”

“Yes,” Veery says. “According to Asura and this book, Agartha’s development has been filled with founding and losing Areas. No more than seven has actually thrived at the same time, and that was way back when they first founded Agartha as we know it, but instead more were built as others were lost. Of Agartha’s Seventeen Areas, three collapsed and were destroyed in cave-ins, six were destroyed by the Nabateans.”

Veery pauses, looking to Seteth, who sighs and says, “That matches Nabatean records. Though we’ve reportedly destroyed them seven different times, apparently always assuming they had nowhere else to run. At least one of the collapses was probably a Nabatean attack.”

Veery nods. “Five Areas were lost to disease, though my understanding is that disease is actually the single greatest cause of death for Agarthans. The section of this book that talks about the Koterija says that ensuring the Agarthans can come reclaim the land and spread out in a less confined space where disease isn’t as much of a threat is one of the Koterija’s biggest and most explicit goals. The problem being that they see us as in the way of that.”

“And we are,” Manuela comments. “I suspected when I heard about an underground city that plague would be especially deadly there. I assumed that their strange technology would find a way to mitigate the threat, but I suppose even they can’t contain disease so easily.” She shakes her head. “Even here on the surface, disease kills more people than the actual battles in this war.”

Veery finds that both interesting and disturbing and elects to simply move on rather than think about just how many people must have died due to plague already if they outnumber the corpses he’s seen at the end of all the battles.

“One Area,” Veery says, “the last before Shambhala, was destroyed by the agell about a thousand years ago. That’s actually what triggered Agarthan meddling to instigate the War of Heroes and the eventual eradication of both the agell and the Nabateans.”

Seteth sucks in a breath. “We were not aware of that. You’re saying the Agarthan influence on the War of Heroes was… retaliation?”

“Yes,” Veery answers. “And from what I can tell, it’s also what formed the modern Koterija. Area Five, the one the agell destroyed, was especially important to Agartha as a whole. It was always going to cause an outrage beyond the others, and that’s before considering that it was a foreign army of beasts that did the destroying. Nabatea was a known threat, and the precursors to the Koterija had been fighting them for a long time, but when the agell came into the picture, Area Seventeen became… radicalized.

“They had an unknown, hostile force at their doorstep, which just destroyed their most significant Area for food production and the location of their central government, which was moved to Area Five after Area One was destroyed. That left Area Seventeen essentially stranded, and they had to figure out a lot of things on their own. It was the Koterija that stepped up to make sure they survived the thousand years between then and today.”

“Things are starting to make much more sense,” Claude murmurs. “And naturally, a thousand years of keeping their people alive has led to a lot of loyalty on the Agarthans’ part.” Veery nods. Claude frowns. “So, where does the other surviving Area fit into all this? We’ve got a better picture of Shambhala, I think, but what about this other city?”

“Area Four,” Veery says, “Beyul. Agartha was originally five connected Areas, each dedicated to a certain purpose. Area Five was so important because it was originally Agartha’s agricultural center, something understandably difficult with it all being underground. Area Four was originally Agartha’s religious center. A temple district, of a sort.”

“Religion?” Catherine asks. “What gods do Agarthans follow?”

“Quite a few,” Veery answers. “Most prominently being Grima and Anankos. The book I have doesn’t go into much detail about them, but it does mention that Agarthans believe they’re the gods responsible for the destruction and resurrection of the land.”

“The goddess restored the land.”

“Maybe,” Veery shrugs. “Anankos is called a god of fate, so perhaps his influence brought Sothis here way back then? I don’t think it really matters right now, either way.”

Catherine huffs, but begrudgingly admits that much. Seteth, though he stays silent, looks pained, though. Unsure exactly why, whether Seteth is offended at the implications or simply trying to reconcile them with the Sothis he knows, Veery doesn’t know what to think about that.

“Teach?” Claude asks.

Byleth shakes her head. “Sothis doesn’t remember why she came here, though she says if it’s fate’s decree then she may not have known it to be the influence of another god. She says fate can be subtle, even to her.”

“Yeah, that’s about what I figured. Go on, Veery.”

What Veery doesn’t say is that Veery knows about at least some of the gods mentioned as having temples in Beyul. Grima is known among the agell as the one who caused the extinction, which is exactly what he’s credited for in the Agarthan history book, too, but though he’s heard of Grima, he hasn’t heard of Anankos.

Veery still can’t decide if Anankos is the result of Agarthans refusing to follow Sothis and making up an alternative to her, or if they just know something the rest of the world doesn’t. “According to the book,” Veery says, “there actually is a temple to Sothis in Beyul. They refer to her as the fell star.” Which is interesting because of the implied connection to the fell dragon, Grima, if only through vocabulary. The book doesn’t go into enough detail to know if there’s any more to that, though, and “fell dragon” is admittedly how the agell refer to Grima, and since the history book doesn’t use such an epithet, Veery has no way of knowing if the Agarthans have a similar one.

Faces around the table seem surprised that there’s a place for Sothis in Agartha. Veery just shrugs. “That it exists is basically all it says, though. I don’t know how Beyul actually views her. But back to the actual report, Beyul, to this day despite the destruction of the other Areas necessitating them to expand beyond being merely the religious district, is still considered something like holy land to the Agarthans. Part of the reason it’s survived so long is that, because it is sacred, Agarthans are even more careful than their already paranoid usual about potentially revealing any information about where it’s located. Beyul has no standing military, so if we surfacers did find them and decide to attack them, they’re more vulnerable than the other Areas.”

“No military?” Professor Byleth asks.

“That’s not to say they’re helpless,” Veery clarifies. “The book talks at some length about how the Grimleal especially, the faithful of Grima, are gifted in Dark Magic. Other temples are especially devoted to science and advancements in their technology, in fact Beyul is said to be the most advanced Area of Agartha because of that. It also mentions warrior monks who spend their lives training their minds and bodies, but who are supposedly pacifists willing to fight only to defend themselves.”

“Sounds like you used to be,” Claude says.

Veery makes a face. “No, I don’t have… discipline. Point is, Beyul is holy land founded on that idea, so regardless of how far certain groups within it take it, the whole Area is considered a place of non-violence. I’d really like to get my paws on some Agarthan religious texts, because what little is in the history book is fascinating, considering how closely they all live together within Beyul.”

“The Church of Seiros warred within itself,” Seteth says, “and was the only religion followed. How multiple religions and temples coexist in a single city…”

“It’s not so much multiple religions,” Veery says, “but one polytheistic religion, with people choosing to follow one or another god more intensely than others.”

“Almyra’s the same way,” Claude says. “There are a bunch of gods presiding over all sorts of things. Priests usually dedicate themselves to a specific one, though, and commonfolk generally pay their obeisance to whatever god is relevant to what they’re praying for.”

“All the same,” Seteth says, “disagreements about what each god demands, sometimes at odds with other gods, is likely a reason why Beyul is dedicated to non-violence. They have a truce on their shared holy land, so they don’t put up with troublemakers in fear of allowing the inciting of a holy war within their own city. Even something as small as how one god would demand a criminal be punished may be countered by another god, and cause discord.”

“Which is why I want a book on it,” Veery says. “But the point is that, from what I’ve managed to find, Beyul is not a threat to us.”

“They’re still Agarthan,” Catherine spits. “They’re still involved.”

Lysithea scowls at the table, obviously thinking hard, but asks, “Do you have Beyul’s location?”

Veery hesitates, which everyone seems to take as an answer before he even has a chance to confirm. “Yes.”

Silence. Catherine gets impatient and asks, “Well?”

Veery worries his lip. His ears flatten as he plays with the end of his tail. “I…” He glances to Claude, whose countenance is soft, gentle. “I don’t believe it wise to share that part until discussions about our next move are settled.”

“You’re going to protect them?” Catherine roars, demonstrating perfectly why Veery thinks keeping the location to himself is for the best.

“Settle down,” Linhardt drawls. “He’s obviously just holding onto that so we can’t do anything rash before cooler heads can prevail. And you’re proving why that’s necessary.”

Catherine flinches, chastised but no less furious as she grumbles quietly.

Seteth sighs. “As much as I hate to say it, Beyul must be eliminated. Agartha has been a threat to Fódlan for the entirety of its existence. Once they discover our destruction of Shambhala, I’ve no doubt that Beyul will choose to follow every other group of Agarthans we’ve encountered throughout history. Worse, if Beyul truly is the most advanced of the Areas of Agartha, we cannot afford to give them any advantage. We must strike while we still can.”

“I’m surprised at you, Seteth,” Manuela says, frowning. “That’s the kind of response I’d expect from Rhea, but I always thought you were more reasonable. Beyul isn’t Shambhala. That’s like invading the Kingdom because Adrestia started a war. We should approach them in good faith – in fact, we should bring them the Shambhalan refugees and work together with them on how to handle all those displaced people.”

“You’d hand our enemies more soldiers?” Catherine scoffs.

“The majority of the refugees are noncombatants,” Claude says. “It’s not an unreasonable plan.”

“It’s foolishness! Maybe Beyul isn’t Shambhala, but they are both Agartha! By your logic, we shouldn’t attack Enbarr because Merceus was the base from which they attacked us.”

“Quiet,” Professor Byleth says. Her demand is quiet itself, but it cuts off any further arguments with ease. Her eyes find Veery to pin him in place. “What do you think? You have the most information, and the longest time to consider it.”

Veery fidgets. “…Asura recommended that I bring Lysithea and Hapi there in good faith. He said they’d likely help them.”

Lysithea’s eyes go wide. “They would have the technology…”

“But are you sure it’s not a trap?” Hapi asks. “Lysithea is kind of important.”

“Especially in terms of being a threat to Agartha,” Linhardt adds. “Lysithea and I are easily the most dangerous for them to leave on the field at the moment, because we’re most versed in their technology and magic. Taking out Lysithea alone would be a huge boon.”

“Veery?” Byleth asks. “What would you do?”

Veery bites his lip. He wants to kill every last one of them. He wants the humans, especially those responsible for such heinous acts as the Agarthans are, to suffer and succumb. But he’s trying very hard to remember his principles over his feelings, and he remembers that he shouldn’t go looking for fights.

“I think,” Veery says, “that fighting should only ever be a last resort.” He’s been made a hypocrite on that by now, but he still thinks that it’s a good ideal. “I think there are always options, and we should at least attempt one that doesn’t involve slaughter first.”

“As much as I agree with the sentiment,” Catherine says, “Agartha represents a clear and present danger to Fódlan and Lady Rhea and must be dealt with accordingly.”

“Present, perhaps,” Claude says, “but the threat Beyul poses is anything but clear. The information we have points to that threat being minimal at best. You’re acting on paranoia.”

“We’re acting on thousands of years of evidence,” Seteth counters. “I find it hard to believe that Beyul is the only group of Agarthans in history that doesn’t want to kill us all.”

“How much of that hostility is because Agartha just hates us all or because you were already warring with them?”

Seteth sighs, pained but resigned. “Does it matter? Both carry into Agartha as it is today.”

“Lysithea, Hapi,” Byleth says, “you stand the most to gain. What do you think?”

“I understand the resentment of those who have been forced to live underground,” Hapi says plainly. “As far as I’m concerned, it was mostly people from the surface who hurt me. And Cornelia. I’ve probably got more in common with these people from Beyul than I do with you.” She shrugs. “I don’t see any reason to hate them.”

Lysithea shakes her head slowly. “Anyone associated with that… coterie will die. But I’ve long known how unwise it is to paint large groups under the same brush. As we blame all Agarthans for what that coterie has done, so too can Veery blame all humans. The distinctions of guilt must be more nuanced than that. I’m willing to at least investigate how deeply Thales was able to influence Beyul.”

“I, also, vote to approach Beyul in peace,” Claude says. “In fact, I think we should go with Manuela’s idea and escort the refugees there. We should also see if they’d be willing to open up to us in trade. Maybe we can provide food if they’re struggling for that? It sounds like they have many experts in many different fields, so I’m sure they have something of value to exchange for it. Approaching in good faith and showing we’re willing to work with and help Agarthans may head off any turning of Beyul into the next Koterija before it happens.”

“Now you want to give them our food, too?” Catherine growls.

“When it was the Alliance and church alone it was an issue, but supply from the Alliance, Brigid, Almyra, and Gronder all together have left us with an unprecedented surplus,” Claude says. “Even considering the relief we’ve been giving to the Kingdom, food is one of the few things we have in excess, and for a community trapped underground, it might be the most valuable good we have. And we have to open those borders between us if we don’t want resentment to grow.”

“Or we could just rid the world of them and be done with it.”

“We won’t be doing that,” Byleth says.

“Teach?”

“This may be our best chance to help Lysithea and Hapi. I won’t let old grudges prevent my students from healing.” Standing firm, she glares at the room. “If Beyul makes signs of aggression, we’ll kill them all, but until then we do all we can to acquire their help.”

Lysithea and Hapi look at Byleth with odd expressions, Claude simply looks fond, like this is perfectly expected (and, really, it is), but Seteth… Veery isn’t sure he’s ever seen Seteth so conflicted. “I suppose,” Seteth says eventually, probably conceding only because he knows Byleth will not back down, “that will have to do.”

“I object,” Catherine says, “but clearly, I’m outvoted. Fine, we’ll do it your way for now.”

It’s a wonder how easily Professor Byleth gets them to fall in line. It’s usually Claude and Lysithea that make important decisions for the army, along with Seteth, Rodrigue if he can, and occasionally Catherine as representative of the loyalist church. Byleth is the figurehead, yes, but she usually doesn’t speak much during war council meetings unless prompted. So, it surprises Veery that when she does take charge, even the other leaders defer to her.

Maybe that’s why she doesn’t speak up much.

Whatever the case, planning for moving the refugees who want to go to Beyul begins, and with that plan decided on Veery does release its location.

That went… better than expected, overall. Maybe withholding the location was a good choice, or maybe they’re all just a lot more reasonable than Veery assumes. He suspects it’s the latter, considering his own mental issues. Still, it’s over and behind him, which is a huge weight off his shoulders.

---

“So, I had something I wanted to ask you about.”

That Holst finds Veery surprises him, but Veery likes Holst well enough that it doesn’t bother him to be approached like this. “Yeah?”

Holst frowns for a moment, stroking his pink beard, then shakes his head and just comes out with what’s bothering him. “What do you actually want to be called?”

Veery tilts his head. “My name? What else?”

Holst shrugs. “Well, I’ve been talking to the soldiers and pretty much everyone has different titles for you. Ever since people have started deciding you’re a god instead of just a saint, your ‘cat saint’ title has sort of fallen away. And everyone is trying to come up with something else.”

Gross. “Do they have to?”

Holst snorts. “Course they do. Everyone loves epithets, and Fódlanders tend to get offended if you go around casually calling the goddess by her name. Since you’re a god now, too, they’re treating you the same way.”

“I hate epithets.” Veery pouts. “At least when they’re used for me.”

Holst just continues his snickering. “Well, if you tell me one you don’t mind, I can see about spreading word to just use that one. I’m sure people won’t stop making more, but at least you’ll only have to worry about one common one.”

As much as Veery would like for everyone to just use his name, or even just call him “cat” if they have to, Holst makes a decent point. Claude has made a few comments now about Veery’s “image” and settling things now will hopefully prevent people from running with far dumber and more annoying epithets. Like ‘the purifier’. He still hates that one in particular. It’s so… something one of the human nobles might call themselves.

“What do you think?” Veery asks.

“I think it’ll at least be easier to know who everyone is talking about,” Holst says, rolling his eyes. “And I know Hilda says you just prefer your name, but that’s not really going to fly here.”

Unfortunately. “What are my options?” Veery asks reluctantly.

“Well… Your cult is the most creative, but generally seem to have just upgraded you from cat saint to cat god.”

“Sothis called me cat god once, but personally I think that sounds a bit too much like I’m a god of cats, or even a god to the agell, and I’m distinctly neither. Even among my friends, Sadi and Hoarvug are the only ones that don’t occasionally act like I’m a god.”

“That may change once you get back home,” Holst points out, much to Veery’s chagrin. “But I understand you all have a much more casual relationship with gods in the first place, so does how Sadi and Hoarvug act really disprove that?”

Veery groans because Holst is right. Maybe, once this war is over, he’ll go into real, true solitude and just never talk to anyone, ever, for the rest of his life.

Holst laughs at him. The jerk. “The Brigidans have been calling you something like… a spirit of power? To be fair, I’ve never actually heard them use an epithet for you in Common, but most of them don’t speak much Common in the first place, so…” He shakes his head. “Then the Almyrans have pretty much all agreed on the patchwork god, though I’ve no idea how they came up with that. I think it sounds a little derogatory.”

“Really?” Veery asks. “I think it’s clever.”

Holst raises a brow. “How?”

Veery shrugs. “I only got as powerful as I am now because the power was originally shared with me. Twice. So, technically it’s three different origins. Plus, two of those origins being essentially fragments of memories make the whole situation even more… patchwork. When I heard the Almyrans calling me that, I just assumed Claude explained some of that.”

“Huh.” Holst slowly strokes his beard. “I won’t pretend I understand it, but basically you’re saying it’s actually accurate?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that’s alright then. Sounds like you actually like that one.”

Veery makes a face. “If I have to pick one, that’s one of the best options I’ve heard. If only because it’ll hopefully remind people that I’m much less divine than they seem to think gods are supposed to be.”

“I’ll spread it around, then. Maybe your cult will change its name.”

“They’re still going with Cult of the Cat Saint, right? Even though they aren’t calling me a saint anymore?”

“They haven’t come up with anything better,” Holst chuckles. “And not for lack of trying. You don’t talk to them much, so you don’t give them a whole lot to work with beyond your ‘miraculous works’ themselves.”

Right… “There’s a reason for that.”

Holst laughs, “They told me. They said you want your followers to be independent and free-thinking, so you like to make them figure things out on their own.”

“I want my followers to leave me alone,” Veery grumbles.

“Say what you will, but your cult is taking the independent free-thought thing and running with it. They’re determined that the next great advancements will be from the cult, credited to a god who is most pleased with innovation and originality rather than following the standard accepted rules.”

“That sounds like it’ll get out of hand fast, but for once they aren’t exactly wrong.” Veery contemplates that for a bit and adds, “I just hope they decide to break the standard rules in a good way. Trying to raise the dead is also breaking standard rules, but I’ll slaughter any of them trying to do that myself.”

Holst actually pauses to think about it. “…I don’t think they need to be told that, but I’ll spread the word, anyway. Innovation for the benefit of people.”

Veery’s head hurts. He glares at Holst, suddenly realizing what’s happening. “Why does this feel like I’m hammering out a doctrine?”

Unrepentant, Holst grins and shrugs. As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

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