Transcendence

I do not own Fire Emblem or any of its characters.

This one is the response to Kitten Kisses' second challenge (Archanea, Merric/Linde, 1850's America, gen or romance) to my "fic prompt" LJ request. Apologies if I got anything wrong on the 1850s America part... I did do some research, but not bucketloads of it. So if I erred on forms of address or whatnot, mea culpa. Also, references to political parties are not intended as an implicit endorsement of any such parties, past or present.

November, 1853

"Mister Merric, another weary traveller is about to join you."

He knew Mistress Sheema's cue. Merric began to scoot his papers around on the table so they would only take up half its surface instead of the entire spread. The back corner table of the Trenton Tavern usually served as a good place to grade his papers- it was far from the fireplace, but had the lone bay window in the establishment, which let Merric make use of the low afternoon light. Mistress Sheema and her husband Mister Samson allowed Merric to loiter there prior to supper (as long as he paid for his drinks), but once the tavern began to fill for the evening, other paying customers took precedence over essays and arithmetic worksheets.

Merric continued to work, but he did glance up with a curious eye once this particular "weary traveller" was seated. A young lady traveling alone would have caught some attention regardless, and this particular young lady was not only quite young- no more than twenty, he thought- but quite striking. Her face was fair and lightly flushed, like the petals of the apple-blossom, and the hair that escaped from beneath her bonnet looked a fine shade of chestnut-brown. What truly caught Merric's attention, though, was the young lady's eyes, which were brown and bright and seemed to Merric to have the undeniable spark of intelligence.

Merric quickly sorted his papers so they fell in neat stacks.

"Good afternoon, miss."

"Ah, good afternoon."

Easterner, he thought. Massachusetts Bay? His recollection of the peculiarities of the New England states was faint and growing fainter. He could only remember the truly strange ways of the people of Nantucket, and he doubted the young lady- Linde, as her name proved to be- hailed from there.

"Mistress Sheema did say you were a traveller; what brings you to this lonely crossroads?"

He exaggerated somewhat; steam travel along the river was increasing by the year, and Trenton itself was not such a backwater any longer.

"I'm to take a place at the Wyandotte school."

Yes, definitely from somewhere around Cape Cod.

"Quite a coincidence. I'm the schoolmaster here in Trenton."

The teacher for the Wyandotte schoolhouse had been in a decline all summer but had started the autumn term regardless; he'd retired under a fair amount of protest. Merric, happy in his present position, hadn't bothered to ask that his name be put in for the job, but it surprised him that they'd imported some Eastern schoolmistress to fill it.

"Have you relatives here in Michigan, then?"

"No," she said, and her forthright ways surprised him. "I'll be looking for some lodgings; you wouldn't have a recommendation for a boarding house, would you?"

"No. I've a room at the home of a family friend." This was not a time to mention, or consider, the beautiful and strongly devout sister of said friend. "Mistress Sheema and her husband could give you a recommendation, I'm sure."

He did not stare at Miss Linde while she looked over the bill of fare, though Merric did note to himself that her coat and her traveling-dress were of a fashion he hadn't yet seen in Michigan, and that Linde wore a mourning brooch of braided hair and amethyst at her collar. The hair was of the same shade of brown as her own, and Merric couldn't help but wonder if one or both of her parents had died untimely, prompting the journey westward. Wondering was all he could do, and Linde didn't prove the garrulous type. He'd met some young ladies who wished to bore all in earshot with their entire pedigree and personal history, unremarkable as that always provided to be. Here, on the contrary, was a person of considerable interest, and she proved as self-contained as an oyster. At least he had the papers to occupy his time.

Merric was debating whether or not to order himself another Apple Jack Cock-Tail when Mistress Sheema brought along Linde's drink- an effervescent strawberry concoction, clearly ordered from the temperance side of the menu. He decided against the Cock-Tail and called for some mint tea instead, hoping the scent of it would counteract any alcohol that might be on his breath.

"What time do they serve supper here?"

"Six on the nose," he replied. "At eight o'clock tonight there's a speaker- an abolitionist by the name of Mr. Hardin."

Linde's eyes grew a little brighter.

"I expect all present will be sympathetic to the cause, but on the off chance some of the locals get rowdy..."

Linde did not seize on his gallant offer of protection. Instead, she opened up and gave him quite an earful about the movement, and the speakers she'd seen back in her home state (including the great Mr. Emerson). Her own father, as it turned out, had been an active abolitionist- and had been killed for it, under circumstances so murky that no one was ever apprehended in his murder.

Miss Linde and her personal history took Merric's breath quite away. He supposed the only thing he could do then to save a bit of face was to play his hand regarding his active membership in the Free Soil Party, and the identity of his friend and benefactor- who had arranged and paid for that night's speaker. Merric was always ambivalent about using Marth's name as a key into high places; on the one hand, it worked, but on the other, Merric did want to stand on his own feet, as a man of ideals and integrity.

He especially didn't like using Marth's name as a means of impressing young ladies, because it immediately introduced an element of competition. Merric had, in his own opinion, all the sterling qualities that ought to impress a lady- a fit figure, good moral standing, an intellect of high degree, and (last but not necessarily least), an attractive visage. His chief hindrance in life was an indifferent constitution... if one didn't count a general and chronic lack of money.

Ladies might be able to overlook the familial threat of consumption hanging over his head (some, admittedly, seemed to find it rather romantic), but if money and influence held any sway- which they did- Merric was left in the corner. Those of the fairer sex took one glance at Marth and imagined themselves as the wife of a future senator... or governor... or higher still. Yes, the up-and-coming star of the Free Soil Party was bound to be Michigan's senator as soon as he was of the age for it, and then the sky was the limit... never mind that Merric was the unheralded hero whose hand had penned Marth's better speeches.

The upshot of it was, no lady down-the-river of Detroit wanted to set her sights on Trenton's young schoolmaster when there was something better under the same roof. It was part of what made courting Miss Elice an desirable thing- she couldn't marry her own brother, which left the field open for Merric. Also, Miss Elice did seem to find and appreciate a certain strain of poetic romanticism in Merric... or perhaps she simply enjoyed nursing him back to health whenever he was stricken with fever. Merric wasn't entirely sure on that count.

He had about an hour left with Miss Linde's company before Marth showed up with the estimable Mr. Hardin in tow. He decided to take Linde's measure now, from the frill of her bonnet (and those stray wisps of chestnut hair) to the heels of her fine shoes. Was Miss Linde going to turn those bright eyes on Marth and see the fortune and the property and the shining future ahead of him? Or was she going to realize that, in spite of his generosity and social graces and embrace of progressive ideals, Marth wasn't exactly in the league of the great Mr. Emerson when it came to... well, thinking.

Not that Merric was exactly there, yet, but give him another twenty years to refine his intellect, and he might well be a contender. He had a chance of it, at any rate.

And then Linde asked him what he'd thought of "Self-Reliance"- not if he'd read the work, but what he thought of it. Merric smiled. No, he hadn't misread the keen intelligence in those sparkling brown eyes. And he didn't have to worry a bit about introducing Linde to any Michigander down-the-river.

"Well, as it happens..."

And he drew out from his muddle of papers a slim volume containing his hand-written essays, flicked it open to "Thoughts Upon Self-Reliance," and began to share a few choice points with Miss Linde. By the time Mistress Sheema arrived with the soup and rolls, Merric's mint tea was quite cold and the effervescent strawberry drink had lost most of its bubbles- and neither one of them did mind in the least.

The End

Notes: Michigan was a hotbed of progressive ideals of the day, including abolition and the temperance movement. The Free Soil party never really got off the ground, but the remnants of it did combine with the Whigs in Jackson, Michigan, in 1854, to form a party that did. Again, this is all purely for historical reference and not an endorsement of any modern-day parties or platforms. Or of the temperance movement.