Our Cowardly New World

-

(Warnings for occasional coarse language.)

-

In a place where the snow covers even the smallest traces of brightness, and the lines of poverty and good fortune are drawn in the sand and blown away by the wind, there comes to mind the miserable peoples of our world. This is a cold place built by human hands and left to rot by human hands. But the memories, they do not belong to the miserable people. They simply borrow them for a fleeting lifetime.

This is my attempt at a serious Fire Emblem 7/8 crossover, set in an alternate universe version of the near future, in a semi-dystopia. I could only select two genres to categorize this as, but more accurately this would be classified as a: Drama/Supernatural/Romance/Sci-Fi/Humor story. And if "Mindfuck" were a genre, that would definitely fit, too.

-

Prologue: These Cold, Faraway Memories

-

It's a difficult life, here.

I walked down the middle of the snow-strewn streets, with my hands stuffed in the pockets of my fur. I had my hat tipped over my head, the brim tilted low to hide my eyes. I guess I was a little self-conscious, being here on the streets at a distasteful time like this. There was the middle class, and there were the poor, and among either of those groups, I must have seemed like an elitist snob, wearing my fur coat and waltzing through the streets like a rich man. Off in the distance, the old highroad swerved high in the sky and snaked around into the distance, the headlights glaring off into the sky in a preoccupied manner. This was one of the lower streets, one less traveled. No one came down here unless they had to or they lived here. It was well-populated, but quiet, and gave off a melancholy and sad aura, rather than a dangerous or uncomfortable one. Maybe it was the snow.

Ours was a city where you had to play the cards they dealt you, or you'd die a vagrant's death, the death of a man who was too stubborn to know he could not aspire for anything greater. Here, it wasn't about planning for the future, but planning for the present. It was a little slice of reality, far different from the fantasy I lived in my comfortable home. We lived on the edge of "town". There was no suffering in our every days. But I made it a point to come down here every so often and breathe in the damp, often snow-filled air, to always remind myself I didn't have it so bad.

The streets were now a mess of snow and ice, and the walkways were covered in slush that disliked my comfy, insulated boots. But now, even in the afternoon, when the sun still shone weakly through the screen of snow, the buildings were dark and shut. No doors were open to me, save perhaps the one I was seeking. I dug one hand deeper into my coat and sunk my shoulders down a bit lower.

I held the small note-card in my hand, and it caught the tiny flecks of snow until, over time, it became a host for all the sky's snow. I brushed it off and was pleased to see I could still make out the address on the card.

Ninian…

So, after what seemed like hours of wandering asleep (though I was indeed awake for the walk's entirety), I turned the corner of the street, and I did so several times, winding around what seemed like a maze of faceless, gray buildings lashed with snow and afflicted with a terrible symptom of poverty. For all the money my father and I had, it would do nothing to solve these problems. These problems were rooted in something bigger, in something global, something that could not be avoided at any cost- destiny. As long as the sad world still ran on sin, it was fated to crumble under the weight of its own misdeeds, or so Father Lucius said.

That Father Lucius was an optimist only depressed me further. I remember him distinctly.

I sighed and looked up into the sky as I thought about him. I recall looking up into the sky as I strode those sidewalks, nearing ever closer to that street, to meet that girl. In quiet, contemplative times, Lucius' memory would always come to me. I didn't know where he was now. For the longest time, he was the lone bishop among a flock of lowly monks and one cleric, there at the old place of worship. That old place, a run-down piece of nothingness on the street corner, was like a second home to me, even though the squalor of that place could not compare to the majesty of my home. My family was wealthy, and though their opulence never detached them from the rest of the world, I still always wondered if someone like me could belong here, on the streets where the average man toils on the main and struggles for the legal tender.

Sometimes I would walk, or ride a trashed old bicycle into the city just to visit that sacred place, the place where God and Goddess were many and one, to calm my nerves if I was nervous or sad. O Father Lucius…when you left, it was like an irreplaceable part of my childhood had gone, also. All that time I spent, kneeling there, you kneeling beside, your arm wrapped around me, crying with me, absolving me of sins I feared I might have committed against the world. Oh, I remember above all your kindness, your grace, your majesty. You were rising in your years, I knew. The gray of age had begun to settle upon your beautiful golden hair. And then, you left, without a word, without a trace. I think…I think it was years ago, maybe two.

Was it really that long?

And, if I recall, that week before you left…that was the first time I saw Raymond again, as well. He had laid down his badge, didn't he? He couldn't forgive himself. You were…really, the only one to whom he could flee, to whom he could confess his sins. It was always like that. Even when I was a child, I would watch you two speak with my father, and I could see that you were troubled, even when you were laughing. Both of you. We were all friends

Lucius, Raymond…we'll meet again. When the times are better, we'll meet again, and catch up on old times. This is something I will not fail in. Even if I've failed in everything else, still...

Eventually I came to my destination. There was no questioning it, no mistaking it for anything. Not so much the sight- a rundown building wedged between others of its ilk, dilapidated and buried in a shallow snow grave. But it was the number! The number I had been told, the one I had wedged firmly in my memories and refused to let go. The number I wrote down on a note-card unnecessarily. Five-seven-seven Bard's Lane. An otherwise unimportant street among many, many unimportant streets in this melancholy gray labyrinth, our city. But I recognized this building from my dreams; it was the only house on the whole road with a string of beads draping the door's crest, and a ring of dried, shriveled roses hanging dead-center.

Amazing…it lasted even that long…her flowers...

Note-card in hand, I rapped on the door in the pattern indicated. It was our old childhood signal, a sign used in secret codes when we played codebreakers or safecrackers or something like that. Back then, we played Big Daddy and Little Sister, and I was her protector even though we were the same age. Back then, she called me "Mr. Bubbles".

Two raps, three raps, two raps, four.

And thus I knocked upon the door.

There was a trundling of feet, and a rustling sound. From the other side of the door through the peephole, I heard a gasp of excitement, one so distinct that neither the deepness nor the maturity of it could mask it for what it was, for what I remembered of it. It was the sound of innocence. In this world, that could only mean it was her and no one else.

The beautiful young woman flung her door wide open and her face melted with joy seeing me. Her teal hair swung behind her, brown eyes bubbling with tears. She nearly dove headfirst into my arms, and she could barely speak, but she weakly uttered one word to me in her breathlessness: my name.

"Eliwood…"

---

Where…am I? Who am I?

The first thing I knew was that I was another me.

No, another "I". A different I. I had a dream where I was a different "I". I. Me.

I lifted my head off of the hard cot on which I had been resting. I felt claustrophobic, like I was in a tight, enclosed space. But I was afraid to open my eyes. I didn't remember anything for the longest time…did I want to know where I was, or…

Something whirred gently from above me, so I knew I could not have gone deaf. I felt a cool gust brush against my face relentlessly (but softly), so I knew I still could feel. The light in the room was dim, almost to the point of uselessness; so much so that when I first began to see, I did not know whether or not I had gone blind.

But, I hadn't. The room I was in was indeed very small, a box-shaped room with a ceiling fan diligently whirring, directly above me, and a dim, dim light inset within the middle. One window, overlooking a blank-faced building of brick, stood alone, and on the wall opposite, a rustic wooden door, tightly locked from the inside. Someone had scribbled something on the walls. "Godot isn't coming" said one of the messages, scribbled in blue crayon almost illegibly. On another wall, someone had written, "The Party will Never stop" and on another wall, in the same handwriting, was writ "My Sister is throwing a Party and a Party is throwing her." On another wall, someone wrote, "They tried and died." in sand-colored ink. On another wall, someone wrote, "Love the Ministry of Love." I shook my head. I looked up. Somehow, someone had written "Rapture" on the ceiling. The letters were red, like blood. Only God could have written it...in a place like this, I figured, anyone with a ladder could play at being God. I looked up but there was a ceiling. Therefore I could only look down.

Trapped in a prison in God knows where, the door is locked from this side, and the lights are dim as blazes. Where the hell am I? Still, I must get out of here. Now. I have to do something. I don't know who I am. This is going to drive me mad if I don't figure it out.

So, I sat up, and rubbed my eyes with my hand. I could hear the faint, rhythmic ticking of a clock somewhere, but I could make out no clock anywhere, not on the wall, not on the windowsill, nothing. It was a chilling noise to hear in such solitude, but after several seconds of examining, I decided it was really of little concern, and I had more pressing matters to attend to. Someone had written something on the wall above the door. It said, "All hope abandon, ye who enter in". Somehow it only filled me with hope. I needed a drink but I didn't have one. So I had no courage. Balling up my fist, I braced myself for whatever might have lurked behind the door, undid the chain-lock, and stepped outside.

I was hoping I would appear truly outside, in the fresh, snowy air. But it was just a damnable hall, a narrow hall with yellowed peeling wallpaper and low ceilings and flies buzzing and the smell of crap and death. Above me, the lights flickered in their sockets and flickered, dim and dumb. Radio music was playing. "How much is that dragon-is that dragon-is that dragon-is that dragon-is that dragon-" It must have been broken. Broken like my MIND. Bang!

"Oh GOD, JULIA!"

I nearly jumped into the air. The voice that I heard was so loud, it had to come from somewhere else, but there was no one else around, and it was not the radio. The radio only said, "Dragon, dragon, dragon" dutifully, always the same each time. "Dragon, dragon, dragon," and the tone was always the same. Always the same, like a machine. It was a person's voice, repeated so perfectly that it could only be a machine.

The place was probably an old building, maybe an apartment building or an office complex from long ago. I blinked a bit to shake the fatigue out of my eyes, but my right eye was clouded, as if a selective fog had settled over it. Nothing but mist. Dull pain ran through my arm. It felt like a blunt injury as if something had been pulled or torn in the muscles. Still, for the life of me, I could not remember how I obtained the injury. Maybe I was attacked on the street, and some two-gold thugs with the phony teeth and the phony brains afflicted these injuries on me. But why could I not remember? I tried to remember my name. I tried.

Good father of God...I can't remember my name!

My steps echoed along the floor, the emptiness in the environment was clear to me as anything. This place was abandoned, or as good as abandoned. There was nothing in the halls, nothing in the winding, maze-like paths that ran in-between rusted doors and broken stairwells, that spoke to me of human habitation. Or at least, not the kind I was used to associating with.

I'm not supposed to be here. This isn't my home. Good father of God, good father of God, who the hell am I? Who am I, and where? Who? And what is this filthy, abominable shit-hole?

I pressed my hand against a door I saw marked "Men". It creaked open with a terrible sound like darkness and darkness scraping together. The restroom was almost completely Jet Black, save for one dim light hanging on the ceiling. The radio played music here in the bathroom, but it was different. "My most amusing valentine...you make me smile when I'm down, doo doo doo..." the radio said. For some reason I could not explain, the song made me feel sorrow. My chest tightened and for a moment I thought I was in love with something before I realized there was nothing in the bathroom to love.

The lone window in the bathroom was covered in black soot and ash, and a cold fog had blanketed each of the mirrors. It was a grim, filthy display, that window (window; I did not win a doe in a contest) but behind the grime, there was snow. Nothing but snow and a long drop down, down, down through the air to the ground far below. At least five stories, I would say. I had the feeling, and I wasn't often wrong in these cases. Snow. I knew snow. Snow was comforting to me, but I didn't know why. Snow tasted good.

For all the damn good it does me…

Someone had written "Bang!" on one of the bathroom walls. On another, someone had written, "For a good time, call Lady Sonia".

I walked in front of the mirror. The glass glared darkly at me. I didn't know if that was supposed to mean anything.

Now. What do I look like? Let me see what has happened to me…

I wiped the mildew and black dirt off the mirror and looked at myself. Seeing myself in the mirror for the first time frightened me.

What the holy hell happened to me?! And why can't I remember it?

I could not believe it. Never, in all the time I walked those halls had I thought I would look like this. My face was cut and scarred, great slashes running vertically and horizontally and diagonally across my face, and one of my eyes had been caught by a vicious slash running from one ear to my scalp.

So that's why my vision…

I lifted up my shirt. I was bruised and cut everywhere. I saw what looked like poorly-done stitching. I did not remember. The entire left side of my body was stitched up. The stitches were an ugly gray and yellow and smelled like hell.

"Oh GOD, JULIA! Yes, oh GOD, JULIA!"

I tried to ignore the voice. It was coming from the door, the window, the mirror, EVERYWHERE. It was a man's voice, weak and jealous and angry and ecstatic. I winced. I winced a ton. I tried to ignore it. It hurt, but I tried to ignored it.

Good father of God, no...my name isn't...no, my name isn't Julia, is it? Good father of God, that's a WOMAN'S name! BANG! BANG! Oh god, Julia...

My clothing, now that I noticed it, was different. I was wearing all white clothing, but the color white, white on white, blinded me. I hated it. I liked snow but I hated white clothes. Somehow seeing myself dressed in a soiled white shirt and plain white pants made me angry. Someone had cut a huge hole between the pant legs. Where there should have been a fly, there was an elephant. Suddenly scared to all hell and back again, I grabbed at my crotch and was pleased to find that everything was in order. The goods had not been tampered with on delivery. Bang!

When I looked back up, I saw the OH GOD, JULIA in my head.

The hole in my head.

I should get that looked at...

I shrugged, I pressed against the door, and left the darkness of the restroom behind. I thought I had heard a voice, but I really didn't.

Nothing…nothing! Is my mind playing tricks on me?

I walked those halls aimlessly. It could have been minutes, or hours. If I was going insane, it was because of solitude. What I knew is that I was not used to being alone, and it was taking my money at the tollbooths. And I knew, I knew that particular trait was familiar, somehow (maybe even both of them, hah.)

I could not recall how I came to stand where I did, but there I stood, at the foot of a great stair (after having descended) staring at a corridor that turned sharply to the right. My hands tugged at my hair; the solitude was obviously doing something to my mental state. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't take anything into account, I couldn't make rational decisions anymore. Then, I pricked up my ears and rose my sunken head so I could make out the faint sound of…something.

Is that someone crying? Someone's crying!

It was without thinking, without taking time to portent the ramifications of my reckless charge, but I bolted around the corner. For all I knew, I was diving into the depths of the enemy stronghold, into a bed of spines or a machine gun nest. But I saw something completely different, something that at once chilled me, comforted me, and reaffirmed me that I was still alive.

A woman sat in a chair in the dark yellowed hall, sitting upright like a fetus rotated ninety degrees, weeping softly to herself. Her beautiful blonde hair trailed down the back of her head and neck, her gentle face sunken and retracted into herself. Her face was slathered with lipstick.

S-Selena? Why...I've never met her before, so why do I know her name?

"Miss…" I said hesitantly, but my voice was only a whisper. Spending so long in silence had robbed me of something, it seemed. I spoke again, louder this time.

Is this my voice? Oh, shit...

"Excuse me, miss?"

"Ah!" the woman said, turning her head up to look at me. And as she did, her eyes lit up, her gorgeous red lips curling into an ecstatic smile. She rose to her feet with an inhuman quickness and called out once to someone, someone far away…

"Ephraim!"

I whirled around to see who it was, but instead the blonde woman threw her arms around me.

---

"Well…it's been a long time, now hasn't it?"

Lyon stood in the frame of the door, smiling. Even though the spacious room of the grand mansion was well-lit, warm, and inviting, the purple-haired man pulled his leather jacket closer to him. It was indeed a great room; the marble floor was covered at length by a large, plush area rug of red and blue, which made the size all the more bearable. Around a large table in the dead middle was a large oval table of oak, ringed by fellow oaken chairs. The borders of the rooms were fringed with bookshelves that stretched nearly to the sky and were filled to the limit with books of all sorts.

At the back of the room, the great fireplace roared with the gift of flame, spurned by the flame-colored gems that sat on the mantle and kept vigil over the room. In the center of them sat one larger gem, a crystal of such pure redness that Lyon could have sworn right there that it was a crystallized flame. At least, he wouldn't put it past his old friend to have something like that, knowing him as he did. In a high-backed chair of mahogany and oak, the man to whom Lyon extended a greeting sat looking away, a pipe hanging out of his mouth. He seemed to be staring into the fire, watching the embers vigilantly, subjecting each to his baleful, observant stare (which Lyon, at the moment, could not see). The lamps suspended on the ceiling filled out whatever light was not present.

After waiting for his old friend to amble over to his chair and stand over his shoulder, the sitting man decided to give his warm reply to his guest.

"It's been a long time indeed. I feared that perhaps you'd have forgotten about me, 'Leon'…"

Lyon smiled and brushed a lock of his lavender hair out of his face. A typical response from his old friend, but one he'd come to familiarize himself with. Thus, he replied comfortably, "That's a name I haven't been called in a while…"

"Since we last spoke, I presume?"

A nod from the standing man, and, "You presume correctly."

"Then, it would be about four years, I'd say. May I ask, then," said the sitting man, with a curious, almost amused inflection (but nothing bordering on unusual for him), "What you are called now?"

"Does it matter? You can call me whatever you wish, friend. After all, I owe you something words cannot speak. You nurtured me, even if you did not give birth to me. You helped me in my time of weakness, in the time that I was the most lost. I am forever in your debt. You may call me whatever you wish."

"Ah, Leon…" the sitting man said, with a tone of voice that told Lyon he was smiling, "Consider us even, in all respects. You gave me something very important as well...don't you remember? Ha ha...so, tell me. What do they call you now?"

Lyon smiled and chuckled quietly. There was no telling the 'old man' no once he had made up his mind. Lyon pulled his coat in closer to him and said, "Lyon."

"Lyon, hmm?" The sitting man paused for a second. "Not much of a difference, is there? Ha ha…I assume that change is to extricate yourself from your brother's shadow? After all, you were his 'reverse', were you not?"

"You are correct to assume that, Master."

"Hm? Master?" The 'Master' laughed. "Ah, Lyon, there is no need for those formalities here. You are comfortable in my presence, are you not? I said when we met again, it would be as equals. Did you forget?"

Lyon smiled warmly, as warm as the glow of the fire, though he knew his old friend could not see. "But that is what I wish to call you," he explained, pulling his coat more tightly around him, his arms crossing his body, "Master Morphos…"

There was a suppressed gasp from the direction of the head chair. The man stood up, turned his chair to face the visitor and sat down again.

Upon seeing his old friend's face, Lyon gasped and took a step back. His visage, his manner, his appearance were far from a surprise…still, they were a shock to him.

I had heard he suffered further injuries, but I didn't know this…

The man Lyon called "Master" indeed looked much like a monster from some ancient movie. Around his face, many bandages and wrappings slithered their way around, so much so that his entire visage was swathed, and so only his eyes, nose, and mouth were revealed. He still wore the heavy black jacket Lyon remembered him to wear, but now it was tattered and ragged and torn. Underneath was the antiquated suit of armor he wore, serving much the same as a bulletproof vest, but slightly more embellished (encrusted jewels and a reinforced silver plating would do that).

"Damn it!" the bandaged man spat. Anger had come to him so suddenly that Lyon shivered despite all else. His spine turned glacial and his breath turned to steel as the other man spoke. "That name…Morph…Morphos…I have shed that name, just as I have shed all my old failures."

"Then, why have you not loosed me from your sight?" Lyon asked, smiling gently. "I understand that without any of my inner suffering, I have no real reason to be here."

"No...no, that's not true. You were not a failure...not you, Lyon. You at least were no failure. You came to me, and I helped you, and you seem to be doing well enough for yourself now, aren't you? So stop degrading yourself, boy."

"As you wish, M-…sir. Still, what may I call you? I was hoping that, even if only for the shortest time, we could speak again. Catch up on…er, old times. If you'll excuse the phrasing, I didn't mean to speak of that time. Just…old times. But, what may I call you?"

"Address me by the name that I am known as now. My new name. The name of the dark oblivion. The name of the lord of all frothing shadow. The name of fear. Speak the name of fear." said the bandaged man, rising to his feet and beckoning Lyon to join him at the center table, presumably for a meal and a drink.

"And what name is that?"

The bandaged man stopped in his tracks, and his exposed lips moved upwards in a strange sneer. His exposed eyes looked upward, and through the ceiling, his mouth was both sneering and smiling at the infinite heavens.

"Nergal."