Title: Honor of Thieves
Series: Fire Emblem 7
Character/Pairing: Legault, mild Legault/Aesha
A/N: Before anyone decries ZOMG OC!!11 Aesha is mentioned in Legault's supports with Matthew. This was supposed to be for FE drabbles 16th challenge, but it went over the limit so I had to use something else.


It wasn't as if he ever had some deep well of faith in his company, Legault just wasn't that kind of guy. Patriotism and nationalism didn't work for a man without a country and only the mere assumptions of a name. Thieves spent too much time in the shadows to ever spin tales about the light. But Black Fang had once been something entirely different than what it had become. It had noble intentions, which were little compared to how much blood was spilled on their hands, but at least it wasn't the blood of innocents, but of people just as sullied as they were.

He lost what little faith he had about the time Aesha died. She was hardly sinless, but she could do a damn good turn with her knives. He knew what they shared hadn't been love. An occasional romp in bed when too much rum passed about, a respect for both of their skills, but never love. Still, he remembered that dark hair spread over the pillow, the scar that ran down her neck to left breast from a job who didn't quite want to keel over without a fight.

But being in the Fang was always temporary. Even the best slipped up sometimes. The quarry was not always willing to simply accept their fate. Some were skilled, or in possession of formidable bodyguards. She'd lost two fingers on her right hand and her lost the use of her left arm entirely. With wounds like that, she'd never hold her blades again.

Once in the Fang, she would've simply been let to pasture. A refugee in a tiny village. She knew what happened to those who told the secrets of The Black Fang. She would slit her own throat before she said a word. But things were different with their leader's wench in control, and when he was handed her death warrant, Legault could only obey or forfeit his own life for refusing a command.

And Legault just wasn't that kind of guy. No matter how much he liked a person, he just wasn't going to lay down his life for them.

She hadn't been quite so accepting of her death either. He wouldn't have expected anything less of her. She'd given him a few new scars but with her wounds they were mere swan's song. The battle was decided the moment the command came, the moment his knives were unsheathed.

He remembered her bending under him, and the marks she'd leave over his back that he wouldn't notice until morning. He remembered the dance of their knives in practice and how she could drink more than woman he'd ever known. No, it wasn't love, but he respected her. And that was a far better thing than some flighty emotions which left almost as quickly as they came.

Legault made it quick and as painless as one could make a death. A slice to the neck was not a pretty death, but it was a quick one. Who could say if it was agonizing or painless, he'd never gotten that close to death find out.

In death she was grotesque. Her chestnut colored was hair splattered with blood, her neck was a gaping wound. He gave her a decent burial as the last testament. Who said he couldn't be sentimental at times? To every clean kill and every rum she'd downed, to the memory of being in her bed and the scars her blades had given him over the years.

And then? He packed his few things and left in the black, moonless night with her name last on his lips. He was again without a country and with only the barest hints of a name. Habits are hard to break in the end, and running was no different.