Chapter Text
That doesn't smell half-bad.
A surprisingly pleasant aroma filled the air as Fyra stirred a large pot over the cookfire. She handled the ladle gingerly, as if it were some beast with a will of its own--a single miscalculation on the chef’s part would end in disaster. At least, it would when she was the chef. Fyra had learned the hard way that her mind for tactics did not extend to matters of the kitchen.
She burnt things that she’d once thought unburnable. Her experimentation with magic had not helped matters, either--it turned out that lightning-fried fish was both inedible and foul-smelling. Needless to say, it had taken a few lessons before Fyra could be trusted with feeding an army--or, in this case, a small portion of one.
The usual cooks had received word too late that a taguel had joined their ranks. According to Frederick, the potato soup they’d been cooking would make their newest ally sick to her stomach. Such would have been a poor welcome to Chrom’s army--especially in this case. Because as far as Fyra was concerned, Panne alone had turned the tide of battle. Only through her efforts had they been able to save the life of the exalt.
Whispers of the shapeshifter had traveled through the ranks, but Fyra had fought beside Panne during the previous night’s battle. She had watched her take the form of a great beast, and had followed closely behind as Panne carved a bloody, corpse-strewn path to the exalt. She had seen nothing but fierce determination from Panne, nearly unstoppable as she made her way through the fortress, weathering blows as though the blades tearing at her flesh were mere toys, and tearing through anyone foolish enough to get in her way.
To call the battle memorable was an understatement. But what had burned an ashen imprint in her mind was a memory of the fighting’s aftermath.
Never had Fyra seen someone disrespect the exalt. Even their enemies seemed to hold her in high regard. Yet Panne had glared at Emmeryn, had had the gall to call the Exalt of Ylisse a “man-spawn.” Her chin held high, her back straight, she met the exalt with a level gaze, as if the two were equals. And though they had been allies in battle, when Panne turned to Fyra it was as if she faced an enemy.
“It’s precious little that your kind seem to understand.” Panne’s few words to the tactician had dripped with venom, her crimson glare full of contempt.
So imposing had her demeanor been that, rather than respond, Fyra found herself scrambling to think of how her weary troops would even begin to combat the shapeshifter. She had begun theorizing how she might get Emmeryn out of harm’s way when Panne’s voice took on a drastically different tone.
For a few seconds, her shoulders had slumped. Her red eyes closed, her face contorting as if she’d been struck.
“It was man-spawn like you that invaded our warren and slaughtered my people.”
Those words had sent a chill down Fyra’s spine. No longer did she have to wonder at what “the last taguel” meant. And though she quickly recovered, a single moment of Panne’s wounded expression was enough for it to plague Fyra’s mind still.
It had been clear, then, that her skills would not be needed. Even if Panne did attack… at that moment, Fyra wasn’t sure she’d have the heart to retaliate. She’d seen plenty of violence and hardship--such was the nature of war, after all. But to be “hunted?” This was a new sort of ugliness, a new level of human depravity that she’d yet to encounter.
But she resigned herself to this knowledge. Thrown into the middle of a war with no memories, she could hardly afford to be picky about what she knew of the world. Considering her situation, maybe the worst things were the most important for her to know.
The mere thought of her ignorance during their first meeting made Fyra grimace. The second time would be different, or so she tried to convince herself, but it wasn’t as if her current position was much better.
She still didn’t truly know what or who the taguel were, or why humans would hunt them down. She had no idea why Panne’s warren would owe Ylisse a debt. And what a debt it must have been, Fyra thought, after the way Panne had fought so selflessly for a woman she’d never even met.
Fyra knew plenty about Chrom’s other trusted allies. She’d had formal introductions to each Shepherd, had learned their stories and quirks as she spent time alongside them. Even the thief Gaius, who had joined them the same night as Panne, had made himself at home--despite his history, his laid-back personality made him a good fit with the Shepherds. That left one woman who spoke to no one of her own volition and sought solitude as soon as the battle had ended. In the full day since her joining, she had not so much as graced the cooks with her presence. In elusiveness, she was second only to Marth.
There was nothing wrong with privacy, of course. But from the way Panne had spoken, it sounded like she had no choice in joining them. At the very least, her disdain for humans had been made abundantly clear--so why fight alongside them? Was this the only way to repay the debt she supposedly owed to Ylisse?
Fyra could ask no one but Panne for the answers. And though she would not deny her own curiosity, a more pressing concern drove her to find them sooner rather than later.
No one enjoyed spending each day in grueling combat, with the burden of so many lives on the line. But there were precious, if fleeting, moments of joy, and the bonds forged between allies were crucial to success. If Panne truly did not wish to fight, and had no faith in her allies, Fyra wasn’t sure she’d last on the battlefield--even with her exceptional prowess as a warrior.
Panne would need more than a common cause. She would have to see the Ylisseans as genuine allies, who would protect and stand beside her when she was in danger. And she would have to trust the tactician leading them most of all.
This woman had clearly suffered something terrible, and Fyra could not ask her--would not order her--to fight and die for the same kind of people who had hunted her kin. Considering Panne’s surprise when Emmeryn knew the taguel’s proper name, Fyra made the rather safe assumption that, like her, most humans lived in ignorance of Panne’s people. Words were easy, fleeting, and she knew she’d have to do more than talk to earn Panne’s trust.
She supposed she might be able to ask Frederick or Chrom more about the taguel, but she hesitated to bother them with her questions more than was absolutely necessary. Surely, she thought, there would be no better source than Panne herself.
But as things stood between them now, Fyra was a long way off from Panne sharing such knowledge.
And so the tactician found herself before a cookfire, burning embers mirroring the glow of the setting sun. As far as her strategies went, this one was simple: use food as a peace offering in hopes that Panne might be willing to forgive her blunders from the day before. Fyra was far from certain about its effectiveness, but she could think of nothing better. And, she reasoned, a simpler plan meant a simpler execution.
Of course, it all depended on whether or not her food was any good.
Fyra tentatively brought a spoonful of stew to her lips, blowing gently to cool it off. It smelled good, sure, and it didn’t look terrible. Somehow. Her hesitation was not exactly unfounded, but her soup was about as good as it was going to get. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and…
The broth on her tongue was neither too light nor too heavy, with bits of carrots that had apparently, through some miracle of Naga, retained their flavor. She stood there for a moment even after she’d swallowed it, mesmerized at the lack of a foul aftertaste.
Gods, I actually did it.
With a newfound spring in her step, she doled out the stew into two wooden bowls, filling each one nearly to the brim. She put out the fire in a hurry, its embers still glowing as she set off toward the outskirts of camp.
As far as she recalled, the taguel’s tent had been hastily pitched a fair ways off from the rest. It was as far as possible from the prying eyes of the rank and file soldiers who, according to the latest gossip, wanted to catch a glimpse of the “rabbit woman" for themselves. From what Fyra had heard, even those who’d seen Panne in the battle were skeptical that she did, in fact, have a human form.
With that in mind, she supposed the seclusion made sense. Still, Chrom’s army thrived on camaraderie, and isolation like this would hardly facilitate trust or respect. She resolved to confirm these reports with Panne herself--and, if these unsavory rumors proved true, to take it up with Chrom--as always, she had a plan.
But her confidence waned considerably as she approached Panne’s tent.
It would have been laughable, had she not been so nervous. Here she stood, the tactician of the Ylissean army, the woman who’d triumphed time and again in the face of near certain defeat. She’d envy anyone whose most pressing concern was awkwardness.
Yet Fyra’s heart skipped a beat as the taguel’s tent came into view. Approaching the slightly open flaps that served as the entrance, she inhaled deeply, preparing to speak—
“Keep your distance, man-spawn.” An angry voice and an angrier woman emerged from the tent.
Fyra jumped back with a yelp, nearly spilling the bowls of stew in surprise. “How did you know I was here?”
“Your heartbeat,” Panne said, rolling her eyes. “It is both fast and maddeningly loud.”
“You can—oh.” Fyra’s eyes were drawn to the long ears peeking out of Panne’s braids. Of course. That could be useful in battle, she thought, but… if she could hear a heartbeat, what couldn’t she hear? A battlefield would be home to sounds far less pleasant and many times louder. That seemed more like a burden than an asset.
“Did you come to stare at my ears?”
That snapped Fyra out of her daze. She dragged her eyes to Panne’s face. “No, uh… I came here to bring you dinner.” Fyra held out a bowl to her. “And I thought, maybe, we could talk…” She trailed off, suddenly aware of how underwhelming her offer sounded.
Panne let out a strangled noise. She stared with widened eyes, first at the food, then at Fyra, as if expecting some sort of trick.
“The rest of the army’s eating potatoes, but Frederick said taguel don’t eat potatoes, so… I hope you can eat carrots?” Fyra cursed herself for her lack of foresight--what if these were no good either? “Gods, I should have checked with you first--it’s just, there wasn’t much time, and I didn’t want you to go hungry, so--”
“Carrots are fine.” Fyra was startled out of her thoughts by Panne taking the bowl she’d offered and walking away with it.
She lifted the tent flap and turned to look expectantly at Fyra, who she found staring slack-jawed.
“You wished to share the meal with me, yes?”
Fyra nodded earnestly, unable to help the smile that tugged at her lips as she followed Panne into her tent.