Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Athena!” It was a high pitched, undignified shriek almost lost beneath beating hooves, metal shearing metal, the normal, dreary, awful sounds of battle. Marth’s army was brave, yes, and mighty in its own right, but it was thin. Gra and Grust and Macedon could not have matched them, man to man, but their great strength lay in greater numbers.

No matter how skilled a swordsman, they will only ever be a man, and no man can avoid every patch of blood to be slipped in, every arrow from a battalion’s volley, arm-trembling exhaustion as cutting down five is not enough, the sixth finding a lucky hit, and the seventh finishing the job. Morale survived not out of some thrill of the fight but something deeper, a righteousness that seemed to radiate from their leader, a man who was not strong enough to keep his losses low despite the way each grieved him personally but strong enough to keep the flag raised and his sword in his hand and his office on his chest and his head up to meet the next foe. If, when her pegasus had been shot from the air to tumble to the ground, the crimson blood staining pure white feathers and the mud leaving the white coat no better, Princess Caeda had the misfortune of landing under it more fully, leaving her as dead as the steed instead of just with fractures in both legs, that might have been the end of the whole affair. Marth had looked a man possessed by the spirit of Rage the rest of that battle, and his anger became the army’s.
It wasn’t clear until they had finished that she was still alive, still able to be saved. Lena had exhausted herself setting the bones back into place before she could ply her magics. Marth tried not to hover, but she could practically see him turn gray as she worked. Caeda could not partake in the next battle, but by the one after that, she felt compelled and Marth could not dissuade her, and so she fought.

Still, death was no stranger, and it had taken its toll on each of them. Julian, so kind to her before, had shut himself off to everything but the work when Rickard had been caught like a mouse taking just a moment too long picking a chest and found himself slumped over it, staining the red wood darker. It was like he took both of their joy and good humor to the grave. She didn’t blame him, but it made things lonely. She had screamed for Navarre who caught the lance that had meant to gut her. He looked almost smug in death, and though it happened too fast for her to heal him, he delayed the knight just long enough for Athena to dispatch her assailant. She held his body, shaking, seeing the other man who had helped her escape a fate worse than death be taken from her. Athena stood over her, blade extended for what felt like the ages it took for her to compose herself. The battle had shifted, and they were on the front foot, but she made sure no retreating Gra would take a cheap blow on the grieving cleric. Eventually, she stood, nearly matching his scarlet garb herself, nodded to Athena, and the two advanced to help with the rout.

They had met before, and from what Lena had gathered, it had gone as strangely as most first encounters with Athena. She was beautiful and dashing to boot, the way she sliced through the arrow mid air. Lena believed she would have been able to get out of its path, but she didn’t mind the certainty.
“Ve have been sent to accompany you for zis vorray,” she said calmly, placing herself in front of the cleric. Lena looked behind, wondering if Roger or somebody else too would join, but saw nobody approaching.
“Have you been separated from your company? Are they hurt?” She asked, practically. She flinched as the woman, whipping her head back, sneered at her,
“Ve are right here. Ze Prince could spare no ozers zis time. Stay close, and ve vill keep you safe.” It was both callous and strangely reassuring. Perhaps somebody else would have been offended by the brusque attitude, but it was the sort of thing Lena had long since grown used to, so she stayed close. And indeed, Athena, though she only learned her name while thanking her after the battle, did keep her safe masterfully as she flitted through the lines, staff aglow. Lena was impressed with her lithe movements, and the way she didn’t get baited to glory, the way she was willing to step out of a scuffle to let their cavaliers through and clean up the enemies still trying to fight a short woman. It was this, she would reflect, that likely kept her alive through the constant warring. A desire to follow her given objective instead of a desire to win any single duel. It was an attitude Lena tried to pick up, once she began using the tome. She found it wasn’t too difficult, as her healing duties and instincts were too loud to ignore, and so any direct fighting was defensive or a smokescreen or to make space for her patient.

When Navarre died, she found herself spending more time with Athena. At first, she felt guilty. From one cool-headed master of the blade to another, to say nothing of the responsibility she felt for his being cut down. The incessant bloodshed beat that out of her, for better or worse. It became enough to just have somebody else there. They spoke little of things of meaning, and few spoke in the army about after the war, just in case. Bad luck, as Abel had proven. Still, they took some measure of care for each other, both helping the other make it through the quieter days of marching or the preparations for battle. Indeed, they often found themselves deployed together, and it worked well for them, which is probably why it kept happening. Marth could scarce afford risky moment to moment strategy with so few soldiers. Lena did not know when she started thinking of herself as a soldier. Athena, when she asked, said she still did not. To her, Lena was still just ‘a healer-voman,’ and herself, a fighter. Privately, Lena didn’t much see a difference between the two.

That’s why it hurt so much now. Why she shrieked as she watched the blade erupt out of Athena’s back nearly a hundred yards away. How they had gotten separated had not mattered. How the fight had not mattered. She watched, trembling for just moments, as Athena yanked herself back, foolishly, freeing herself from the sword, dove in, and struck down her assailant in one clean blow. Then she saw her waver. That moment got her feet moving, pounding down the muddy, bloody ground. But she wasn’t fast enough, she wasn’t some paragon of physical prowess like the woman losing blood by the moment. Historians would later claim that this battle marked the first innovation towards what would eventually become the rewarp staff, that a Grustian refugee to Valentia would perfect in just a few short months, claiming to have seen a soldier-nurse abandoning her warp staff to move herself. Lena would not know about this, nor did she understand the finer details of what she did. All she knew was that she needed to be by Athena, now, now, Now, and if she had to break every staff she owned so be it. And then she was, with a lurch in her stomach that was only partially from the smell of blood, she was there, apparating into the space to have a steadying arm around Athena’s back as her waver became a stagger. She frowned, looking up at her, none of her poise or clarity gone. Yet.

“Vat are you doing, foolish voman?”
“Saving you. Please, be still,” she pleaded. Athena sighed as if Lena was fretting over a minor scrape instead of her very lifeblood splashing the ground as they spoke.
“Fine. Be quick. Ve cannot protect you in zese front lines like this.” Even by the end of her sentence, as Lena was fumbling with her staff, her voice weakened to a mumble, her pale skin was turning ashy, and those cat-like eyes were fluttering closed.
“Athena,” Lena sternly called as the orb on the end of her staff began to glow. “Athena!” she cried as that soothing, calm light betrayed her own desperation. “ATHENA!” she howled as, yes, the flesh mended itself back together, skin meeting skin, but she did not move more or stir. She knew there was blood in that body, but even her most skilled arts could not cajole the heart to pump if it did not want to. Her staff dropped, though she didn’t even notice, as she clung to her, shaking the warm body, sounding half hysterical as she called her name to no answer. She had died too, and that was final, she thought. But she was wrong. As her body started to pitch with sobs that had not yet reached her eyes, a quiet, firm voice said,
“Vat a racket, you noisy girl. Come, our blade. Ze fighting is not finished.” Lena gaped, but months of working together, of war, made her body obey. The sword was in her hand and then Athena’s, fingers brushing. She pushed off from the healer, woozy for only half a step before she looked nearly as hale as she had in the morning. She shook her head, blinked hard, and went to advance only to be yanked back by Lena, hand on her shoulder.
“I won’t stop you,” she said, voice raw and close to cracking. “But don’t charge so far ahead. I’m right here with you.” She pulled her closer, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Right here.” Athena looked confused for a moment, free hand lightly brushing the spot.
“Vell. Yes. Of course. Stay close to us,” and any insecurity was already gone. Lena did.

The battle ended without any more scares, and the army was in good shape at its close. Marth rallied them together, proclaiming how close they were to this war’s end, and he meant it, and his soldiers believed him. He was right, too. But as he resolved to finish the fight and whipped his troops up to join him, two slight women, but by no means frail, stood together, cheering just as loud as the rest. The only difference between them and the rest, fists pumped in allegiance, in camaraderie, as that their spares’ fingers were interlaced between them.