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Chapter Text

The smell of blood was what woke her. Maribelle hadn't even realized she was unconscious, only that the sharp and metallic scent pierced through the haze over her mind, rousing her back into the world.

The first thing she noticed as she opened her eyes was the sky overhead, and white streaks swept across it. A breeze tickled her cheek, rustling leaves as it passed over her. Her backside felt cold and damp, seeping through her clothes and leaving the skin beneath slick. As her eyes trailed down, she noted with minor disgust that her frilly pink robes were smeared with dirt and grass.

How long has it been? she thought, and her brows pulled down into a frown. Already, an orange glow had begun to overtake the sky. A chill crawled over her skin as the evening set in around her.

It was the afternoon, last I remember. Whatever happened to that? Groaning, Maribelle tried to drag into a sitting position.

Pain shot up her leg. She let out a pained hiss, and when she looked down, she saw blood pooling under her, dripping out onto the grass from a gash running across her thigh. The cloth at her hip lay in tatters.

Then it all came back to her. A skirmish with the Grimleal in north-east Valm. Running in to save someone. Something slamming into her. Being thrown down a hill and tumbling into the forest. Hitting her head.

And now, waking up here.

What disturbed her the most was the fact that she was still lying on the grass, possibly hours after the battle had passed.

Did... did they forget about me? Maribelle thought. Surely someone, anyone would have cared enough to bring me back with them?

The silence all around her told her a different story. In the distance, she could hear the sound of crickets rise into the air, and as seconds turned to minutes, her worry only grew.

She attempted to rise again. This time, she tried pushing off the ground, managing to prop herself up without too much struggle. She rubbed the back of her head, grumbling as she did. Through her tangle of blonde hair, she felt something wet slip over her fingers, and when she brought away her hand, she found it covered in red.

Is this my fate? To bleed out in the middle of nowhere, lost and alone, forsaken by my only friends? I wasn't good enough for anyone but my dear Lissa, and now I'm not even good enough for her to remember me?

There was only one thing she could do. Shedding her dignity and tossing it into the trees, Maribelle cleared her throat.

"Help!" she shouted. "Somebody help me!"

A few seconds passed. There was no response. She scowled, and she opened her mouth to call out again.

To her right, she heard the leaves rustle. She turned, hope flaring in her chest. It could have been the wind, but it could have also been movement, and when she saw a familiar figure step out from behind a tree, she had to hold back a cry of relief.

With a cape that fluttered behind him as he approached her and the sword at his side, it would be nearly impossible to mistake who it was.

"Chrom!" A warm feeling bubbled in her chest, and she was half-tempted to jump to her feet. "You returned for me–"

Then he stepped into the light, and her face fell as the warm feeling died an ugly death. Somehow she'd managed to make the almost impossible mistake.

"You're not Chrom," she said, keeping her voice flat to hide her disappointment. Or was it disdain?

"Who's to say I'm not?" the man before her asked.

"You look nothing like him."

Taking a closer look, not even she could guess why she had been fooled in the first place, even in the low light. His face was much too thin, pinched together like a sour taste lingered in his mouth, and the sword at his hip was no Falchion. He carried himself with a steady strut like a dancer, and his wavy brown hair bore no resemblance to the mop of blue atop Chrom's head.

He was clearly no Chrom, and she had never seen this man with the Shepherds. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling she'd seen him before.

To herself, she murmured, "Well, it's not as if I have any options, do I?"

"You look like you could lose–er, use a hand, missy," the man said, and he offered her a hand to help her to her feet.

Maribelle narrowed her eyes. Not that she didn't appreciate the gesture–she wasn't an ungrateful brute, thank you very much–but it wasn't as if she could do anything about it, not with the cut running down her leg.

"What is this, some crude practical joke?" she said. "You can't expect me to stand with my leg like this!"

His eyes drifted down to the wound on her leg.

"Ah! How foolish of me," the man said. "It must have slipped through my notice."

Maribelle rolled her eyes. "Yes. How utterly foolish."

The man licked his lips. "What's someone of your standing doing out here, away from the flock? Where are your guards, or attendants, or... perhaps comrades in arms?"

"No. They've all left me for dead, it seems."

"A shame. I would have loved to eat–I mean meet them."

Maribelle caught the reflection of her raised eyebrow on the hilt of the man's sword. She only had just enough time to correct it before his bony hand came down to cover it.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Another man stepped out from the forest, clad in plain blue armor with flowing, olive-colored hair. The second his eyes fell on her, they widened. Maribelle met his gaze, her look pleading, and he nodded, a silent message passing between them.

Rather quick for a commoner to be on the uptake, she'd admit.

"What are you looking for?" the first man said, and he started to follow his gaze.

"Nothing!" Maribelle's voice almost rose to a shriek, desperate to keep his eyes on her. It worked, and he stopped turning. "I simply have something in my eye. It's just..." She faked a sniffle, suppressing her urge to gag. "I'm so relieved someone came to help me. I thought I would die all alone."

"Oh, I'm not here to help you, missy."

The rasp of his sword masked the second man's approach. Maribelle let her eyes grow wide, and she watched him close in.

Leaves crunched underfoot. Maribelle tried to pull herself back again. The pain in her leg cried out in protest. Had she moved, she might have more time to watch as the man's sword raised into the air, its edge gleaming wickedly in the air.

In the end, she had to work with what she had, didn't she?

"You're not very alert, are you?" she said.

The man's brows furrowed, and he snarled. "What do you mean?"

"Look behind you, you dolt!"

"Behind me? Hah. You think I'd fall for that, you noble bra–urk."

The bandit's eyes fell to his chest just in time to see the tip of a sword pierce through. He coughed once, blood splashing out from the wound in his chest.

Maribelle shrieked as red splattered over her pink dress.

"Watch it!" she said, the last traces of her patience slipping away. "You just ruined my favorite dress!"

"Ah. My apologies," her savior said. "What do you say we hit the town after this, and I'll buy you a brand new one, buttercup?" He swept his sword to the side, and as the body dislodged itself, it tumbled to the side.

On any other day, she might have had the strength to play along. As she was, cold and wet, her hair and now her dress smeared with blood, the retort came out in an instant. "It's going to take a lot more than a new dress to impress me."

"How about saving your life, then?"

"Not like that. Couldn't you have, I don't know, stabbed him from the side or something?"

"In a perfect world? Absolutely. But you're unharmed, and that's good enough for me."

At his raised eyebrow, Maribelle growled. "Good enough for a rapscallion, perhaps." She ran her hand over the growing red stains on her dress, and when it made a wet squelch, she shuddered. "I can't go back looking like this!"

A ragged cough came from beside him. "Lord Grima," the bandit rasped between shallow breaths, "avenge me–"

Maribelle silenced him with a swift kick. "Shut up! I'm talking here!" His head snapped back, and, to her satisfaction, he spoke no more.

"Now," she said, turning back to the man, "as I was saying–what are you doing?"

The man glanced up from where he had knelt down by her side. "What does it look like? I'm helping you up." He paused, and his smirk faltered. "That is what it looks like, right?"

"I wouldn't know what else it would look like, but helping me up is the last thing that comes to mind. Besides, I don't recall asking for your help."

"Well I thought a lovely lady as yourself might not appreciate being left to die alone."

"And there's another thing!" She raised an accusing finger at him. "I don't appreciate all that incessant flirting."

"What's the matter? Never had someone compliment your beautiful face? Because if not, I'd say your friends have poor taste."

"I'm married!" She wasn't, but he wouldn't know that, would he?

For a moment, she thought she saw uncertainty flash across his face. It was gone before she could make sense of it, hastily covered by that infuriating smirk of his, like the finality of her tone amused him.

"It's never stopped me before."

Maribelle did a double-take. "That is hardly proper!" she shouted. On second thought, she should have hardly expected anything different, especially from a commoner. Not everyone had the same standards as her.

The man had no reply to that. It showed he had, at the very least, some standards. His stupid grin remained, though, so it hardly painted a better picture.

"Well, I suppose since you are here, and you did save me, you're the only one I can ask for help."

"Are you asking right now?"

"Of course!"

The man chuckled. He reached out for her again, only to pause inches away. An uncertain look crossed his face. At first, Maribelle thought she'd just imagined it, but he really did seem to be unsure of whether to follow through.

"What are you waiting for? I'm not going to bite!"

"It's just... I've never done this kind of thing before."

Maribelle huffed. "Oh please. It's not all that different from carrying cattle or pigs, or any other livestock you have lying around."

"Sunshine. I'm a mercenary, not a cattle-herd."

"Well you must have been raised somewhere, and I doubt mercenary parents would have a stable place to raise a child of their own."

For some reason, the man felt it necessary to give her a flat stare. She saw little point in mulling it over. Whatever he didn't know, he didn't know, so it fell on her to keep him from mucking it up.

"One arm under the knees, one arm around the back." Keeping one hand under her to hold her up, she motioned for him forward. "It's so simple, a boy half your age could probably do it. Chop chop!"

The man complied, strangely silent as he slid his arms under her. Maribelle would have expected some crude compliment about her legs or her back or, if he was desperate enough, her blood, but to her surprise, he didn't speak.

It wasn't as if she was about to spur him out of it, though.

"Now, lift me up slowly, and for Naga's sake, lift with your legs! If I hear one comment about how you pulled your back from my weight, I will strangle you, my survival be damned."

After a few seconds of him awkwardly struggling, he finally managed to find a firm hold on her. It took a bit longer than she expected, but when she tried to ask him about it, he refused to meet her eyes.

"So..." he said, shuffling his feet. "Where should I take you?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but she stopped herself. She hadn't thought this far ahead. She glanced down at the wound in her leg, still bright red.

All the blood loss must be marring her sense of judgment.

"Where is the nearest town?"

"A day's walk from here." He paused, before he added, "Though that might be a little far."

"Then surely you must have a camp a little closer to here?"

"Well, yes. But–"

"I don't want to hear it! Once we get there, I can patch myself up, and we'll never have to see each other again."

The man didn't speak. Maribelle looked up at him, growing impatient. In his eyes, she saw conflicting emotions flash between them, his face glowing pink in the evening sun.

In the end, he gave a resigned sigh. "I'll take you to my camp, but may I ask you to refrain from making any... sudden movements?"

"Oh, I'm sure you won't have to worry about that in an hour or so."

"Pardon?"

"You wouldn't understand. Just get on with it. The only thing going anywhere is my blood, which, if you didn't know, is not a good thing."

Being carried off into the forest by a stranger was not anything Maribelle would have ever wanted to do, but with the Shepherds off who knows where, she was out of options. Still, as the trees closed in around them, she wished she could have been found by someone with a little more grace.

"Ouch! Watch what you push my face into! I don't want to have to spit out leaves every other step you take!"

"Sorry. I told you before, I'm not exactly used to this. A little patience won't kill you, buttercup."

"With how much of my blood is on the forest floor, I don't think I'd want to take that chance."

Chapter Text

It might have been hours before they reached the man's camp. Days, even. Keeping track of the time was the last thing on Maribelle's mind, but the one thing she knew was that, however long it was, it was much too long.

"Finally!" she said as a tent came into sight. "You walk much too slow!"

"You didn't think I'd drop such a pretty flower into the dirt, did you?" At the very least it had been long enough for the man to regain some of his confidence.

"If I'd gone any faster, I'd have dropped you, don't you remember?"

"Well, I don't remember. You must not have gone fast enough."

The man pursed his lips. "All that blood loss must be messing with your mind."

Maribelle huffed. "My mind is still quite put-together, thank you very much."

"Truly?" The man shifted her in his arms. "Then how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Six, obviously."

The man didn't speak, letting her put the pieces together for herself.

"Wait a minute!" Maribelle hissed. "You're still holding onto me, aren't you?"

"Don't worry, I haven't. I'm not the kind of man to let a girl down."

"I'd sure hope not."

She blinked.

"If you do that one more time–"

"I didn't mean to!" he said, brushing the tent flap aside. "Besides, we're here."

Maribelle felt the soft sheets wrap around her as the man lowered her into the mat laid out over the dirt with much more care than she expected. She'd have thought someone like him would be content with tossing her onto the mattress, and she was pleased that she wouldn't have to spend the next few minutes trying to stop her head from spinning.

Some of it must have shown on her face, since she saw his grin grow a little wider.

"Don't get used to it," she snapped. "I was simply surprised you were as gentle as you were."

"Of course," the man replied. "Girls do like a gentleman more than a man with edges."

Maribelle rolled her eyes. Now that he was no longer clutching her, he'd returned to being a flirt.

Personally, she'd have preferred the nervous wreck.

"Just get your medical supplies. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

"Are you sure I can't convince you to stay for tea, buttercup?"

"No thank you."

"Your loss, then." The man chuckled, and he slid his bag from his shoulders.

As he knelt to dig through his supplies, Maribelle let her head fall back onto the mattress. A sigh escaped her lips, and she shifted to make herself more comfortable. After having spent her afternoon lying on the cold, hard ground her sore back welcoming the embrace of soft straw and fabric. As much as she wanted to leave, she'd admit it would be a shame to have to get back onto her feet so soon.

If only she didn't have to deal with that scoundrel as well.

She shifted in the sheets again, the mattress crackling under her weight, when she brushed something cold and wet.

The first reaction that came to mind was screaming at the top of her lungs.

The man jumped, and he rushed to her side, his eyes wide. "What? What is it?"

"Why are your bedsheets wet?" she shrieked.

"Oh." His gaze flicked to the tent flap, before he turned back to her with a grin. "You know sunshine, after a day of hard work, I return to my camp bathed in sweat and–"

"Wait, nevermind. It's simply a leak in the tarp."

The man's face fell. This time, it was Maribelle's turn to smirk, and he turned back to his bag with a mutter. While he wasn't looking, Maribelle wiped her hand further down his sheet.

She settled back into the mattress, a content smile on her face. She was happy to lie there, waiting for the man to finish his search.

Her smile faltered when she heard him take a sharp breath.

She craned her neck to look at him. "What? What is it?"

"There might be a little hitch in your plan." The man returned her glare with a sheepish look, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Which is?"

"Okay. I'd like you to remain calm and–"

"You mangy, no-good, dog-spitting, disheveled pile of sopping cloth! You rag-chewing, dirt-smearing washboard! You udder-suckling, goat-milking, fire-breathing toothed chicken! You–"

"Woah there! I've yet to tell you what it is! Is all this name-calling needed?"

Maribelle snorted, and she turned her nose up. "Well, you said to stay calm, so I assumed it was very bad."

"It is very bad," the man said, giving her a sideways look, "which is exactly why you need to stay calm."

"That's a bit of a backward way of going about it, isn't it?"

"It could be. But if I did that, I'd never have any idea what was going on, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that. Not with your life on the line."

He had her there, as much as it pained her to admit.

"Very well, then." Maribelle waved a hand over her shoulder. "Spit it out."

The man looked her dead in the eyes. "I don't have any medical supplies."

...

Maribelle quirked an eyebrow. "That's not so bad."

"What?" The man's jaw almost hit the floor. "Buttercup, as much as I admire tenacity in a girl, you're life may depend on this."

"It does?" Maribelle coughed. "Wait, did you say you didn't have medical supplies?"

"I did."

She furrowed her brows. "Maybe that blood loss is meddling with my thoughts. That's terrible news."

"I didn't have enough for them! I assumed they wouldn't be needed!"

She grit her teeth, and an insult bubbled up in her throat. It boiled for a bit, then faded into a simmer, until it vanished completely.

"Dammit. I used all my good insults before, and now I can't think of any new ones," she murmured.

The man, on the other hand, had more of a reaction than her. "Oh gods," he said, running a hand down his face. "I can't let you die. I came back to save people. What can I do, what can I do?"

"You can start by giving me your shirt."

"M-my what?"

"The piece of clothing you wear over the upper half of your body." Maribelle raised an eyebrow at his rapidly reddening face. "I'm sure a refined ladies' man such as yourself would have no problem showing a bit of skin to a... what was it you said? A pretty flower like me?"

"I called you buttercup."

"Do you mean to imply that buttercups aren't pretty?"

"Of course not! Their petals are the most beautiful shade of yellow, and they have such a pleasant scent."

"If you're not talking about the flower, I will haul myself over there and beat some sense into that thick skull of yours."

"...I'll just take off my shirt now."

What little armor the man had clattered to the floor. She heard the rustling of cloth, then heard him curse. She glanced over just in time to see him pull his shirt over his head, revealing a well-toned chest that glistened in the last traces of sunlight.

The man cleared his throat. Maribelle raised her eyes from his chest to find a blue shirt dangling in front of her face. Curiously enough, the man seemed to find the entrance flap more interesting than her.

Maribelle huffed, thinking it a little strange. Still, she took his shirt and held it up over her, the sunlight seeping in through the tarp lighting it up in an orange glow.

"So," the man said, turning back to her, "you like what you see–hey! What are you doing?"

Maribelle leveled him with a flat look, her hands on the seam on his shoulder. "Since you clearly lack the brains to recognize when medical supplies are a necessity, I'm taking things into my own hands."

The sleeve ripped from its socket. Maribelle was on the other sleeve a second later.

"I didn't have any gold for medical supplies!" the man complained. "And I won't have any gold for a new shirt either!"

"Oh, hush. I'll buy you a new one."

"Really?" The man coughed, wiping the flustered look from his face. "Is that a date?"

Maribelle ripped his other sleeve off. "Don't get your hopes up."

She tossed the shirt back to the man. Taking her strips of cloth, she wrapped one around her leg, the other around her head. She pulled it tight and as she tucked it in, she caught the man staring.

"What are you looking at? Does something amuse you?"

"Not at all," the man said, and he shook his head. "Just... I don't think you've done it quite right."

"Of course I've got it right," Maribelle scoffed. "My mind is still quite sound. I think I can put on a bandage just fine, thank you very much."

To prove her point, she pushed herself off the bed. The bandage on her head came loose and fell over her eyes. Through gritted teeth, she let out a long hiss.

"Would you like my help?"

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

She tried to tie her bandages again, but her arms refused to let her maintain a steady grip. She cursed and grabbed one hand with the other in an attempt to steady her trembling fingers. Still, they refused to stop shaking.

"Allow me."

Firm hands wrapped around her bandages. Maribelle glanced up at the man, surprised. One at a time, he wrapped the bandages over her wounds, all while refusing to meet her curious gaze until with one final tug, he had them snugly fit.

Maribelle tugged at the cloth over her leg, then over her head. When they didn't budge, she turned to the man with a raised eyebrow.

"Quite the skilled hands you have," she remarked. "Not the clumsy fingers of someone of your standing, as I'd have thought."

"What can I say? A delicate flower calls for delicate care."

"Don't get any ideas, dolt. Your words are still as ham-fisted as ever."

The man laughed for a bit. "Well, now that you've got your wounds dressed up, what's the plan?"

"You'd better not be planning on leaving me here."

"Oh no, I was thinking I'd take you out for dinner in the next village over."

"Dinner? You said you wouldn't be able to buy clothes for yourself. How do you think you'd be able to buy me dinner?" Maribelle scoffed. "And don't think of trying to ask me to pay. If you want to take me out, you'd have to pay for yourself."

"I wasn't planning to. What do you take me for, some ill-mannered scoundrel?"

"I'd hope not. As much as I'd have hoped for someone else, right now you're my only chance of ever returning to civilization alive."

"You flatter me."

"You flatter yourself, more like. Now, are you going to stand there or what? We have a town to get to."

The man glanced out the tent flap, his eyes narrowed. "You want to leave? This late into the day? What do you say we call it a night for now?"

"And get into bed with you? No way! In your dreams!"

Chapter Text

Waking up was always a pleasant experience for Maribelle. From the warm kiss of the golden rays on her cheeks as the sun crept over the horizon, to the soft embrace of the sheets trapping her in a cocoon of silk and the strong arms wrapped around her shoulders.

Her eyes flew open. Her mouth followed not a second later, and she shrieked.

An eruption of limbs ensued. Arms and legs flew everywhere, tugging the sheet this way and that, and she was fairly sure a finger got stuck in her mouth.

By the end of it all, she found her back on the ground, her dress soaking in the dewdrops scattered over the grass.

"What in Naga's name was that?" she yelled. She tried to push herself away and was rewarded with a sharp pain in her leg.

"My face..." the man groaned, sitting up.

"What? No!"

"You don't hold back, do you?" The man rubbed a hand over his face, half in an effort to wipe the sleep from his eyes, half to check for cuts. "Do you ever trim your nails? I don't think anyone's allowed to have nails as long as yours unless they're old and wrinkly and spend their days tending to a cauldron."

Maribelle looked offended at that. "Excuse me? I am not a witch! My nails are a perfectly acceptable length for a lady." She huffed, and she reached up to rub the back of her head. "Immaculate and graceful, as someone of my standing should be. That, and it's a fine weapon for fending off lechers."

"Me? A lecher? Buttercup, I would never!" The man paused, and he looked away. "Not intentionally, anyway."

"Then how did I end up in your bed, hm? What, are you going to say I just threw myself in with someone like you?"

The man coughed suspiciously. "Say, that bandage looks awfully loose. You wouldn't mind if I took care of it for you?"

"Don't stray from the point!"

As soon as the words left her mouth, Maribelle hissed as her sharp nail brushed against raw skin. She brought her hand back around, and found the tip dipped in red. The man had been right about her bandages being loose, not that she'd ever admit it.

She tried reaching around to tighten it herself, but her hands clumsily fumbled around each other, slipping over the cloth and into her golden hair. Any attempt to grasp at the ends slipped through her fingers, and when she did grab one, she could never seem to find the other.

"Sweetheart, you don't have eyes on the back of your head," the man said. "Let me–"

"I'm fine! I've got it all under control," Maribelle snapped, just as the ends of the bandages slipped out of her hands yet again.

Heat began to build in her cheeks, just like her temper. So I can tie a bandage around someone else's wounds, but not my own? she thought. How idiotic!

One more time, she tried to get a grip on her bandage. She managed to snag the ends easily. When it came to tying it together, her damned fingers were less useful than a quill drenched in grease.

"Naga dammit!" With a frustrated scream, she hurled the piece of cloth across the tent.

The man glanced over at the bandage lying in the grass. When his gaze slid back to her, she gave him a glare.

Sighing, the man bent over to pluck the bandage from the floor. "This is my only shirt, you realize?" he said. "I don't have any others you could tear up, should you lose this."

"Oh please. You have trousers, don't you?"

The man froze. His hand fell to his belt, clutching it tightly. "You wouldn't."

"I wouldn't. But wouldn't you?"

"What does that even mean?"

Maribelle rolled her eyes. "Oh, I'm sure you'd love to tell your comrades how you 'tore up your pants for a lady', no?"

His face lit up like a candle. "No! I mean... you see..."

"Don't try to act modest. You dragged me into your bed!"

"I didn't! If anything, you dragged me!"

"That sounds nothing like me," Maribelle said. "Surely you must have heard wrong. I'd never do something so vulgar."

"Yes, well I was going to let you have the mat to yourself, but you kept insisting it was 'improper to let me sleep on the floor'."

Maribelle frowned. "Nevermind, that does sound like me. But you should have stopped me!"

"As I said, you don't hold back. When you grab on with those sharp nails of yours, you never let go."

"Too weak to pry yourself out of my grasp?"

"More like you were clinging to me, like you were afraid I'd leave you alone."

"Oh, shut your trap and come over here. My bandages won't re-apply themselves, you realize."

The man chuckled nervously. Maribelle thought the feeling was a little misplaced; if anything, she should be the nervous one, especially as he disappeared from her sight.

"Remember to shift the bandage, alright? I don't want the same bloody spot pressed to the back of my head," she said.

"Oh, yes! I remembered."

From the shuffling she saw from the corner of the eye, she could tell he hadn't. It wasn't as if she could fault him, though. She huffed, and reached down to scratch an itch on her leg.

"Is your leg alright? You're scratching it an awful lot."

"I'd know if my leg wasn't alright. As long as it's been cleaned, a little itch is nothing to fret about." Her lips pulled down after a second of thought. "I did tell you to clean my wounds, right?"

"Clean your what?" The bandage tightened around her head.

The sound that came out of her mouth felt almost inhuman. Her head snapped over to the man, her eyes burning holes into his skulls, and he backed away immediately.

"Is there something wrong?"

"You dolt! You need to clean the wound before applying the bandage so it doesn't get infected!" Maribelle took a swing at him. He leaned back, and her fist met air.

"Hey," he said, raising his hands before him, "I'm not used to dressing my own wounds."

"Really? Who? The women you seduce? Is that why you resort to philandering?"

The man looked quite taken aback by that. "Do you truly take me for someone so uncouth? Flirting is just good fun for me. Besides, I have friends." His face twisted into a grimace. "I had friends," he said a second later.

Maribelle's eyebrow shot up. "I find that hard to believe. I mean, who in their right mind would put up with your idiocy? That's what I'd like to know."

"Me too." The laugh that followed was oddly dry.

"Well? Are you going to finish, or am I going to have to spend the day with a bandage hanging halfway off my head?"

"I'll get to it, don't worry buttercup." The man leaned back over, and resumed wrapping her bandages.

A minute passed in sweet blissful silence. Every second the man kept his mouth shut was a second she didn't have to spend listening to his incessant flirting, which was why when she saw him open his mouth, she almost groaned in frustration.

"It isn't that bad, is it?"

"Oh sure, I've always wanted to have my leg hewn off. It's such a burden, having to lug around all that extra weight."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you felt that way."

Maribelle shot him a nasty look. "I wasn't being serious, you buffon!"

"You weren't?" The man blinked, and his palm came up to rest on his forehead. "My apologies. I was... a little lost in thought."

"Hah. I doubt enough goes on in that skull of yours for you to get lost in."

"Did I say lost in thought? I meant distracted by your radiance, sunshine."

"Oh, you can keep your flattery to yourself." Maribelle glanced away and sighed. "But if you must know, if you fail to clean a wound properly, an infection could spread around the wound and render it unusable. Normally, a heal staff would take care of such troubles, but I broke my last one, so unless you've got any lying around, I need to see a cleric at the next town over. And that's not taking into account any internal ailments and illnesses."

"So, it is bad."

"It wouldn't be as bad if you'd stop gawking and finish wrapping that bandage. I want to get to that town as soon as possible, you hear?"

This time, it was the man who sighed. "As you wish, buttercup."

Chapter Text

The hours stretched on for what felt like an eternity. The trees above all looked exactly the same, and nothing was entertaining about watching the dirt path beside them for rocks. With nothing else to fill her head and keep her troubled thoughts away, Maribelle found herself plagued by a single question:

"Are we there yet?"

"We're no closer than we were five minutes ago," the man above her said. "Or ten minutes before that. Or eight minutes before that."

"You make me sound like an impatient ingrate."

"Of course you aren't, buttercup! You're just a little... forgetful. That's all." His laugh was dry.

Maribelle scowled up at him. "I am not forgetful!"

"Then maybe we could talk about something else? Like... your favorite tea, perhaps?"

"My favorite tea? Well, I do enjoy a cup of chamomile in the morning."

"Really?" The man chuckled. "What a surprise. I have a friend who likes it as well. What a small world we live in!"

Maribelle crinkled her nose. "Yes, well I assume you might know how long it takes to brew? Assuming this 'friend' of yours ever had–"

Suddenly the man jerked to a stop. He held up a hand before her face, shushing her.

Her response was to scowl. "Don't shush me!"

"No no, wait; do you hear that?"

Maribelle leaned forward, but all she could hear was the faint birdsong from above them. As she craned her ear, however, a faint clicking began to emerge from the calm. Clicking, like wood against stone.

The man glanced up at Maribelle. She looked back. Together, they peered down the road as a small, horse-drawn carriage appeared behind them.

"A carriage! Oh, that will make things so much easier!"

The man chuckled. "Yeah. My arms were getting tired. It'd be a relief once I can get all this weight off me."

"Was that a jab at my weight?"

"No. No, it wasn't."

Maribelle shook her head, and she started tapping against the man's arm. "You do have enough to pay for a ride, right?"

"Ah. Well," the man said, stiffening, "I was hoping you could pay. Purse is a little tight."

Maribelle frowned, suspicious. "It may look like it, but I'm not made of gold, you know."

"I know, I know. If you're so against it, I can always sell my sword."

"No, it's fine. I won't rob you of your livelihood, I'm not a monster." A long sigh passed through her lips as she reached down into her pockets. A small bag, heavy with gold, emerged from the folds, and she showed it to the man. His smile quirked, growing a little wider.

They both looked back up, but the carriage had already passed them and was growing smaller with each passing second.

A look passed between them. That wasn't good, they knew. But shouldn't have needed to be said that it was only going to get worse if they just stood there like a pair of cows in the pasture.

The man began frantically waving his hand, taking off after it. "Hey! Over here!"

"Wait!" Maribelle yelled, keeping a tight hold around the man. "Down here!"

To their relief, the driver seemed to hear them. It slowed, and by the time they reached it, it had come to a complete halt. Quickly, the man made his way to the side of the carriage. The driver watched them approach, his hair streaked with grey as he gazed down upon them with an expectant look.

"Lost your way to the honeymoon, I assume?" he said as soon as they stopped in front of him. "Don't be embarrassed if you are. It happened to me and my wife as well."

Maribelle exchanged a look with the man. A message passed between them.

"She's just a–"

"He's my son," she blurted out.

Apparently, the message hadn't been clear enough.

Their eyes locked again. The man raised an eyebrow. Maribelle shook her head.

"Is this something I ought to be worried about?" the nobleman called from above.

"Not at all," the man said. "She's just my little sister."

"Your little sister?" Maribelle almost choked on the words.

The driver's eyes narrowed. "Really? Your 'little sister' doesn't seem too happy with the fact."

"That's because she doesn't like to be reminded. She's a little sick in the head, you see, and she thinks she's older than she is."

"I'm not crazy!"

"That's what a crazy person would say."

Maribelle threw up her free hand and groaned. At the very least he hadn't tried to question why she had wanted him silent, so there were small mercies. Very small mercies, but mercies nonetheless.

"So, I take it you want a ride?" the driver said. "Where will we be heading?"

"To the next town over," the man replied. "We're taking her to see the doctor, you see. Our mother hopes he'll be able to find a cure for her problem."

"Are you, now? Well, I know a thing or two about that town, and if anyone can find a cure for your sister, it'd be Doctor Maxie."

"Doctor Maxie, that's who we'll be seeing! Mother says he's quite the intelligent man."

"Maxie is a woman."

The man's mouth clamped shut. He opened it a second later, then stopped to consider his words. Finally, he said, "Yes. That's what I meant to say."

"Oh for–" Maribelle's face twisted into anger. "It seems I'm not the only one here who needs their head checked!"

"In any case," the man said, "if you could take us there, we'd greatly appreciate it."

"Then you're more than welcome to climb aboard, as long as you can pay for it," the driver said.

"What is your fee, then?"

"Two hundred."

The man's smile faltered. His head leaned over to Maribelle and whispered, "Is that expensive? I've never paid for a carriage before, so I wouldn't know?"

"Expensive?" Maribelle barked a laugh, unafraid of being overheard. "That's practically robbery!"

"So we shouldn't take it, then?"

In an instant, Maribelle deflated, her shoulders falling back as she slumped in his arms. "I mean, it's not as if we have any other choice." Raising her purse to his face, she muttered, "Ten coins should be enough."

Keeping an eye on the driver, the man reached into her bag and plucked the coins one by one. The driver extended a palm, and as he watched the man drop the coins into his waiting hand, he smiled.

"A man has to make a living, you know."

Maybe it was the fact that her purse felt twice as light, but for some strange reason, Maribelle suddenly found the driver's voice grating on her ears.

"Well, not all of us make it a competition to see who can take siphon as much weight from everyone else's wallets!" she snapped out.

The driver raised his hands. "Hey, I just take people from one place to another. Any gold I take," he shook his own wallet, rattling the coins inside, "is just a bonus for me."

"Oh, rub it in, will you?"

"Buttercup," the man cut her off, already stepping up to the carriage door, "let's get going, shall we?"

A bitter retort for him surged into her mouth, but she bit it down. As annoying as he could be, he was better than the driver, and any verbal lashing she gave him now would leave a bitter taste.

"Very well," she said through gritted teeth.

With his arms already occupied with holding her, Maribelle took it upon herself to pull it open for the both of them. The man carried her inside, letting her gently down onto the cushions.

The door had barely closed behind them before the carriage lurched forward. The sound of the wooden wheels rolled over the rocky path filled the cabin, jostling them as it moved along, as all of a sudden, Maribelle found herself with an extra two hundred pounds lying across her lap.

The man looked to his right, his left, then finally looked up at her. In the slowest three seconds of his life, he racked his mind for a witty response.

All that left his mouth was: "Please don't throw me."

Maribelle shrieked, and she threw him across the cabin. The man caught himself before he hit the wall. He held himself up against it, before he let himself slowly fall back into his own seat. They stared at each other for the longest time, still frozen in the moment, neither sure how to break away.

Maribelle was the first to let her gaze fall. "I'm so sorry. I was startled."

"It's fine." The man rubbed his arm. "I've felt worse."

"It's not. I should not have reacted like that, not after you covered for me. It is simply improper."

The man's lips quirked up. "Hey. Anything for you, buttercup."

"You'd say that to any girl you meet."

"I won't deny that. Unless... that bothers you in any way?"

"Gods no." Maribelle snorted. "I simply wanted to say thank you. That's all."

"It's nothing to worry yourself about. Not unless you're some sort of dangerous criminal." The man paused. "You're not, are you?"

"Well... no."

"You don't sound sure about that. If you aim to deceive, you won't be able to do it if even you don't believe your words."

"That's not it at all! It's just that... some people may not agree with that."

"So you're on the run, then?"

"From some less than reputable people, yes."

"Well then, you won't have to worry about them, buttercup! As long as I'm around, I'll keep you safe!"

"Oh, how noble," Maribelle scoffed. "I assume this is how you get other women to swoon at your feet?"

"Yeesh." The man winced. "You don't pull your punches, do you?"

"Not if it keeps away philanderers like you."

"Hah. I can see that."

Chapter Text

"We're here!"

The cabin lurched to a halt. Maribelle, having seen it from a mile away, clamped down on the side, and her arm held her in place as she jerked forward.

The man was not nearly as well prepared. With a yelp, he flew across the carriage and crashed into the opposite wall.

As he lay dazed on the floor, Maribelle leaned over him. "What's the matter? Have you never taken a carriage before?"

"No, actually," he mumbled. "How can anyone prefer this to horseback? It's much faster, and not nearly as bumpy."

"Laziness, I suppose. You wouldn't believe how many people I know who wouldn't want to put in the effort to learn how to ride a horse."

"Ugh. I don't feel well. I think I'm going to be sick."

Maribelle pulled herself away. "Well go be sick somewhere else!"

"I don't think I'll have a choice..."

"Then don't think about it! If you take your mind off it, you can hold it back!"

"As much as I'd hate to be a downer, talking about it is not going to make it any–oh gods..."

He didn't look to be bluffing, not with the way he lurched back. As she hissed, Maribelle glanced wildly about for something to make the situation better. Maybe she could give him a bag to hold it in? But the only one nearby was her purse, and just thinking about that made her queasy.

Then, an idea.

Digging past the gold coins swimming around her purse, she pulled out a smaller pouch of candy and thrust it forward. "Take these!"

"Unless it's an elixir, I think I can stomach it."

"It'll help with the sickness, dolt. Look!" Without waiting for his reply, she let a caramel roll out and into her other hand.

"Candy?"

"It's medicine."

"That looks like... caramel."

"Well, it is, but caramels can help with stomach pain." When he didn't look convinced, which was fair since she was making this up on the fly. But he didn't know that, so she added, "I studied medicine. I know what I'm talking about."

"I... I'm fine."

"Just take it!"

Maribelle tried to push out of her seat and shove it into his hands. A jolt of pain had her muscles locking up instead, and she tripped with a yelp, landing not-so-gracefully on the floor.

"Snrk."

She felt her cheeks heat up. Anyone would feel embarrassed if they were in her situation, yet that didn't stop her from feeling ashamed about it. At least her companion was polite enough to not comment.

"You know, this clumsy act suits you poorly."

Or not. At least he sounded a lot better now.

"Did that get your mind off your stomach pains?" she asked.

The man paused. "I suppose it did."

Maribelle wanted to cheer. All that came out instead was a weak groan.

From the corner of her eye, Maribelle saw movement. The carriage floor shook as the man knelt down beside her.

"Need a hand, buttercup?"

"I'm fine!"

She pushed herself off the floor. On shaky legs, she hauled herself to her feet, and once she was sure she could stand, she took a step forward.

Her wounded leg buckled. She toppled forward, her face stopping inches from the floor as two firm hands grabbed her shoulders and held her tight.

"I can handle myself," she muttered.

"Let's just err to the side of caution. I wouldn't want you to mar your... ah... pretty face."

Of course he would say something like that. Maribelle would have protested further, but the pain in her leg forced her teeth closed with a hiss.

One step at a time, he brought her out the door and back onto solid ground. Heads turned their way–after all, a horse-drawn carriage was hardly subtle, after all–but once they saw her, ragged and dirty as she was, an arm draped over the man's shoulders, most of them made the effort to hide their curiosity.

The last thing she wanted was to be seen in such a state, though she supposed people would be people. That didn't stop her from sweeping a frosty glare at all those in her line of sight.

"So... ah... where do we go?"

"Hm?" Maribelle snapped back to attention. Quickly scanning over the town center they'd found themselves in and the people wandering over it, she said, "We need to find a place to stay."

"Will that do?"

She followed his finger to a sign at the end of the street reading: "l'hotel jaune". The building behind it was far more ramshackle than she would've liked. A few of the windows were boarded up, and part of the ceiling had turned into a gaping hole.

"Absolutely not," she huffed. "Is there anywhere else we can stay?"

"I... don't think so? I mean, it isn't as if a small town like this would need a second inn."

"Fine then. Take us there."

As much as it pained her to admit, she had no other option. As run-down as it looked, it was still marginally better than spending another night in a tent with the insufferable flirt, and it was only a short walk away. She didn't want to spend the entire day dragging around a leg that hurt like nothing else.

People were sensible enough to let them through without making a fuss. No one was rude enough to trip the girl bleeding out over the road. For that, she was a little grateful, but no less irritated by the constant looks she got as they passed by, and by the time they reached the door, she could have sworn she heard someone whispering about her.

Whatever rumors they were passing along, she could only hope none of them recognized who she was.

Not that it mattered as her companion pushed the door open and led her inside.

Chapter Text

Thankfully, the only other person present was the attendant behind the desk. A girl, bored, blonde, and teetering on the verge of falling asleep. She couldn't have been much older than either of them, but all the stress lines on her face made it hard to tell.

And they certainly didn't get any lighter the second she spotted the two of them walk through the door.

Maribelle felt for the girl, she really did. As a member of the Shepherds, she had to deal with all sorts of crazy people every day, and it took a tremendous effort not to snap after the thirtieth time someone put the heal staves in the wrong box. This girl probably had to deal with much of the same, so Maribelle understood that having to talk to what she must have thought was another pair of unstable idiots was the last thing she wanted to do.

That being said, she needed somewhere to lie down, and whether she liked it or not, this girl was in the only place they could get a room in.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but the girl cut him off with a raised hand. "Don't tell me," she said. "If you're about to tell me you two are married and are here for the discount that expired a year ago, the brothel is down the road and out of the city."

"I–No, that's not what I was about to–" The man paused, taking a full minute for the right words to come to his head. "What made you think I was going to do that?"

"You can never be too safe. Not today, at least. Anyway," the receptionist sighed, "if you're not here for that, what can I do for you?"

"I'd like a room for me and my..." The man glanced down at her. "Daughter."

"What?" Maribelle hissed, up in his face in an instant. "That wasn't what we said before!"

"It wasn't?"

"If she's not your daughter, what is she?" the receptionist droned, fiddling with a key ring she'd pulled out from her desk.

Maribelle huffed indignantly. "I'm his older sister."

"I don't believe that was it either."

"Well, it's a small difference, isn't it?"

"Oh yes." The receptionist rolled her eyes. "I can see the family resemblance."

Shooting a glare at the man, Maribelle cursed. "Gods dammit. You should have dyed your hair blonde!"

"And just where would I find something to dye my hair blonde, sweetheart?" the man said, and he folded his arms.

"I don't know! You should have thought this through!"

"I should have thought this through? I don't know what else I was supposed to do back there. You wouldn't prefer I let you pass out on the street, would you?"

Beside them, the receptionist pinched the bridge of her nose. "I see I shouldn't have said that. Look," she said, "I'm not going to ask any questions. You can continue arguing about whatever this is, so long as you do it outside my earshot. Please, just get a room and get out."

After a few gold coins over the counter, the receptionist handed them a key and pointed them to their room. Maribelle didn't relax until the door was firmly shut behind them.

"Family resemblance! Why didn't I think of that?" She threw her hands up in frustration. Beneath her, the straw mattress crinkled.

"Hey now, you can't exactly blame yourself for that," the man said, leaning up against a wall. "Your head's got to be a little fuzzy from all that blood loss. Trust me, I've been there."

"You?" Maribelle looked him up and down. "I'd never have imagined."

"Trust me, sunflower, I've had my fair share of grievous injuries."

"That doesn't sound like something you should brag about."

"Oh, I'm not bragging. This one time, I had a stab wound that reached all the way through my stomach."

"That must have taken a very good cleric to fix that up for you. A wound as big as that isn't easy to fix."

"And how would you know?"

"I happen to be a cleric myself, thank you, and a very good one at that!" Then Maribelle frowned. "You're not just making this up, are you?"

"Come on, I'd never lie to someone like you!"

Maribelle groaned. "Gah! Nevermind. All this talk of bleeding out hasn't helped this wound heal any faster!" Digging a hand into her dwindling supply of gold, Maribelle piled a bunch into the palm of her hand and held them out for the man to take. "Make yourself useful and go into town. See if you can find a shop with any vulenaries in stock."

"You..." The man frowned, and he sifted the gold through his fingers. "Alright. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I won't run off with this, you have my word."

"Ah!" Maribelle straightened. "And just in case you get any ideas about running off–"

"I said I wouldn't."

"I heard you, but just in case," she said, "I'll have you know that I am a noblewoman of considerable wealth. If I make it out alive, I shall reward you handsomely."

The man blinked. "Okay," was all he had to say.

Maribelle felt like something like that deserved a little more response. Perhaps he was starstruck? Too dazed by the revelation that he had nothing to say?

The man walked back to the door, and as he pulled it open, he stopped. "What am I supposed to say if people ask questions? About you and me, I mean."

"What? Oh, tell them you are my betrothed."

The man choked. Maribelle let him, only the tiniest bit amused as she watched him stutter out, "I–I can't say that!"

"Of course you can. It's not as if it matters."

"But how am I supposed to act?"

"No different than you already are. You're already a shameless flirt, I'm sure you'll figure it out on your own."

"Well–I mean..." The man sighed. As he ran a hand through his hair, he said, "You know, all this reminds me a lot of the love stories my mother used to tell me."

"Your mother was a storyteller?"

"The best in the kingdom. She could tell all kinds of stories, but love stories were her favorite. You know, the ones where a dashing man saves a damsel in distress, they travel the world together, and by the end, they fall in love."

"Well, we're not characters in a love story, so don't get any ideas," Maribelle huffed. "I'm here because I'm wounded, and I need someone to help me get back on my feet. You're here because I'm paying you to stay."

"Oh come now, buttercup. Thinking like that's no fun. I saved you from distress, haven't I? And we've already done a bit of traveling together." He motioned around them. "We've even got ourselves a cramped room in a run-down inn that'll force us to sleep in uncomfortable proximity–a staple in my mother's love stories."

"What are you talking about?" Maribelle asked. She glanced around, and that's when she noticed that the room they were in was, in fact, rather small. They wouldn't be able to stand more than ten feet apart, no matter where they moved, and that wasn't counting for the one bed that Maribelle was sitting on.

"Oh, you did not just–"

But the man had already shut the door behind him, leaving Maribelle to boil in her anger alone.

Chapter Text

"Hey. Buttercup."

Maribelle awoke with a start. She sat up, then immediately regretted it as a lance of pain shot up her leg. She hissed, ignoring the pain as she pushed the bandage back into place.

"Oh, sorry, should I have knocked?"

Maribelle looked up. Chrom stood frozen by the doorway, a startled look of his own on his face. Maribelle's face lit up, and for a moment, she dared to hope he'd come back for her. When she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, though, he vanished, the mercenary from before standing in his place.

She tried to hide her disappointment. No need to insult him, not if he was stuck here taking care of her. The man still gave her a worried look.

"Is... is there something wrong?" he asked.

"Oh no, it's nothing," Maribelle laughed, weakly brushing him off.

"You say that, but your face tells a different story."

"I said it's nothing!" she snapped. "Now, did you get any vulneraries or not?"

The man winced. "Yeah. About that..."

"What? Were they out or something?" Maribelle huffed, turning toward the window by her side.

When she didn't receive a response, she narrowed her eyes, and she glanced back at him. He met her gaze with a guilty look, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" Maribelle groaned. "Out of all the places I could've ended up, I had to be stuck in the one town without vulneraries!"

"Ah–"

"Do you know how many places I've been to? I've visited cities and towns in Ylisse, Plegia, and Ferox. And any time I visited the shops there, do you know what was the one thing they always had in stock? Vulneraries!"

"The thing is–"

"Some of them only sold tomes, some of them only sold axes. There was even that odd shop that only sold Falchion replicas, but not once did I ever find them out of vulneraries, or concoctions, or elixirs, or any of those things! Do you know why? Because they're a necessity, that's why!"

"Ahem."

Maribelle paused. She glanced back over at the man, a flat look on his face, and it occurred to her somewhere within the fuzzy depths of her mind that he may or may not have been speaking.

"But," she cleared her throat, "I'm... letting myself get carried away here. Was there anything you needed me to hear?"

"I purchased this," he said, and he pulled out a heal staff from behind his back.

Maribelle blinked. "It's better than nothing, I suppose." She shifted her position on the bed, moving the tangle of cloth her sheets had become out from under her. "Well, don't just stand there! Bring it over."

The man shuffled over to her and held it out. Maribelle could only look unimpressed. When he looked back at her, confused, she raised an eyebrow.

"Aren't you going to use it?"

"I thought you were supposed to use it," he replied. "You said you were a healer, did you not?"

"Oh yes, and I suppose you would expect a midwife to deliver her own child, or a surgeon to cut open their own insides." Maribelle crossed her arms. "Didn't your friend ever tell you people can't use heal staves on themselves?"

"Ah... no, not really. He's not really a sociable guy," he said, reaching up to scratch behind his head.

Maribelle blinked. "Fair enough. I wouldn't want to do much talking with someone like you either."

"Hey!" The man frowned, and he waved the staff in front of her face. "Am I supposed to help or not?"

"What do you think? You won't get your payment if I'm dead!"

"Alright, alright!" The man leaned forward, irritation clear on his face. He lowered the bright blue bulb at the end over her bandage, before he stopped.

"What is it now?" she asked.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"What are–" Maribelle paused.

A bunch of things immediately came to mind. Medical terms, slight twitches, odd grips, none of which they had the time for. Healing came naturally for her now, but she couldn't, for the life of her, recall how or why those habits had been instilled into her.

"Just... uh..." Maribelle grabbed the head of the staff and waved it over her bandaged leg. "I think you want to try to push yourself through the staff."

"I'm sorry. What?"

Gripping the side of her head, Maribelle groaned. "Oh, this is going to be a pain."

The receptionist already felt a headache coming on as she trudged up the stairs. Just when she thought she could leave for the night, the inn's owner had told her two of their guests had left a sword at the front desk, and ordered her to return it to them. Why he couldn't be bothered to do it himself was beyond her.

"I don't get paid enough for this," she muttered, her foot barely grazing over the top step. "When I get there, they better open up, or I'm keeping this damn sword to myself."

Blearily, she counted the doors down the hall one by one. When she reached the end, though, she realized she'd completely forgotten which room the sword's owners had taken up and groaned. She leaned back against the wall, taking a moment to try to recall the room number from the tired depths of her mind, when she heard voices slip out from behind her.

"Just what do you think you're doing? Do you think you're going to reach anything through the fabric! Take it off first, you dolt!"

"Hey, I've never done this kind of thing before!"

"That's no excuse! Anyone could have understood– Ouch! Be more gentle with that, won't you?"

"Maybe if you stopped moving so much, I'd be able to get a better grip!"

"Oh forget it, I'll just guide you through it myself."

"Hey now, there's no need to hold my hand through the whole process. I'm not a child, you realize."

"Maybe I might have less trouble seeing that if you stopped doing everything wrong! Here, give me your staff, and–"

The receptionist pushed herself off the wall. She glanced out the window, then up at room number, confirming that, yes, this was the same couple who had checked in earlier this afternoon.

"I guess he didn't listen when I told him we needed thicker walls," she said to herself. "And I thought it would have taken at least a day for anything to happen."

Maybe she was just getting old at the ripe age of nineteen.

And with that thought, she pushed off the wall and headed back toward the stairs. The hotel owner could return the sword himself. It was time for her to leave. She had seen everything.

Maribelle hummed, impressed as she rubbed a hand over the healed skin on her thigh. "Well, I'm certainly glad that's done with."

"Yeah." The man wrung his hands and shuffled his feet. "So, how'd I do?"

"How did you do?" Maribelle tried to move her leg, and she winced when her movement came out slow and shaky. "It still feels stiff, and I can't feel anything over here... but," she added as she saw his face fall, "for someone who's never done this before, I've seen a lot worse."

"So... I did good?"

"You did fine. Stop looking so dour, mister..."

Maribelle hesitated. Suddenly, it occurred to her that she had never asked his name.

"I never did get your name, you know."

"Ah. We were in a bit of a rush, so it's no big deal."

"Please," she said. "As a noblewoman, it is only proper that I know the names of my traveling companions, even if they are only staying for pay."

"If you insist, then." The man glanced around, his eyes flitting from corner to corner, before they landed on her, deep, hazel, and almost steady. "My name," he said, "is–"

A loud crack cut him off, splitting the air like a thunder spell ripping itself apart from the inside out.

Chapter Text

Maribelle hobbled down the steps leaning against the heal staff, her companion in tow, to the scene of a disaster. People huddled behind upturned tables scattered around the room. The smell of smoke and blood lingered above them like an angry spirit. Someone lay slumped against the wall, his eyes burning with fury, pinned beneath a large wooden plank. Standing at the entrance was a sniveling and skinny man, his lips twisted into a sneer as his shrewd eyes scanned over the room. Behind him, a company of cloaked men cast shadows into the room from the setting sun, the golden lines sewn into their clothes tracing the form of an eye marking them as members of the Grimleal. A few held lances and swords. One hefted a large hammer over his shoulder.

"Good citizens of Ou D'elle," he said, grinning from ear to ear, "Fear not. I come in the name of Grima, on a simple errand." Without warning, he reached back and hauled a little girl off the floor by her collar. From nearby, her mother screamed. The girl did as well, and she kicked against his grasp. In return, the man slammed her into the wall.

Maribelle's blood boiled with anger Beside her, the man let out a gasp.

Drawing the long silver blade at his side, the bandit tilted it to rest against the struggling girl's neck. "Cooperate, and you will all leave this place alive. Resist, and she will suffer the consequences." He laughed. "None of you would dare hurt this little dear, would you? So precious, these younglings." His sword moved. The girl suddenly froze. A little line of red seeped down her neck.

"So fragile." The man's lips peeled back into a toothy smile.

Maribelle's eyes fixed on the girl, helpless and afraid. She was innocent. Whatever this man had planned, she had no part in it, and yet, she'd been dragged into this mess. Maribelle couldn't help but emphasize with her.

"W-what do you want?" the blonde attendant from before asked, half hidden behind her work desk.

The man snarled. "I want justice."

Justice? Maribelle would have laughed, if her anger hadn't trapped her words in her throat. Before she could think about what she was doing, she had taken a step forward. Her grip strangled the staff in her hands.

A hand came down on her shoulder. She looked up. The mercenary looked back, slowly shaking his head. His hand fell on his own sword, and he stepped before her.

"Wouldn't want a pretty lady like you to get your dress dirty, would you?" he said quietly.

Maribelle stared up at him in disbelief. "Really? Now?"

The man ignored her. Or maybe he wasn't paying enough attention to reply. He let out a long, nervous breath. Maribelle's gaze lingered on him, before deciding that whatever was going on wasn't worth thinking about.

A few people in the room backed away from the man at the front, an uneasy murmur weaving through them. Upon seeing their frightened faces, the man rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't worry. You pathetic lot aren't involved," he said. "At least, not yet. You see, there's someone we're looking for. A murderer hides among you, a coward who has slain one of us."

"Oh great," Maribelle muttered. "Can't I get a break around here? Out of everyone else they could have gone after, why me?"

"You?" the mercenary hissed, throwing her a glance over her shoulder. "Why would they be after you? They're after me!"

"They are?" Maribelle palmed her face. "Oh gods. I leave you alone for a minute, and you've already incited a quarrel with the local cultists. How do you mess up a simple shopping errand that badly?"

"What?! What does it sound like I did?"

"It sounds like you took a detour on your way out involving a pretty girl and murder," Maribelle said, crossing her arms.

"No! I just went to the store and back!"

Letting out a sigh, Maribelle closed her eyes. "Well, whatever the story is, I do hope cleaning up after your messes doesn't become a pattern."

That seemed to strike a nerve with him. The mercenary flinched, his easy smile disappearing for a second.

"Come on," he chuckled, looking away. "Don't be like that. It's not like it's that much of a problem."

"That much of a problem?" Maribelle's brow went up. "A company of Grimleal are here to kill us. How can you call that 'not much of a problem'?"

"I meant the mess thing," the mercenary shot back. "I've been the one helping you. There's no need for you to get involved in my business."

"There is, actually. I can't be seen with a bumbling fool like you if you irritate everyone around you like this."

"You can't call me an idiot!" he said, and he jabbed a finger at her. "I've been the one who's helped you get here. I've been taking care of you. Have you done anything, sweetheart?"

Maribelle's eye twitched. "Well, excuse me for being injured! If I were in any better shape, I'd knock some manners into you!"

"You two!" the man yelled from the other side of the room. The two of them locked their glares onto his sniveling face, and his scowl deepened. "Drop your weapons, or we'll be forced to end your pathetic lives."

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Maribelle snapped back. Her arm flicked out, hurling her heal staff across the room and impacting the man's forehead with an audible crack. For a moment, Maribelle worried that she might have thrown it a little too hard, but she caught a glimpse of red running down the side of his face, and was relieved. It was just the man's head she cracked open, not the heal stuff.

The man did not appear to share her sentiment, and he tumbled back into his own men, howling and cursing some harlot on the other side of the room. Metal clattered to the ground, tangled in limbs and weapons, and above the confusion, the man poked a finger in her direction.

"Kill her!" he shrieked.

As the few men still standing charged toward them, the mercenary eyed Maribelle. "Cleaning up my messes, was it?" he said slowly.

"Oh, shut your trap!" Maribelle shot back.

The mercenary sighed, but he still drew his sword. He had no right to be as fussy as he was; at least he still had his weapon. Maribelle's was lying next to a trembling little boy who looked to be in no shape to return it to her, so she had to make do.

The first bandit to come close was met with a wooden bowl full of soup to the face. The second, wiser bandit slowed to make room for his friend as he stumbled away. He turned back, but the mercenary leapt upon him and smacked him across with his sword.

"Hey!" Maribelle shouted as she ducked under a sword swipe. "Where do you think you're going? Come back and protect me!"

"Huh?" The mercenary spun around, confused. "What do you mean? There's hardly a foot between–"

A roar shook the room, and a third bandit came charging at them, his heavy armor clanking and thundering as he trudged forward. The mercenary stepped to the side to avoid an overhead hammer strike–

Only to realize there was now a six-foot wall of steel between him and her.

"Naga dammit!" Maribelle howled. "What did I just say! I don't even know why I'm paying you if you can't properly stay by my side!"

"Hey now." The mercenary jumped, and the armored bandit's hammer split the table he'd been standing on in two. As he landed back on solid ground, the mercenary threw a glance in her direction. "You hardly look like you need me. Maybe I did that on purpose so you didn't have to deal with my insufferable presence."

"That's not the point, idiot! You're not the one who has to deal with a deliberating injury!"

As she spoke, yet another armored bandit lumbered forward and stabbed at her with his lance. Maribelle easily avoided the clumsy blow, and the lance's head buried itself between a pair of wooden planks.

A lady always returned her favors, and Maribelle returned this one with a plate of salad over the top of his head. The bandit's helmet tolled loudly. Maribelle had to clasp her hands over her ears to keep her ears from falling off. The bandit did not have the same opportunity, and with dressing running down the side of his face, he collapsed to the floor.

The mercenary stared uselessly. "Deliberating injury? How is that–augh!"

His sword clattered to the ground. The mercenary clutched his hand, already moving away as the leader pulled his own blade back to his side. The leader of the Grimleal bandits grinned, twirling his sword, and he raised it above his head poised to strike.

"You lot!" he said, raising his voice over the chaos. "That lady looks like she'll fetch a fair ransom. I'll distract the bodyguard, while the rest of you set your sights on taking her out of the fight."

Most people would've been relieved that the bandits wouldn't be trying to kill them. Maribelle was annoyed. Chrom wasn't here, which meant she was now the most valuable person in the room, and having to deal with grabby hands was much more annoying than trying to keep one's head attached to their neck.

"You think you lot can take me?" she hissed. "I'd like to see you try!"

She certainly didn't miss the mercenary's "Oh, so now she wants to be by herself," but she graciously chose to ignore it.

Two bandits rushed at her and raised their swords to strike her down. Maribelle dove between them, grabbing one by the collar and yanked him close.

Now, Maribelle had always liked to consider herself a decent woman. Unlike the other noblewomen, she did not bring men to her room for a brief moment of fun and discard them when she was through with them–not that she'd ever met any noblewomen who were like that, but that was beside the point! Maribelle was not a harlot, so it truly pained her to do this, but just as she had picked him up, she tossed the man away and into the arms of his partner, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

A third man charged at her, arms outstretched. Maribelle glanced down, and for the first time noticed a boy cowering beneath the table, clutching a piece of bread. She knelt down, the bandit's hands swinging over her head, and held out a hand.

"You wouldn't mind terribly if I borrowed that, would you?" she asked.

The boy glanced at her hand, then tentatively placed the bread in her grasp. Maribelle thanked him and stood up as the bandit charged at her again. Her boots squeaked as she twirled beneath his clumsy grab and thrust the bread into his mouth. The bandit blinked, shocked. That was all Maribelle needed to pull back and bury her fist into his gut.

The bread flew out of his mouth, all the air expelled from the bandit's lungs in a single blow. His sword clattered to the ground, his hands on his stomach as he gasped for breath. Maribelle, generous as she was, let him take one as she grabbed the lance stuck in the floor, pulled it back, and let go, sending the haft springing back into the man's face, knocking him out in a single blow.

Maribelle had anticipated that, relaxing her stance as soon as she saw him go down. What Maribelle hadn't anticipated, however, was for the force of the spring to tear it free, sending it twirling into the air and smacking her in the eye.

Crying out in pain, Maribelle stumbled back, tripped, and fell, landing on her rear as her hands flew to her eye. She glanced back to see how the man was doing just in time to see him vault over a table as an Elfire spell burnt it to cinders, kick a chair into the bandit leader, slash a second bandit in half, and use the armored bandit's hammer as an axle to kick him in the face.

She didn't have to have the eyes of an archer to see that he was struggling. His shirt was torn in several places, and one of the brutes had ripped his sleeve right off, not to mention his shoulders heaved as he fought to catch his breath and how he was leaning ever so slightly to the left.

To be fair to him, she didn't think even Chrom could take this many foes at once. Gods, even Lon'qu wouldn't be able to take this many enemies at once without this much strain, and he was the best swordsman she knew. Maybe putting him on the same level as Lon'qu was perhaps a tad ridiculous, but he was so very close, and Maribelle was not stingy enough to ignore that.

Still, she supposed she should step in to help–once this was done, he was likely to come crying to her for healing, so it was in her best interests to make sure he did not have to suffer any more wounds than he already had.

"Hey! You lot!" she hollered, plucking the iron lance off the floor and. "Look my way!"

Only the bandit mage stopped to glance her way. That meant he would die first. Maribelle drew back, stepped forward, and threw. The lance sailed through the air, over the tables, and clattered at the mage's feet.

Well, I just feel pathetic, she thought.

The mage probably thought so too. He raised his right hand, fire magic gathering in his palm, and with a shout, thrust it forward. Maribelle hurled herself to the floor, hissing as the wooden floorboards scraped her delicate skin as the Elfire spell flew overhead. She reached out, her fingertips touching the end of the iron lance, only for a shadow to cast over her.

Maribelle rolled to the side. A boot crashed down where her hand had been moments later. She looked up. Apparently the Grimleal leader had broken away while her mercenary had been busy with the armored Grimleal, so he was her problem now. How typical.

"Not so high and mighty now, are you?" he sneered down at her. "This is where harlots like you belong–on your knees!"

Again, she rolled to the right as the leader's foot stamped down again. "As if you would know," she snapped back, and she pushed herself off the ground and jumped her feet–it was just her luck that she'd done so right into the path of an oncoming Elfire spell.

Red-hot flames splashed over her face, sending her staggering back with a cry. She could feel her hair singed, and when she tried to suck in a breath, all she got was a mouthful of smoke. Gods, that mage is a nuisance, she thought, wiping the ash from her face.

The boards creaked in front of her again–the Grimleal leader making another grab for her, no doubt. Maribelle ducked, and as she opened her eyes, she saw the bandit fumble over her. If she'd still had her lance with her, she could have killed him. Instead, she settled for driving her skull into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him in one blow.

As the Grimleal leader stumbled back, gasping for air and cursing her name, she turned her attention to the mage. Already, he was preparing another spell to send her way. Maribelle narrowed her eyes. She knelt down, picked up the lance from the floor, and charged.

"Elfire!" the mage shouted, and magic burst from his fingertips. This time, Maribelle raised her arms to block. The attack singed, and the pain burned hot, but it was over in a moment.

The mage's eyes widened. Maribelle smirked back. That'll show him!

"Elfire!" Again, he cast a spell. Again, Maribelle blocked it. The mage stumbled back, only to hit a wall. He raised his right hand to cast another spell.

Maribelle cut him off by driving her lance through his left shoulder and pinning him to the wall. The Grimleal cried out, and his Elfire tome fell to the floor. His free hand reached up to tug the weapon free. Maribelle was glad to help him, if only so she could finish him off, but when she tried to tear the weapon out of the wall, it refused to budge. Scowling, she planted a foot on the Grimleal mage's chest and tried again, and again, it would not move.

Oh, you must be joking! she said to herself. I refuse to believe I cannot tear a stupid lance out of a stupid wall! It must be my wounds that are weakening me, that must be it!

A board creaked behind her. Too late did she remember the Grimleal leader. She spun around just in time to see him lunge for her.

Then, he stopped, looked down, and saw the tip of a sword through his chest. Her mercenary flourished his sword, dislodging the body as he stepped back to her side.

"Hey there, buttercup," he said with a smirk. "Why the long face? There's no need to fear when I'm around."

Never in her life had she actually been so glad to see him–and she certainly wouldn't start now. With a huff, Maribelle turned her nose up and replied, "What took you so long?"

The mercenary's smirk faltered. "Sorry, I was a little distracted," he muttered. "How's your day been?"

"Absolutely dreary."

"Oh, that's no good." The mercenary's eyes flicked over her shoulder, and she followed his gaze to find the armored bandit lumbering toward them. A glint in his eye, the mercenary leveled his sword at the bandit and said, "Then, how about we finish him off and be done with today?"

"That sounds lovely," Maribelle hissed, lowering her stance.

The mercenary twirled his sword once, then lunged at the bandit. The Grimleal bandit roared and swung his hammer across, but the mercenary ducked under it and stabbed him in the chest. To anyone else, such a blow would have been fatal. The mercenary's sword just glanced off his armor like it was nothing, and he had to duck away to avoid a backhand aimed for his face.

Well of course that's not going to work, Maribelle thought, rolling her eyes. Physical weapons are ineffective against armor; unless you have a hammer of your own, or an armorslayer, you might as well give up. Magic, on the other hand...

Her eyes fell to the Elfire tome on the floor. Slowly, she reached down to pick it up.

It was then that the bandit mage chose to remind her that she had not, in fact, finished him off by kicking the Elfire tome out of her reach. Had she the means to kill him, she would have–instead, she settled for glaring up at him, as if her gaze alone could burn him alive.

"Is there truly no limits to how much of a nuisance you can be?" she said.

The bandit just spat in her face. "You'll get what's coming to you, noble brat."

"I'll show you what's coming!" she shot back, and she kicked him in the shins.

To her knowledge, riding boots were not any harder than normal boots, save for around the heels and the ankles, but from the way his bones cracked and the way he howled, one might have thought she was wearing steel-toed boots.

His own fault for not having stronger shins, she thought as she left him behind to grab the tome.

Lifting it off the floor, Maribelle took a moment to dust the cover–after all, who knew where the poor book had been–but when she turned around to see how the mercenary was doing, she saw the mercenary flung across the room, crashing through one of the tables beside her.

Just a few feet away, the armored bandit stood in the middle of a splintered mess, his arm extended from where he'd thrown the mercenary. His eyes landed on her, then on the tome she was holding. Maribelle gulped.

Then, with a roar, the bandit charged at her. Yelping, Maribelle flipped open the book and held out her palm. Fire magic gathered at her fingertips. The bandit raised his hammer over his head. Maribelle jumped to the side and thrust her hand out. The bandit swung.

Splinters rained down on her, a hole in the floor where she'd been seconds before. Beside the bandit's head, the roof exploded.

She'd just panicked and missed. That was no big deal. She just needed another opportunity to fire off another spell.

From the look the bandit was giving her, she was not going to get that chance.

She ducked under another swing, then sidestepped a third. Maribelle raised her arm, but the bandit batted it aside with his free hand and kicked her into a wall. Dust showered down into her hair, and Maribelle gasped in pain as splinters dug into her back. She tried to push herself off, and it was then that the wound in her leg decided to act up, shooting pain up her leg and causing her legs to buckle beneath her. Her hand flew to her leg in a poor attempt to brace it and bring her back to her feet, but when she looked up, she was just in time to catch the bandit raise his hammer over his head.

Suddenly, the mercenary appeared at her side, pushing her out of the way. Maribelle watched, horrified as the bandit swung his hammer down onto him. She saw the weight crush his chest, heard his ribs crack beneath the weight as he screamed in pain.

"No!" she cried out.

Again, the bandit ripped his hammer out of the floor. He turned to face her and raised it to crush her too. Maribelle was much faster this time–before he could blink, she thrust herself into his arms and planted her hand over his face.

"Elfire!" she yelled, and fire magic came gushing out of every open slot in his helmet like water from a sponge. The bandit screamed once, then collapsed to the ground in a heap.

Slowly, Maribelle stepped away from the smoldering pile at her feet. She looked around, her heart in her chest and magic already primed in her hands, but the only bandits she could find were those laid at her feet, either groaning in pain or dead. The townsfolk around her emerged from beneath the rubble one by one, disbelieving that it was all truly over.

If Maribelle was being honest, she wasn't so sure herself–but it was true. They had won.

Then she remembered the mercenary at her feet and gasped. She looked down, worried, but her mercenary groaned and waved a hand at her to signal he was still alive. Not very well, from how much blood she could see pooled beneath him, but alive.

Sighing, she walked over to where she'd thrown her heal staff at the beginning of the fight and picked it up, but when she returned, her mercenary waved her away.

"Others..." he wheezed out. "Check others... first..."

"You're one to talk," she snapped back. "You've... what, three broken ribs?"

"Four. And I–" Her mercenary cut off with a wince. "I've had worse."

"I'm sure you have," she rolled her eyes–but even she could tell how fake that sounded. He was clearly in pain, and she never thought she'd ever find herself admitting it, but...

"Damn it!" she shouted, stomping her foot. "Just let me heal you, you dolt!"

Her mercenary blinked, taken aback for a moment. He hadn't expected her outburst, and frankly, neither had she. Maribelle glanced away, which perhaps made it even more awkward, but as she watched the townspeople speak amongst themselves, checking if everyone was okay, she refused to wipe the worry from her face.

At last, her mercenary sighed. "Alright. Only for you, buttercup," he said.

Kneeling down beside him, Maribelle carefully rolled him over and began her work. Truly, this had to be one of the most dreadful days she'd had in a while.

But, if she was being truthful, she did not hate everything about it.

Chapter Text

"You're a fool."

"Hey, we all do stupid things in the name of love, don't we?"

Maribelle rolled her eyes. Of course he'd say something asinine like that–at this point, she was too used to it to give it much mind.

"Please do not speak," she said, tapping her mercenary on the head with her heal staff, "or the wounds will heal in odd angles."

It wouldn't, but he wouldn't know that, so he shut up in an instant.

Okay, maybe I was lying when I said I was completely used to it, Maribelle thought, suppressing her smirk as she raised her staff over his stomach.

Now, Maribelle considered herself by no means an amateur healer–the Shepherds could attest to that, after she'd saved their own lives countless times–but with the odd way the heal staff was bent, she could not get her full power through. It was not broken, and thank goodness for that, since that meant she could still use it plenty of times, but the strange shape did no favors in conducting the flow of magic, and as she pulled it away from her mercenary's chest, she could still see a few bruises on his ribs.

Maribelle frowned. No, that would not do. She attempted to try again, but a faint throbbing at the back of her head told her that any more, and she would use more energy than she had left. With her wounds still healing, she didn't feel that was a risk she wished to take.

"So, what's the situation, doc?" her mercenary asked.

"It will need a bit longer to fully heal," Maribelle replied, and as she set the staff down on the table beside the bed, she reached over to pull out a damp towel from a nearby pail she'd borrowed from the innkeeper and dabbed it over his skin. "Until then, I would recommend against any sudden movements for a while, lest you pull the newly healed skin. It is not my best job, I will admit, but it shall hold you together until the morning."

As soon as she had placed the towel back in the bucket, her mercenary sat up and stretched. "Really now? Don't sell yourself short, sunshine; I feel as good as new!"

"Don't–"

But of course, he did not listen, swinging his arms from side to side until Maribelle heard something pop. Her mercenary winced, and with a frustrated groan, Maribelle pushed him back onto the bed.

"You truly do not think before you act, do you?" she said, tapping him on the head again.

Her mercenary winked. "I'm a man who thinks from the heart."

"And one of these days that's going to lose you your head. Look where that got you!" Sighing, Maribelle turned away and slumped against the wall. Quietly, she added, "You didn't have to do it, you know?"

Her mercenary blinked. "What? Save you? Come on, you know I'd do anything for you, buttercup."

She did not doubt that, but– "You're supposed to take care of me!" she said, turning around with a huff. "Not the other way around. Who ever heard of the wounded tending to the wounded?"

Her mercenary blinked. Then, he looked up at the ceiling, and he hummed. "I suppose we'll just have to take care of each other. What do you say?"

"It's not as if I've any other choice, do I?" Again, Maribelle sighed. "At least it's more than my friends have done for me."

It'd only been a day, and perhaps it had been because everything had been so hectic, but she did not forget how the other Shepherds had left her behind. Were they looking for her now? Clearly, they weren't–if they had, they might have found her by now.

"Aw, why the long face?" her mercenary said. "Cheer up! We made it out in one piece, didn't we?"

"We did. I'm sorry if I seem ungrateful, I truly am–without you, perhaps there would not be as much reasons to have such cheer."

"Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart. You pack quite a punch for a noble lady–who knew such a dainty lady could fight with wits as sharp as her tongue? Anyone would be a fool not to admire a lady of so many talents."

"Oh, of course they would," Maribelle said, running a hand through her hair. "I'm not blind to not recognize my own best qualities."

"And what stunning qualities they are! Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd have thought you the princess of Ylisse herself!"

That one actually got to her a little. Perhaps Lissa would not mind being compared, but if Maribelle had to be completely honest... it was nice. Just a little.

"You flatter me," Maribelle said with a huff.

"When have I ever? I speak only the truth."

Maribelle folded her arms across her chest and glowered at him. "Then shall you allow me to speak frankly? Do not ever pull something like that again! If you get hurt, and I cannot heal you, who shall I rely on to help me get around, hm?"

The mercenary hummed. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you really do care about me, don't you?"

Maribelle blinked, taken aback. "I–is that what it sounds like? I don't. Not at all!"

"Oh, come on. Just admit it, you like me."

"I don't!" Maribelle said, turning away. "You are simply the only person I know in this town. If anything happened to you, I'd be–"

Upset? Well, of course she would be upset, who wouldn't be? Without him, she would be defenseless and alone, and anyone would want to avoid that. She simply cared for him as much as she simply despised the alternative of being completely alone.

Something in her head told her that wasn't the entire reason.

Thankfully, a knock on the door snapped her out of it before she could wonder why that was. She opened the door without much thought–only to remember that she'd placed the pail next to the door as she was swinging it open. She reached out to stop it, but she was too late to stop the door from hitting the bucket and knocking it over, spilling water all over her dress.

The old man on the other side of the door, who Maribelle recognized as the inn's owner, stopped and stared. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asked after a moment.

Maribelle did not dare look down at the sopping mess between her legs, but she was sure she must have looked awful, like a wet rat climbing out of a river–not at all benefitting a noblewoman of Ylisse! She couldn't be seen looking like this!

Maribelle puffed out her chest in an attempt to regain some of her dignity. "You are," she said

"Not at all," the mercenary said.

Maribelle shot him a frantic look and shushed him. Apparently, the mercenary did not get the memo, and he frowned back. "Are we?"

Maribelle hissed and nodded her head.

The mercenary blinked, thought about it, then shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "We were having a private moment. Do you think you could come back in a few minutes?"

Never in her life had Maribelle wanted to strangle someone so much. She turned back to the innkeeper, but before she could speak, the innkeeper gave her an understanding nod.

"Ah, I see. Take as long as you need, then," he said, waving a hand back at them as he turned away. "Take as long as you need, there's no need to rush. It can wait until after you're done."

"No, wait! We're not–"

But the innkeeper had already disappeared from sight and down the stairs.

Slowly, Maribelle turned back to the mercenary, her face bright red. It was only now that the mercenary seemed to realize something was up, and he frowned.

"What's up, buttercup? Was it something I said?" he asked.

Maribelle closed her eyes. She took a deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Maybe, just maybe, if she did this long enough, she could calm herself down.

It didn't work.

"I'll show you private moment, you pig-headed dolt!" she howled.

The mercenary's eyes widened. "Wait, I didn't mean–what about no sudden movements?!"

But it was too late. With a screech, Maribelle lunged for him, and that was the last anyone ever heard of the man for the next five minutes.

Chapter Text

Maribelle could care less about the looks the innkeeper gave her as she and her mercenary hobbled down the stairs.

Was what she would have said, were her face not thirty shades of red right now. Truly, she'd have thought the opinions of a few peasants would have mattered so much to someone of her standing, but shame cared not for age, allegiance, or social status, and here she was, trying to hide herself from a few peasants she would likely never see again after a week.

She would have spoken up to clear up the misunderstanding, but she feared that trying to explain things would simply look like a desperate attempt to save face and would have merely embarrassed her more.

"I trust your private business is over and done with? I do hope our accommodations are to your liking," the owner said, offering her a sly wink.

Scowling, Maribelle replied, "What I think of your business shall remain the same as what you think of mine: private."

"I don't know how private it is, considering how loud you are," the girl behind the counter mumbled as she sorted coins into piles.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

Beside her, the mercenary made an understanding sound. "Oh, was that what it was? You thought her and I were having–"

For all that she said about not pulling any muscles, Maribelle elbowed him hard enough she could have sworn she heard bones snap. Bones could be healed. Her pride could not.

"I hope you've a better reason for calling me and my–" Pausing, Maribelle gave her mercenary a once over as he doubled over in pain. "–my associate down than to ask for a service review, or I can assure you I shall spare you none of my opinions of your meddling."

Grabbing onto a nearby table, her mercenary gave her a look. "Associate? You're too sweet."

"Keep that attitude, and you shall be demoted to servant."

"As if I'm not already?"

Clearing his throat, the hotel owner said, "It sounds like you've certainly gotten your money's worth from him."

"Oh, I wish," Maribelle huffed.

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" her mercenary said, and he motioned to himself. "You're getting all this and more for the low, low price of free."

"Lower your prices, and perhaps I'll reconsider," Maribelle shot back.

The girl behind the counter cleared her throat, bringing them both back to the room as she pushed the coins off to one side. "If you two are going to continue flirting, do you think you can take it back to your room?"

"F–flirting?" Maribelle sputtered. "We are not–"

"Aw, if you wanted to, you should have just asked," her mercenary said with a cattish grin.

"You'll stay as quiet as you can before I undo all my hard work on your ribs, dolt!" Shaking her head and trying to suppress the flush on her face, Maribelle turned back to the hotel owner and straightened out her frilly jabot. "I'm terribly sorry, you were saying something?"

She could see the hotel owner visibly trying to suppress his laughter. Maribelle, being the pinnacle of ladylike grace that she was, ignored it.

"Sorry," he said, shaking his laughter off. "I'm sure I'm responsible for sidetracking you both. I'm merely jesting–I would not hope to antagonize you both after all you've done for us."

"What we've done?"

"Yes." To her surprise, the hotel owner bowed his head toward her. "Truly, I do not know what we would have done with the Grimleal without you two."

Maribelle ducked her head and laughed nervously. "Oh, I don't know about that," she said. After all, it was her fault that the Grimleal had come looking for them, and without the two of them, they likely would have continued their lives as normal.

"No need to be so humble," the hotel owner said. "I can't imagine we'd still be alive if you had not been here."

"I'd imagine this place would be a whole lot cleaner though," the girl behind the counter muttered.

Maribelle winced at that too, taking a look around. Upturned tables, smoldering holes in the walls, a splotch of dressing on the floor where she'd bashed in a bandit's head with a salad bowl. A sight like this, she'd expected from someone such as Vaike, but surely she could solve problems with much less mess.

Apparently not, she thought sourly. Truly, I must have cost this poor man dearly. Perhaps I ought to be a bit more careful next time.

As if sensing her worries, the hotel owner waved her aside with a grin. "Don't worry about that, miss. Tables can be paid for in gold. Lives cannot. We truly are in your debt."

Then he paused. The way he paused after that made Maribelle think he had been buttering her up for something–it was something she'd grown used to in the courts of Ylisse, so she'd gained a knack for picking it up. It did not please her that their thanks had to come with a caveat, but it pleased her much less that he seemed intent on making her wait.

"Well?" she said, huffing. "Out with it. How would you like my associate and I to repay you for the damages we've caused?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing of that sort," the hotel owner said, shaking its head. "We're truly grateful for all your help. We wouldn't hope to force you to make repairs on our behalf, but..."

"But?"

"Not everyone made it out of the fight completely unscathed. I did not wish to bother you two, because you seemed busy at the time, but there are a few wounded from the sudden attack, and we have not had a cleric to attend to us for the past few months after Walhart's draft. You wouldn't mind–"

"Helping tend to the wounded? Not at all," Maribelle said, hopping to her feet. "Though I am afraid that I am dealing with my own wounds at the moment, and I do not know how effective I shall be."

"Is that so? I'm sorry to hear that," the hotel owner said, eyes to the floor. "We're not a very big village, you see, so any hands we cannot put to work is a huge blow. I shall not force you to overwork yourself."

A stronger woman might have brushed it off. A heartless one, too. Maribelle was neither, and with a sigh, she said, "Worry not, my associate here has been trained in how to use a heal staff. Shall I be unable to heal everyone, he shall assist me."

"I will?" The mercenary turned to her, baffled. Marieblle rolled her eyes in reply.

"You helped heal me, didn't you? This shall be more of the same. Do not worry, I shall be there to guide you, should you need it."

"Oh. That's–" Her mercenary gulped. "I shall give it my best effort."

Nearby, the hotel owner clapped his hands. "That's wonderful to hear! I shall tell the mayor that you agreed to help! She will be pleased to hear this!"

As he rushed out the door, Maribelle turned to her mercenary and said, "Be a dear and fetch the heal staff from upstairs, won't you?"

"Are you sure about letting me help?" the mercenary asked, frowning.

"Oh, don't worry. In a village this small, I am sure I shall be more than enough to heal everyone here, wounds or not. You shall not have to heal a single person–don't you worry about it!"

Maribelle was not prone to overestimating her abilities. She'd have expected something like that out of Virion or Robin, but she liked to believe she was above such foolishness.

Truly, her wounds must have affected her sense of thought more than she'd thought, because she could barely finish healing the second person before she could feel herself on the verge of blacking out.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" her mercenary asked, gripping her shoulder. Huffing, Maribelle brushed him off.

"I'm fine," she said. "I can do one more."

"And you say I'm arrogant."

That got Maribelle to pause. Call her childish, but she briefly debated on handing over her duties simply to prove him wrong. It was a game with no winning: she could keep her pride and keep going, or relent and take a break–and to give her credit, if he'd wanted her to stop, aggravating her would have worked more than simply telling her to stop.

As much as she hated to admit it, he was right to do so, and perhaps more clever than she'd given him credit for, so with a sigh, she thrust the heal staff into his hands.

"Fine. You finish what I started, then, if you're so sure about yourself." There were only three people left–as the hotel owner had said, this was a small village, so there weren't that many people to tend to begin with.

Again, he frowned at her. "You're sure I can do this, right?"

"Of course," Maribelle said, waving him aside as she gently let herself sit on the ground beside him. "You had me as a teacher, after all. Even you can't possibly muck it up." Then, a thought crossed her. Slowly, she pushed herself up and gave him a good, long look. "Are you sure you can do this?"

The mercenary laughed just a bit too hard. "Me? Of course! The girls love a man who can handle his staff." Then he paused. "That sounded stranger than I'd intended."

"So now he notices!" Maribelle raised her arms helplessly and huffed. "You remember everything I taught you about using the staff earlier today?"

The mercenary just smirked back, twirling the staff. "Really now? You'd think I'd forget your sweet words, sunshine?" Then he paused. "But, just in case, you wouldn't mind repeating it, would you?"

Groaning, Maribelle pushed herself to her feet and wobbled back to his side. She supposed she could have just left him to flounder, but what kind of a lady would she be if she were petty enough for that?

"Here," she said, grabbing his hands and pulling him over to the next wounded person, a man laid on a stretcher on the grass. As she guided the end of the staff over the gash across his leg, brushing aside the man's bandages as she did, she asked, "You remember what I told you about visualizing the flow?"

"H–huh?" When she looked over at him, her mercenary seemed oddly flustered. Maribelle wasn't quite sure why that was and, deciding that it was not important right now, brushed it aside as she pulled him closer.

"Close your eyes, and breathe slowly," she said, going back on the visualizations they'd decided on back in the hotel room. "Imagine the magic flowing inside you and push it through the staff. You got that?"

The mercenary pulled a face. "You wouldn't mind slowing down for me, would you?"

Maribelle rolled her eyes, but because she was so patient, complied, speaking more slowly this time. "As you breathe in and out, imagine the magic flow within you rising and ebbing as the sea would. This magic circulates within your body with every breath you take. Watch it rise and ebb, let it flow within your body as a stream would on a riverbed. Guide that stream to the tips of your fingers, into the staff, and–"

She cut off as a blue light began to bleed through the end of the staff and spill onto the man's wounds. As she watched, she saw the man's wounds begin to close. Beside her, the mercenary gasped. "Well, would you look at that!" he said quietly. "I really can do it..."

"Yes, try not to be so impressed with yourself," Maribelle said, rolling her eyes as she finally let him go, stumbling back to her place on the grass. "As soon as you finish up, you shall return me to our room so I may retire for the night. So don't take too long, do you hear me?"

"I'll try!" she heard her mercenary say as he finished tending to the man's wounds, and he moved onto the wounded girl beside him. As she watched, he knelt down beside the girl and gave her a wink.

"Hey there! I hope you don't mind if I tend to you, sweetheart," he said.

The girl whimpered. "Will I be okay?" she asked.

"Of course you'll be okay," the mercenary replied. "A girl blessed with a pretty face like yours? Surely the Gods must be looking out for you, so keep your chin up and have a little more faith in yourself, okay? Tell you what, if you turn out just fine, how about I buy you a pastry to make you feel better, how does that sound?"

The girl giggled, and Maribelle, watching from a distance, rolled her eyes. Were she a simpler girl, perhaps such charms would have also worked on her, but she had much more to worry about.

She heard the grass rustle beside her. Curious, Maribelle looked to the side, and she was surprised to see the hotel owner settle in beside her.

"I truly am sorry to ask so much of you, after all you have done for us," the hotel owner said.

Maribelle let out a long sigh. "It's no trouble for me, really. I am a healer by profession, it is my duty to help those in need."

"I see." The hotel owner then turned to watch her mercenary as he moved on to tend to the last patient, another girl on the road, and hummed. "But is it his?"

Maribelle shrugged. "If he is here, it would be a waste to not make him useful."

"And with no hesitation, too. He's a loyal one, your assistant."

"Quick to pick up on things, too. He really would be admirable if he weren't so shameless."

"Shameless? Is that how you see it?"

There was something in the way that he said that that tipped Maribelle off. Narrowing her eyes, she glanced over at the hotel owner and said, "His incessant flirting is annoying and empty. If that is not shameless, I don't know what is."

"I don't know about that. Would it be empty if he is willing to throw himself in front of you without a second thought?"

"Well, of course," Maribelle replied. "He would put himself in danger for anyone, that idiot. The way he treats me is no different than the way he treats anyone else."

But still, even as the words came out of her mouth, she couldn't help but wonder, were his words truly as aimless as she kept insisting? If he truly meant what he kept saying... what would that mean for her?

Beside her, the hotel owner shrugged. "Well, however you would like to see it, I think you are truly lucky to have him."

With a huff, Maribelle pushed herself off the grass, deciding to let that be that. If he wasn't going to listen, then she might as well get going, especially since it seemed that her mercenary had finished healing the last of the wounded. Besides, as far as she was concerned, she still had eyes for Chrom. As she made her way over, she managed to pick out the end of their conversation.

"–and the bear said to the goldfish, 'I thought you said you would be the bait!' "

The girl snorted at what Maribelle had to assume was some sort of punchline, and as she did, Maribelle realized that she recognized her as the girl who she had saved from the Grimleal earlier. As much as she was relieved to know she was alright, she was even more eager to get back and rest, so she shook the mercenary's attention back to her.

"You're finished, aren't you?" she said with a huff. "If you've no more business, then why don't you help bring me back to the room?"

"You're leaving already?" a woman said beside the girl–a woman who Maribelle had not noticed as she'd made her way over here. "That's a shame. I'd have hoped I'd have a little more time to thank you two."

Maribelle blinked. "I'm sorry if this may come off as rude, but who are you?"

The woman bowed her head with a smile. "I'm sorry I haven't introduced myself. I am this girl's mother," she said, motioning to the wounded girl, "and I am also the mayor of this small settlement. Truly, we owe you a great debt for your service."

Maribelle and the mercenary exchanged looks.

"Oh no, we simply–"

"It's not like we could've–"

They said at the same time, before stopping to look at each other again. Her mercenary motioned for her to speak, so Maribelle cleared her throat and said, "Do not feel indebted to us, we are merely passing through and just happened to be in the right place."

"Still, it would not be polite to let you leave without paying you back." Shaking her head, the mayor said, "I'm afraid we do not have much in the way of gold to repay you, but there is a festival happening next week. If you can stay a bit longer, we would be more than pleased to have it in your honor."

"I don't see why–"

"Oh, we can't impose–"

Again, Maribelle and the mercenary stopped and glanced at each other. With a sigh, Maribelle reached out, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him close.

"I can't stay here for long, you know," she hissed. "I've friends I must catch up to!"

"Oh come on, one more week won't kill you!" her mercenary replied. "I bet you've never been to a festival out of the castle, have you?" From the way she huffed, he could likely tell she hadn't. "They'll have food and dancing; it'll be fun, I promise!Besides, surely your friends would notice if someone threw a big celebration in your honor."

That... was actually a fair point. Maribelle tried to tell herself that it would make more sense to just move on as soon as they could, but there was a part of her that, after all this fighting and all this stress, having a bit of fun couldn't hurt.

"Fine," she said after a moment of thought, turning to the mayor. "I shall humbly accept your offer."

The mayor clapped her hands. "I'm happy to hear that!" Turning to the few people who had gathered around the clearing, she said, louder, "Everyone! These two have helped save us from a Grimleal menace! We owe them a debt of gratitude. As such, the summer festival that we will be holding in a week's time will be held in honor of–" Then, she paused, and leaned down to whisper to Maribelle and the mercenary. "I'm terribly sorry, but in all this excitement, I don't believe I got either of your names. What were they again?"

"Maribelle."

"Inigo."

Clearing her throat, the mayor continued, "This week's summer festival will be held in honor of Lady Maribelle and Sir Inigo!"

As cheers rose from the crowd. Maribelle paused. She glanced over at her mercenary–Inigo, and thought, Inigo? That doesn't sound like a Valmese name at all.

She pondered on this, before deciding that, as long as he did what he was told, it likely wasn't a big deal after all.

Chapter Text

This was a very big deal.

Inigo had no idea how the very nice lady–Brady's mother, he reminded himself–thought otherwise, but then again, she likely had no idea who he was, helping herself onto the room's one bed like nothing had changed.

Inigo missed when he'd known no better. Ignorance was bliss, after all. And he'd flirted with her too, oh Gods he'd flirted with her! The others always said he would flirt with just about anything and everything, and he'd gone and tried to make moves on a woman old enough to be his mother. Obviously because she was friends with his mother, but...

No, no. She couldn't be that much older than him. Not in this timeline, anyway. And it wasn't like he'd done anything weird yet, aside from maybe risk erasing this timeline's Brady by accident. Of course, Brady's mother wasn't that shallow that she'd fall for his stupid tricks–but he didn't want to risk erasing one of the few friends he had left!

His friends could not find out about this, or he would hear no end to it from them! Don't alter the timeline this, don't bed my mother that... He was going to take this to his grave. But would Brady's mother?

As Inigo watched Maribelle throw herself onto the bed again from his chair on the other side of the room, he winced.

No, of course she wasn't. If she acted anything like this when she was with the Shepherds, she was sure to blab. Not that he could fault her for that–he loved a good gossip as much as anyone else–but when it was sure to bite him in the ass...

Inigo cleared his throat. "Hey, Miss Maribelle?"

Brady's mother looked back at him and batted her eyelashes. "Yes, dear?" she asked.

"When we–that is to say, when you–get back with... the others. You won't say anything about me, will you? A man's got to keep his secrets." He winked, then immediately cringed. So much for not trying to bed Brady's mother. He'd done it out of habit, he'd swear it!

"Oh, is that what this is about?" she said, her voice sounding just an octave too high. "Of course not. I can respect a man's needs just as much as anyone else. Can't you?"

"Okay. That's good. Great, even!" Clearing his throat again, Inigo reached up to adjust his collar–not that it needed adjusting or anything, but it was something to do. "I–if you'll excuse me, I need to take a breath of fresh air."

"Do you, now?" There was something about the way she said it that said he'd missed something important.

Inigo pointed at her. "You're hungry."

Brady's mother frowned. "No."

"You're thirsty?"

"No." Her foot tapped against the floor.

Inigo paused, thought really hard, then said, "You're having your time of the month."

That remark earned him a thrown boot to the face. "No!" Maribelle said, and she kicked the bed. "I want you to help me get back in bed!"

Inigo's face flushed, and he stumbled back. "But–but why?"

Maribelle just tapped the side of her wounded leg. "I won't be asking if I could do it myself, dolt! Unless I am to sleep on the floor tonight."

"No, no. I'll help, I'll help!"

Inigo tripped over his own boots as he rushed to her side–if anyone else had seen him, they would hardly believe he was a trained dancer. He got as far as placing his hands under her before he realized what he was doing and hesitated. Was he really about to lift up his friend's mother and put her to bed?

Then he looked up and caught Maribelle's scalding glare, and decided that, yes, he was. Brady would kill him if he ever found out, but Brady's mother would kill him right now if he didn't.

Inigo hooked an arm under hers, and another arm under her legs. Maribelle yelped as he swept her off her feet. Inigo tried to ignore that. In hindsight, he probably should have given her a warning first.

Carefully, but not too slowly, he lowered her down onto the bed. As soon as he pulled his arms out from her, Maribelle opened her mouth, but Inigo dashed out of the room as fast as his two left feet could carry him, slamming the door shut behind him and throwing his hands up over his face to hide the growing heat creeping up his neck.

He just did that. Oh Gods, he just did that. Why did he ever agree to this? Why did he agree to keep doing this? Why were her clothes so soft?

Of course, she was a Ylissean noblewoman, so it shouldn't have surprised him that she would wear such nice clothes, but when he actually got to hold her close, a voice in his head urged him to never let go.

Inigo drew a deep breath. Slowly, the heat faded from his cheeks, and he let out a sigh.

He'd thought it strange to meet a Ylissean noblewoman out in the wilderness of Valm, at first. Of course, who wouldn't? But then again, he'd assumed she was maybe an emissary, or someone's wife. The possibility that she could have been with the Shepherds had crossed his mind too, but he'd dismissed that theory fairly early because when had the Shepherds ever left their own behind?

Evidently, he'd been wrong about that.

But none of that mattered now. He was going to have to get this under control. He'd gone too far to back out now. If he left now, then when he tried to join the Shepherds later, Maribelle was sure to call him out for abandoning her. Of course, Inigo would never abandon a lady in need, but there was also the fact that Chrom may never let him join.

And Maribelle had no idea who he was right now. She acted like nothing had changed, like everything was just the same as before. He was going to have to be the same.

If she was here, then the Shepherds must be nearby. Even if they left her on her own, they'd notice she was missing and go look for her. They'd find her, he'd ask to be brought into the Shepherds, and he would save the future. Simple as that.

Inigo just needed to pretend like things were the same for just a little longer. He could do that. Sure, she was a lot prettier than he remembered, and sure he had said all those things about her, but compliments came to him as easy as dancing. They didn't change anything, and they never would.

Would they?

Something had changed with her mercenary.

As someone training to practice law, Maribelle had learned to be quick to pick up on that kind of stuff.

Despite his crass mannerisms and lack of tact, he'd always been such a gentleman to her. He'd stood by her, done well to guard and watch over her, never complained when she asked him of anything, and had taken to her teachings like a boat in a pond. For that, she had to commend him greatly. If–no, when they met up with the Shepherds again, she would have to give Chrom her glowing commendations for his performance, and should he ask to join them–with how the war was turning, she couldn't imagine anyone would not want to–she would put in her utmost effort to ensure they took him with them.

Which was why his behavior last night had confounded her so. Her mercenary–Naga forgive her, but she'd already forgotten his name–had always been so quick and eager to follow, but now even just asking for him to open the door, she noticed him hesitate and turn to her before he turned the knob.

Was there something on her face? Maribelle reached up to check, but she didn't think there was anything on her.

She followed closely behind him until they reached the stairs. Maribelle paused, expecting help down, but her mercenary had the audacity to start walking down the stairs without her.

Maribelle reached up to clear her throat, but it came out as a fit of coughs that nearly dislodged her throat. The sound still caught his attention, and he scrambled back to help her up, so Maribelle pretended like it was intentional.

"What's wrong?" he asked, catching her before she could fall.

"Leg. Stairs," she wheezed out.

Her mercenary glanced down the stairs, frowning, before he reached out and, carefully, helped her down the stairs. Too carefully, almost as if he was afraid to touch her at all.

Did she smell? It had been rather long since she'd last had a bath, and when Maribelle turned to sniff herself under the arms, she was not daft enough to deny that it was rather unpleasant, but it wasn't as if she particularly stood out among the rabble.

At least Maribelle had enough strength in her to seat herself, so she brushed off her mercenary and hobbled over to a nearby table. As her mercenary settled himself across from her, the innkeeper stopped by their table with a notepad in hand.

"Can I get you two lunch?" he asked. "We're serving rabbit stew and bread today."

"Yes, I'd–" Maribelle frowned. Lunch? She'd just woke up. She reached up to knead her forehead and sighed. Just how long had she been sleeping?

"Just the stew sounds nice," she said through the palm of her hand.

"I'll have what she's having," her mercenary said.

The innkeeper nodded with a grin as he left their table. They hardly had to wait long before he returned, a pair of steaming bowls in his hands, and placed them between them. Personally, Maribelle would have preferred if he'd actually given them their bowls, but it wasn't as if she was back in Ylisse, so she couldn't expect top-notch service here, could she?

Maribelle reached for the bowl. The same bowl her mercenary was reaching for, as it turned out. The realization struck Maribelle too late for her to pull back, and their fingers touched for the briefest moment.

Almost immediately, her mercenary recoiled as if he'd been burned.

Maribelle's chair scraped against the floor, and she jumped to her feet. "Okay, what is wrong with you?" she said.

Her mercenary–what was his name again, Iago?–winced, and he replied, "Nothing!"

"Hah. Were you a toddler, I might believe you. You have been pretending I've been made of ice this whole time. What is your issue with me? Out with it!"

'Iago' opened his mouth, likely to give her another excuse. Maribelle would not have it. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, tapping her foot against the ground until she saw him wilt.

"Well... you're a woman..."

"You never had a problem with it before. Quite the opposite, actually." Scowling, Maribelle leaned him, hands on the table. "Is there something wrong with the way I look? The way I smell? Are my bandages coming undone? What is it, what?"

"It's because you're... well... you're Maribelle of Themis!"

Immediately, Maribelle fell back on her seat and turned away defensively. Oh, yes, she'd given him her name yesterday evening. She'd been far too exhausted to consider it, but there had always been the risk she'd be recognized. That said...

"How does a Valmese mercenary know of the House of Themis?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

'Iago' jolted, eyes wide. He glanced around wildly, rapping the table, before he cleared his throat. "Word gets around."

"What, of me?"

"Yes."

Nevermind she was just a minor noblewoman living smack dab in the middle of Ylisse, let alone one who was not well liked, what had she even done that would garner such recognition?

"And just what have you heard of me?" Maribelle said, moving her face closer to see if he was lying and not at all because she was curious just what foreign countries were saying about her. Of course, people in Valm would have things to say about the Ylissean Exalts, or the Feroxi Khans, but little old her? Surely it must be a lie. Surely!

"Well... there was that thing you did... that great and noble thing..."

"Yes, yes, I am great and noble. What about it?"

"Ah... you know, during the Ylisse-Plegia war."

Maribelle blinked. She had done a great deal during the Second Ylisse-Plegia war, hadn't she? It was a war that spanned an entire continent, so of course it would be such a big deal, wouldn't it?

"What specifically of the Ylisse-Plegia war?" she asked, just to make sure.

"Uh... there was that thing you did against Gangrel... you know, to protect the Exalt and his sister and risked your own life?"

"You mean that time at the border pass where I'd been taken hostage by Gangrel?"

"Yes, that's the one!"

Maribelle did not consider herself a proud woman–she simply knew how to take credit where it was due. And take credit she did, straightening herself with a big grin. "Yes, it was risky, wasn't it? But it all paid off in the end, so it was all worth it."

"I see."

"I'd expect common folk in Valm to hear of the deeds of the Ylissean Exalts or Feroxi Khans, but to hear of the deeds of little old me–I have to say, it's flattering."

"I'm sure it would," 'Iago' replied, and the beginning of a grin crept up his face.

It took every effort she had to bring her face back to normal and fall back into her seat. Maribelle would have liked to press on there, she really would, but she wasn't blind enough to miss his smile. A smile she'd brought out of him. Whatever it was that had him acting strange, she seemed to have dispelled it.

A part of her wanted to keep asking, but if she could keep him like that, she was more than happy to let things be. After all, they had places to be, and lunch was not going to finish itself.

Chapter Text

"I told you to get green tea."

Inigo winced, feeling smaller by the second for every second Brady's mother continued to glare at him from over the small wooden table in their room. "Yes, that you did," he said slowly.

Brady's mother narrowed her chocolate brown eyes, and if he looked closely, he could have sworn he saw her lips twitch ever so further down. "This," she said, pointing down to the cup in front of her, "is not green tea."

Inigo could tell that now. The tiny leaves swirled in a murky red liquid, giving off an aroma that he thought was rather pleasant. Obviously, that was not what Brady's mother had been expecting.

"I–I know," he said.

"Well of course you know now. How could you not know before? It's such a simple distinction to make!"

"They all look green?"

That was a weak excuse. Maribelle knew it. Inigo knew it. He'd served tea plenty of times. He should have known the difference–it was just that he'd been distracted the whole morning staring at Maribelle's unbuckled corset, but Inigo would rather eat his foot than tell her.

Considering the look she sent him, he had already swallowed his ankle and was working up the rest of his leg. She held his gaze for a bit longer, before she sighed and palmed her face.

"I suppose it's to be expected," she said. "You're hardly the epitome of refinement. I'd hardly expect you to understand the difference between ginger and blackberry."

Oh, if only she knew. Inigo tried to ignore her as she adjusted her unbuckled corset again–to help her breathe easier, she'd told him–but as he listened to her struggle, he couldn't help but hope she wouldn't ask him for help. As much as he acted like it, he'd never been that close with a girl before. He was too shy for that!

Sneaking a glance over to her, he saw as Brady's mom strained for a bit, then groaned and let the clasps fall back to her side. Her brown eyes met his, and she opened her mouth.

"You've got to help us!"

Both him and Brady's mom flinched as the door to their room slammed open, and a boy came stumbling inside. The boy took a moment to catch his breath, then another to take in where he was. Slowly, he looked back at the door, then to them.

"The door... that door isn't..."

"Locked, yes," Inigo said with a sigh.

"And just why is that?" Brady's mom said, hands on her hips.

Inigo frowned. "I... forgot?"

"Well, if any assassins make their way up here, they certainly won't let you forget twice!" Brady's mom ran a hand down her face, before she reached over and took a sip from her tea. "I'm terribly sorry," she said, turning to the boy. "What was it you–"

Inigo flinched, hot tea suddenly sprayed on his face as Brady's mother broke out into a fit of coughs. He rushed to her side in an instant, hands on her and holding her in place so she didn't fall off her chair. Brady's mother pawed for a napkin she'd placed on the table. Inigo, at least, was smart enough to understand that she wanted it, so he reached out and handed it over to her. If nothing else, it served to distract him from how soft her stomach was underneath her corset.

If Brady's mother felt anything, she did a good job at ignoring it. She dabbed the corners of her mouth, checking her reflection with a pocket mirror from her purse to make sure her face was clean, before she turned to face the boy again, hands on her lap. "Sorry about that. You were saying?"

The boy blinked, face bright red in a way that Inigo so desperately wished wasn't showing on his own face, before he shook his head and said, "You need to come, quick! There's a bridge that collapsed. A few of the merchants crossing weren't able to escape in time. They're terribly injured. You've got to help us!"

Brady's mom cursed. She jumped to her feet, but Inigo could tell before her feet hit the floor that her leg wouldn't take it. Again, he rushed to her side and caught her before she could fall.

"Please, be careful Miss Maribelle," he said as he let her down. "As eager as you may be, you forget the severity of your own injuries."

"Oh, that's right," Brady's mother said, scowling. "Then I suppose you shall be here to assist me until I get to where I'm needed."

That was the last thing in the world that Inigo needed to hear. Still, what else could he do but take it with a smile and hope she couldn't see the growing dread on his face.

"It would be my pleasure, Miss Maribelle."

Maribelle truly thought Iago would be more thrilled to have her stick so closely to him as they made their way over to the collapsed bridge–after all, he'd been so shameless before in his flirting–but she didn't need to be a genius to tell how much he wanted to peel away from her and put some distance between them. It was strange, she would admit, but then again, admiration did strange things to people. Naga knows how awkward she was around Chrom all the time.

Still, as soon as they'd made it to the site, he peeled off her with such speed that she was almost insulted. It wasn't like she wanted his help walking around, but he wasn't making it any easier!

As much as she would have liked to complain, however, it would be unbecoming of a lady of her standing, so instead she looked ahead at the mess of rock and stone before her.

"Where are they?" she asked, turning to a group of villagers gathered nearby. "You can't very well expect me to attend to anyone I cannot see?"

The villagers exchanged a few hushed whispers, nodded between themselves, and a few hurried back and brought over three people sprawled out on the ground, one of whom Maribelle recognized.

"Anna? What in Naga's name are you doing here?" she hissed, eyes narrowed.

The red-haired woman–the very same she had seen traveling with the Shepherds a week ago–looked up at her and blinked. "I'm sorry, hon, I don't think we've met?"

Maribelle opened her mouth to tell her that they had, in fact, met before, before she remembered who she was talking to and palmed her face. "No, I don't think we have," she muttered through her hand.

It wasn't this Anna's fault she looked exactly the same as all her blasted sisters, at least, that's what Maribelle tried to tell herself. It did little to help the annoyance that flared up inside, so she waved her staff and healed the woman to get her out of her sight as soon as possible.

After all, it wasn't like she could blame herself for having just a little hope that maybe, just maybe, Chrom and the others were nearby.

Maribelle healed the other two just as quickly–thankfully, none of the others were suffering anything too complex, just a few broken bones and blood loss–but just as she was about to relax, a girl came stumbling out of the crowd.

"Miss! My brother burned his arm off! Please, you need to help him!" she blurted out.

A groan came out of her before she could suppress it. Maribelle tried to push herself to her feet, only for her leg to give out beneath her and sending her face-first to the ground.

Iago rushed to her a second after, pulling her up by the arm. She caught him giving her a look of pity–and didn't that sting her pride just a bit–but she brushed him off before he could do anything else.

"I'm fine," she said, wiping off the sweat from her forehead, and she turned to the desperate girl. "Show me to your brother."

And so went the rest of their morning, walking from place to place and healing the wounded all over the village. For such a small place, they sure were busy, and by the time everyone had been taken care of, Maribelle was just about ready to call it a day in the late afternoon.

Of course, that was not what she was going to do. Had anyone else been this lazy back home, she would have disapproved, so who was she to be a hypocrite?

It was a good thing that, by the time they finished, there was a small outdoor restaurant nearby just opening up, so she would have to settle for lunch instead.

As always, Iago pulled out a seat and helped her in before seating himself. Maribelle noted that his hands were oddly cold as he set her down, but she was willing to wager that he had his own reasons for it and chose not to comment.

Their food came much faster than she would've expected from a small village restaurant, a small respite for such a busy day. Maribelle would have had much to praise about the restaurant, until she downed a spoonful of soup and nearly coughed out a lung.

"What in Naga's name did they put in here to make it taste so rancid?" she hissed.

Across from her, Iago took a sip of his soup and frowned. "It tastes fine to me."

"Does it?" Maribelle took another spoonful, only to spit that out too. "I suppose it must be something wrong with mine, then."

"Maybe."

And wasn't that just the perfect meal for the absolutely fantastic day she was having. Maribelle let out a long sigh and slumped down on the chair. It had only been two days, and yet she was already at the end of her rope. Between the attacks, the crippling injuries, all the work, and Iago, she wasn't sure she could take this much longer. How much longer must she endure this before Chrom would find her?

Would Chrom ever find her?

That was a terrifying thought. Valm was such a large continent, and with the war keeping him so busy, what if he decided that searching for her was too much effort? He wouldn't, she was sure. Chrom was a loyal leader and an even more loyal friend, but...

What if he did?

What if she was stuck here forever?

"Hey, buttercup. Why the long face?"

Iago's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. For once, she was glad for the distraction, latching onto it and letting it tear her attention away from the thoughts swirling in her head and back to the present.

"Oh, it's nothing, really," she said, putting a smile on her face. "I was simply thinking unpleasant things."

"How could you think such unpleasant thoughts when you have a face as lovely as yours?" Iago said, and he pointed his spoon at her.

Maribelle rolled her eyes. The reply was obvious as it was silly, but she had almost, dare she say, grown used to it. After his strange behavior this morning, it was almost a relief to hear him speak like this again.

"Spare me the flattery and take this a little more seriously, won't you?"

Iago nudged her bowl with his spoon. "What, the soup? If you're so upset about it, we can get another."

"It's not the soup I'm upset about, you dolt. It's... I don't know, I simply don't like having to ask for help for something as simple as walking."

"I'm hurt," Iago said, hand over heart. "Do you not like my company?"

"No, no. You are..." Maribelle made a face. She wasn't about to say he was pleasant company, was she? "You are bearable," she finally managed to force out, "but I am a daughter of the House of Themis! It is unbecoming that I must rely on your assistance so much."

"It bothers you that much, huh? Well, I don't see the big deal."

"Of course you wouldn't," Maribelle snapped. Iago winced–at least he had the good graces to look embarrassed about it, before he cleared his throat and shook his head.

"What I mean to say is... you've fought in wars before, haven't you? It's similar to that. We may not be fighting right now, but there's nothing wrong with trusting someone else to have your back, is there?" Iago took another spoonful of soup, then winked at her. "I'll certainly have yours for as long as you'll have mine."

Normally, Maribelle liked to believe that such obvious words would not affect her. Of course there was no shame in accepting help. She knew that. She'd done it plenty of times with the Shepherds. But perhaps... it was simply a case of the right words at the right time.

"I shall hold you to it!" Maribelle said, crossing her arms with a huff.

It was just then that she saw a waiter pass nearby. Her eyes flit to the soup in front of her, then back to the waiter. If there was any time to ask for another soup, now would be it.

Her chair scraped back as she got to her feet. She opened her mouth to catch the waiter's attention.

She certainly didn't expect the world to suddenly spin around her.

Yelping, her hands flailed out to grasp something, anything before she fell to the floor. Her fingers grasped at something wooden–at first, she'd thought it was the table, but when she tried to pull herself up, it flipped over and spilled hot soup over her dress as she crashed into the ground.

Chapter Text

"What do you mean she's sick?" Inigo said, shooting the woman sitting beside him a worried look.

The woman, the village doctor, rubbed a hand down her face and sighed. "I don't know what you want me to say. High body temperature, shivering and fatigue–they're all signs of the body being attacked by a virus."

On the bed before them, Brady's mom shuddered, and her brows furrowed, but she did not wake from the bed Inigo had laid her down in. It'd been only half an hour since she had collapsed on the street, and she hadn't stirred since. Even to someone as inexperienced with medical conditions as Inigo, that felt a little unusual.

"Then can't you fix that? Heal her or something?" he said.

Inigo knew that probably wasn't how that worked, but he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed when the woman shook her head. "I'm not a cleric, and even if I was, a heal staff deals with surface level wounds. A virus attacks the body from the inside–unless you have any recover staves handy, I can't recommend anything other than simply waiting for it to pass."

That was great. Terrific, even. Out of all the ways he'd seen people die, sickness would have to be one of his least favorite. At least with the Risen, your suffering was horrible, but quick. Illnesses could last for days, weeks; all that pain and suffering, and he could do nothing but stand by and watch. Inigo hated it.

But it was here to stay, so with a sigh, he slumped down in his chair. "I don't understand," he said, running a hand down his face. "How could this happen?"

The doctor shrugged. "I don't know. Has she eaten anything strange?"

"Nothing that hasn't been prepared by you good village folk, no. Anything she eats, I eat."

"Has she been in contact with anyone sick?"

"Not that I can remember, no."

"Then I'm afraid I'm at a loss." The doctor suddenly frowned, then pointed to the bandages wrapped around her head and her leg. "Those aren't recent, are they?"

Inigo furrowed his brows. "I believe so? She was like that when I found her."

"And you don't mind if I take a look?"

Inigo was sure Brady's mom would mind very much, stubborn as she was, but she was asleep, so it wasn't like she could argue.

And she could die, he thought, biting his lip, but he chose not to say that out loud, nodding to the doctor instead.

"Go ahead. What's the worst you could find?"

"You wouldn't believe," the doctor said, shaking her head. She nudged the bandages on Brady's mom's leg aside with the delicate touch of a woman handling a venomous snake, and as soon as she had a chance to peek underneath, she winced. She moved over to the bandages over Maribelle's head, but Inigo expected her to have the same reaction, and when she did, his stomach dropped just a little.

"How old are these bandages?" the doctor asked.

"Maybe one or two days. That's not a problem, is it?" he replied, doing his best to keep his smile in place.

"You should be changing them daily."

Inigo winced. "Well, to be fair, we've been a bit busy these past few days."

"That's no excuse. Even so, for bandages this old, it shouldn't look bad. Washing the wound would have gotten rid of most of the–"

"Wait a minute. No one said anything about washing the wound."

The doctor blinked. Then, she turned to him and gave him the most gobsmacked look he'd seen since he'd accidentally spilled Risen bile over Severa's favorite dress of the week.

"You didn't wash the wounds?!" she said.

"Was I supposed to?"

"Yes! You are supposed to wash the wounds so they don't get infected and cause sickness like this!"

Inigo laughed nervously. "O-oh. I see."

Well, it's not my fault! he wanted to say. Healing people is hardly my area of expertise! If Brady's mom didn't want this to happen, she should've told me!

Then, Brady's mom shifted again, and she groaned in pain as another spasm of coughs wracked her body. Inigo's eyes widened, and he rushed to her side in an instant, careful to steady her so she didn't fall off the bed.

As soon as she'd calmed down, Inigo palmed his face and sighed. What am I thinking? Brady's mom could die here! That's the only thing that matters here!

Turning back to the doctor, Inigo asked, "There isn't anything I can do to... you know, help, is there?"

The doctor looked at him for a whole minute. Inigo couldn't help but feel like he was being searched for something, and he glanced away, a blush creeping up his cheeks. Whether the doctor found what she was looking for, he couldn't tell, not even as she sighed and got to her feet.

"Well, you may start by making sure she gets plenty of rest," she said. "I'll head back to see if I have anything to help with the infection before you go changing the bandages."

"I'll try my best," Inigo said, waving at the doctor as she headed out of their little inn room.

As soon as she'd closed the door behind her. His shoulders sagged, and finally, he let the smile fall from his face.

"Oh Naga," he muttered to himself. "I really messed this up, didn't I? Don't mess up the timeline, Inigo. Don't do anything stupid, Inigo. And here we are–if Brady finds out I got his mom killed, he's going to kill me."

"Who's killing who?"

Inigo voice rose an entire octave with a yelp, and as he jumped back, Brady's mom finally sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"Oh, no one's killing anyone!" he said, and he scrambled to regain some sense of secrecy. "I've just been doing errands for someone's mother in this village. Yes, that's it."

Brady's mom nodded. "Ah, I see. And you wouldn't mind introducing me to this Brady fellow soon, would you? I'd like to have strong words with what I think of his mother loaning out my personal help."

"Oh, that's too bad. They just left town."

"Nonsense. I shall catch up to them by foot, if I must."

The bed groaned as Brady's mom turned and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Too late did Inigo realize what she was trying to do, and before he could stop her, she pushed herself to her feet.

Immediately, she cried out in pain and clasped her head. She lurched forward, but Inigo caught her just before she could fall.

"Hey now," he said with a nervous laugh. "We wouldn't want you pulling a muscle on your pretty face, would we?"

"Please shove your tongue into a cheese grater," Brady's mom groaned. "What happened? How did I get here? I demand an explanation, Iago!"

"Inigo."

"Inigo, then."

Sighing, Inigo motioned over to her leg. "I'm supposed to keep you in bed until the village doctor comes back to treat your wounds."

"Why would she? I thought I had you heal that."

"Yeah, well I guess it wasn't good enough, because now you've come down and won't be getting out until the doctor says so."

Brady's mom frowned. "Oh, I certainly did come down. I'm surprised it's not hurting more, frankly."

"What do you–" Inigo shook his head. "No, I mean, come down with a fever!"

"Oh, did you? You should have been more specific."

Inigo threw his hands up helplessly. "I don't know what to tell you! This is for your own good, Ms. Maribelle."

"I think I know what's for my own good. I am a trained cleric, after all."

Brady's mom tried to get up. This time, Inigo was ready to push her back down again. Brady's mom didn't seem to like that very much.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" she said. "Get your hands off me right this instant!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Inigo replied. "The doctor told me to keep you here until she gets back."

"And I keep telling you, I'm perfectly fine. Now let me–" Before she could finish, Brady's mom broke down into a fit of coughs. Inigo didn't think the sickness had seemed that bad, but with Brady's mom coughing so loudly she had to clutch her stomach in pain, he couldn't stop the uneasy feeling creeping up his back.

"See? What did I tell you? You've got to stay in bed." Inigo said, and he planted his hands on her shoulders as he pressed her back into bed.

Brady's mom shook her head. "I can't just stay in here all day! I have things I must attend to."

Inigo shook his head with a sigh. Even at the worst of times, Brady could still be horribly stubborn, and now, Inigo had the feeling he could tell where he'd gotten it from.

"Don't you worry about that. Anything you need done, you've got a pair of hands right here who can do it for you," he said with a wink. A wink that he quickly regretted, but it wasn't like he could take it back now.

Thankfully, for once, Brady's mom didn't comment, and her eyes fell to her lap as she bundled up the blanket around her legs. "It's not the same."

"But it's all you've got."

Brady's mom let out a long sigh. "How did I get sick, anyway?"

"Bad bandages. Who knew?"

Brady's mom shot him a look, and for a moment, Inigo thought she was going to somehow find a way to turn the blame to him, before she sighed and said, "That figures. I should have remembered to explain that to you."

Inigo blinked. "No, no, it's fine. It was a pretty obvious thing to do; I should have figured it out on my own."

"Well, you wouldn't have had to if I'd known better."

Inigo opened his mouth to reply, then took a moment to really think about what she'd said. "Come on. No one's gonna blame you for forgetting."

"Of course you wouldn't, but I am Maribelle of Themis. I have a duty to be better."

"Maybe in Ylisse, but in case you haven't noticed, we're not in Ylisse. You're not Maribelle of Themis out here."

"Oh, yes? Then what am I?"

"My friend."

The words left his mouth before he could really think about them, but even as Inigo really thought about it, it wasn't untrue, was it? They'd fought together, they'd eaten together, and he certainly wouldn't be so comfortable speaking like this to a stranger, would he?

Maribelle looked quite stunned, too, but she had yet to protest, so before she could speak, Inigo said, "You're my friend, and I don't want you to get hurt trying to wear yourself out. So... take it easy, why don't you?"

"I... I guess," Maribelle mumbled into her sheets. "Just as long as it doesn't take too long."

She didn't look to happy about the idea. Frankly, Inigo wasn't eager to put his hands on his friend's mom, but right now, it wasn't like they had much of a choice.

Then the door opened, and the doctor walked in, stopped, and widened her eyes. Only then did it occur to Inigo just how he looked, pinning Maribelle to her bed, and he jumped off with a yelp.

"I don't think it should go without saying that this is neither the time, nor place," the doctor said, already folding her arms across her chest, like nothing had happened.

"I swear, it's not what it looks like!" Inigo said.

"Excuse me? What does it look like?" Maribelle asked, confused.

Shaking her head, the doctor decided to not answer that question and turned to Inigo. "Do I need to ask you to leave the room for a moment?"

"Already on it!" And boy, wasn't Inigo glad for that, if only to hide the flustered look on his face behind a solid, wooden door.

"Wait, what does it look like?" Was the last thing he heard before he slammed the door behind him and slouched down behind it with a sigh.

"Guess who's back?" Inigo said, pushing open the door with a pair of soup bowls balanced in his hands.

The bed on the other side of the room shifted, and from within, he heard a soft groan. Slowly, Inigo's smile fell from his face. She wasn't in the mood for it, it seemed.

Quickly making it over to her side, Inigo set the bowls down on the bedside table and pulled out a nearby chair to take a seat. "Supper's here," he said, doing his best to keep his voice bright. "Come on, you've got to eat something if you want to get better."

Again, Maribelle groaned, but at least she had enough strength to peel the covers off herself and reach for her bowl. The doctor had only left a few hours ago, and since then, Maribelle only looked like she was getting worse. Her skin had turned pale, her voice had gotten weaker, and even in the dim evening light, he could catch the faint sheen of sweat rolling down the side of her face.

Her fingers pawed at the bowl next to her, closing around the spoon and lifting it out of the bowl, but she barely made it over her bed before she dropped the spoon, spilling soup over the floor.

Maribelle cursed. "This blasted soup is too far!"

Inigo sighed. "You should have let me know before. Now your spoon has dirt all over it."

"You can get me another," Maribelle said, waving a hand dismissively.

He could, but right now, another trip downstairs wasn't appealing, so Inigo took his own spoon out of his bowl and placed it in Maribelle's bowl, then placed it between her legs on the bed. Maribelle frowned.

"What are you going to eat with, then?" she asked.

"Same thing I've been using for years." And with that, Inigo picked up the bowl, tilted it back into his mouth, and took a sip. Maribelle pulled a funny face, but out in the Risen wasted lands of the future, utensils had been a luxury, and this was how Inigo was most comfortable eating soup, so she'd just have to suck up and deal with it.

Shaking her head, Maribelle took her own spoon, and raised it to her lips. A fit of coughs interrupted her this time, and as her body trembled with each great, gasping breath, the spoon slipped from her fingers again and spilled soup all over the sheets.

"Naga dammit!" she groaned, falling back into the bed with a pained whimper. "I can't do this! I can't!"

Inigo put down his own soup and picked up her spoon, setting it back in her bowl. "Here, let me help," he said, but Maribelle shook her head and stopped him in his tracks.

"No–no. I'm a lady. I must be able to take care of myself."

"I don't mean to sound presumptuous here, but I don't think you can."

"I can!" Maribelle pulled the sheets closer to herself, and her gaze fell to the bed again as she said, softer this time, "I can..."

Inigo ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I'm only doing this because I care."

"Well, this is my problem. The last thing I want is to burden you with it!"

"Then ask me!" When Maribelle blinked, not quite sure what he meant by that, Inigo added, "I mean, it's not a burden if I want to take it, is it? We're friends, after all."

"We... we are?"

"We are! Er... I hope we are, anyway." Inigo frowned. Surely she hadn't already forgotten their conversation from earlier, had she?

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. Friends are supposed to help each other, aren't they?"

"Yes... yes, I suppose so." Whether she'd noticed him accidentally slip back into old habits or not, she gave no indication, refusing to meet his eyes as she asked, softly, "You... you wouldn't mind terribly, giving me some help, would you?"

"From an esteemed lady like yourself? The pleasure is all mine," Inigo said, and, with permission finally granted, he scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it out for Maribelle to eat.

She hesitated before the first bite, before she leaned out to take it. Inigo hummed, and he fed her another spoonful, then another.

By the fourth, he noticed that, with every spoonful, Maribelle began to sink deeper and deeper into the bedsheets, slowly pulling them higher until only her head was visible above the stained white blankets, and suddenly, he was struck with the realization of just how tiny she looked. In the future, she had towered over him, a fully grown woman to his tiny childish stature, but now... seeing her like this, her head looked so small he could practically cup it with his hands.

Inigo spooned another helping of soup into her mouth, and as he turned back to the bowl, he heard her whisper, "Thank you."

Inigo paused, not quite sure if he'd heard right. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" he asked.

Maribelle's face flushed bright red. Inigo wasn't sure if it was the fever, or if it was something else, but before he could look closer, Maribelle shook her head. "No, I did not!" she squeaked out. "Just focus on your job, dolt!"

Inigo shook his head, and he did as he was told without another word. Maybe one day, he'd understand why she did the things she did. Right now, though, he was just here to feed her soup, so that was exactly what he was going to do.