Now
The witch stared over the castle. Her castle.
It shouldn't have been, not unless the sky fell and the gods died… but she'd seen that, too, in her time. And her magic would never lie about something so important.
Hector of Ostia and fallen, and left her as a widow.
"Is… is everything alright, your ladyship?"
And left her to deal with the castle's various prattling residents on her own, which was worse. Tharja half glanced over to see who was stupid enough to bother her this time. Pink hair, orange armor… Gwendolyn, if memory served. Bors's sister, and fairly new to her work.
Not that Tharja cared about any of it, of course. She just had duties to (ugh) her people as the wife of a lord, and now they stayed even though the reason they were worth anything in the first place was rotting in some field.
"I just thought that you'd want to know that Noire wrote a letter. If the messenger can be trusted…"
"He can't."
"Well, he said she's doing well with Lord Reglay and his wife. I'm sure she misses you, but…"
"She's soft. If this makes her stronger, than it was worth it. But none of that matters. Hector is dead."
"What?"
The armor knight rocked back on her heels.
"Killed by Zephidel's men."
"I didn't see a messenger!"
"No. Because his escort died first. They even tried to take him prisoner. At least he made them pay for that."
"Oh. You… have your ways, my lady?"
"Yes. And that's all you need to know. I suppose you're some honest, straightforward young knight. You don't want to know what I've done."
Wendy's armor clanked. Just enough that, for anyone who wasn't an Ostian knight, someone might assume a chill ran down her spine.
"If there's anything you need from me, my lady, you can say the word!"
"I need to be left with my grief. Or, if you'd prefer, you could help me with an experiment. I have a new hex I'm working on…"
"Of course, my lady."
And without another word, Tharja was alone.
Then
Tharja should have been happy. Ecstatic! Feeling the kind of bliss that no-one else could understand. After all, Robin (HER Robin, even if that harlot from the future had technically married him in the eyes of Naga, and what did that damn dragon know anyway?), had asked her to dinner! Dinner in another world, under a strange sun, where she would meet some of his oldest friends and learn his deepest secrets.
But she felt… nothing. None of the spark. None of the divine bliss that once accompanied every word from his mouth and every glance from his eyes. Ever since Robin came back from the dead, he'd been... the same kind and decent man, of course, and someone that Tharja could see herself happy with for the rest of her days, but no longer someone worth burning a world for.
Which meant what should have been bliss was treacherously dull. It also meant that getting close to him lacked its usual appeal, leaving Tharja in her normal corner, glowering hard enough to keep everyone else away as she poked as miserable local cuisine.
She should have stayed home, where they knew how to make food the way she liked it. Home. Alone. Away from everyone, away from the rumors of family she'd chased for too long, still not knowing if any of them were left from the dragon's reign.
A few people had approached earlier, but the spooky witch act was too much for any of them to handle. Eventually, this would be over. Until then, she'd have to wait.
Wait, and nearly fall out of her chair, as some fool had just taken a seat across from her, with enough force to knock Tharja six inches in the air.
"Are you the witch?"
A man in massive armor stared at Tharja. If Tharja was some kind of obsessive, hanging over Robin's every word in the desperate hope some would be the key to igniting the old flame, she might remember something about him. But she wasn't, so associating some name, something like "Hector" for example, with a mountain with the scraggly blue beginnings of a beard would just be a blind guess.
"Are you looking to die?"
The man half smiled.
"I take it you haven't talked to anyone else tonight. It's not much of a question. Which means you must be the witch."
"I might be. If I was a witch, of course, I could melt your bones in your body, turn your eyes into frogs, laugh as you scream out a last song in your own blood."
"And you can talk to the dead. Or is that another story you made up so people would leave you alone?"
Tharja's teeth ground against each other. Perfect. Even Robin, dear, perfect, Robin, just wanted her along for parlor tricks. She'd have to talk with him as well once she was done with all of this. After she'd finished talking here.
"Yes. Let me guess. You have some precious childhood pet…"
"I had a brother. And I had things I wish I'd said when he was alive. So, can you help me, or are you all hot air and empty threats?"
"Oh, I can summon his spirit. But you may not like what you find. The depths of the underworld are not for dilettes. Hehehehe. Just give me a name."
"Uther."
Tharja took a breath and focused herself. Focused on the shape of Hector's soul, and the name of the dead man. Soon, she was buried under the waves of the dead.
It was strange, the currents of the underworld here. The blood of gods ran thin, and the dead had more disease, more pain, more pathetic sorrow. There were so many people that could have been saved, that Tharja could have…
That someone could have saved. If someone cared, and had talent. Not that it was any of Tharja's concern. But it was something she noticed, as she let Uther drift to the surface for a conversation with his momentarily living brother.
It would be easy to feel useful here. Easy to forget a lifetime of failure and regret.
The surface rippled, and Tharja opened her eyes to see Hector staring back. She frowned.
"Is that it? Have all your petty complaints been dealt with?"
"Thank you, witch. They… were."
Hector's hand rested at the back of his head.
"Blast it! I may not have time for court manners, but even I have limits. You have a name. I owe you that much."
The witch paused. It was sometimes safer to keep that kind of thing to yourself. But when she looked into the man's eyes…
Even if he had a gift for magic, he wouldn't dare turn on someone who gave him so much.
"Tharja."
"Hector, but you knew that. Thank you, Tharja. If you need anything Ostia can offer, say the word. I'll do what I can."
Tharja smirked.
"Oh, I'll collect. Heh. Ha. HAHAHAHAHA."
Hector's smile faded away.
Good. It wouldn't do for someone to think she was being charitable.
Now
Gwendolyn leaned against a wall and tried to keep calm. It was the word of a witch. Superstition. Nothing that should stagger a knight of Ostia, nothing that could shake her trust in the country's strength of arms.
So there were rumors. There were always rumors, always enemies, always dragons waiting for the world to forget the seven heroes and turn from God to be drawn back into the long night. She'd never paid much attention since she was small enough to fit on her brother's knee, and that was an eternity ago.
Still. The witch was her lady, a monarch and fixture of the realm she had sworn to protect, and for all her eccentricities, the woman would never have betrayed Lord Hector. She would sooner cut off her own arms and leave them for the ravens. Whatever omens and portents she believed in said that the greatest man in Ostia… in all Pharae… in the WORLD was now food for the carion birds. And, until such time (God allow it and speed the day!) as the man himself staggered into the castle courtyard, battered and scarred but as lively as ever, Gwendolyn was left to perform her duties as if the man was dead.
And the first of those duties would be breaking the news to Lilina. Heaven knew how her mother would handle it.
Whatever the witch's virtues, Gwendolyn would not say any of them lay in the realm of parenting. She was a tutor to her children, perhaps. A threat, often. A protector in time of crisis. But never a proper mother in the time since the pink knight came to the palace, and if half the stories were true, not before that time either. Someone else had always taken those duties. And right now, those duties were taken by the woman in armor clanking down the hall to the library.
Lilina was deep in a book when Gwendolyn arrived. One of the witch's old tomes, something about dragons from the location of the gap on the shelves. (Rumor had it that she based her system on a former lover's, from her old home, but no-one dared ask for confirmation but the Lord Hector himself, and… and he might never be around to ask again.)
"Are you enjoying your book, my lady?"
Lilina looked up and turned. Her father's rough smile radiated from her face, alongside a few nicks from when she and Roy had it out with practice weapons in the yard a month ago.
"Not really. It's sad. Or it makes me sad."
Of course it was. These things were never going to be easy.
"Then I'm sorry, my lady. But I may add to that pain. It's early, but your father…"
Gwendolyn despaired. How could her knight's training leave her so useless here? She was the shield of Ostia, the defense against all harm, and she couldn't even tell a bitter truth to a child! (A child meaning someone a mere three years younger, and educated better than even her family could provide, but still a child.)
She took a breath, and decided to let her words fall as they may. God have mercy on his children, who tried so hard to be faithful despite their own failings.
"There are reports your father may have perished. If, heaven forbid, the reports are true, this is your domain now, under your mother's stewardship until you feel fit to assume the throne. For all of our sake, I hope that day comes soon."
"She means well. Or at least, not as bad as she lets on. And father has been through worse. I'm sure he'll stumble through the doors tomorrow, or next week."
"I… hope so too."
Lilina blinked.
"Hope?"
She stared deep into Gwendolyn's eyes, with the depth that usually came with love or hate, but none of the emotion. Fire rushed into Gwendolyn's skull. She would look away if she had any chance, had any choice. But duty and fire forced her hand and set her eyes. After a moment, both released her. Lilina looked away, her fires extinguished by a tear.
"Mother told you, didn't she? She isn't wrong. Not on things like that."
Lilina took a breath.
"I need to be alone again. You were right. This is sadder. I miss the stories."
Gwendolyn nodded and closed the door.
At times like this, in her experience, everyone was alone.
Then
"I'm an adult, Matthew. I don't need a blasted chaperone."
The red haired spy shook his head.
"Alone? With a strange woman who might well be a fugitive or an enemy spy for all we know? It would be hard to trust anyone under the circumstances. And it would be a bad idea to trust you alone under any circumstances. A maquis has responsibilities, as I think you've figured out by now."
"Which is why he needs a nursemaid to meet with a woman over dinner?"
"Yes. If it makes you feel any better, someone would do the same thing to your brother if he was spending all his time with a strange foreigner with no traceable house or lineage. Actually, someone would probably try to have him removed as a lunatic."
Hector tugged at the cloth around his neck and grimaced.
"Robin vouched for her."
"Robin also admitted to at least one case of amnesia, frequent narcolepsy, and allowing a dragon god to devour the world. I liked the man before you'd even heard his name, but I'm alert enough to see gaps in his judgement. And yours."
"Mine. I'm just talking to a possible boon to Ostia, one we've been lucky enough to stay on good terms with."
Matthew lifted an eyebrow.
"You're literally tying a noose around your neck for her to drag you around with. It's not a fitting style for nobility."
Hector looked down at the awkward knots in his hand.
"It's called a… 'tie'. Tharja would want something to make her feel more at home. They're used for formal occasions where Robin lives. She's his countrymen, I'd wear a sign of the country, so she doesn't feel insulted when my damned spymaster won't leave the room."
"Tie, noose, leash. I've spent long enough around Serra to pick up on a trap for the unwary. Are you ready to march to your execution?"
Hector looked down again at a mess of knots that had vanished from his neck and somehow wrapped itself around a candelabra without ever leaving his hands. He sighed and tossed it out a window to the sound of shattered glass.
Without a word, he stomped through the door. Matthew followed.
The witch sat under the eye of Oswin and a dozen more guards. If you just glanced at her, or past her, it was easy to assume she was in check. Not many mages, and fewer still once you left the greybeards out of the picture, could take a room full of soldiers without collapsing.
But looking dead on at the witch painted a different picture. The guards, and Hector, and even Matthew, were alive on her sufferance, and would lose the privilege if they pushed her a little too far.
It was probably five parts bravado to one part fact, but… well, the witch had performed feats and made offers that Athos himself had said were nearly impossible. It was best not to treat her too lightly, and to keep scanning the room for avenues of attack.
And Hector still took a seat right across from her like a damned idiot.
Some days, Matthew considered what life would be like in an easier line of work. Like herding cats.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting. My own damned servants..."
The witch shook her head.
"No. You didn't. If you had, you'd know what regret really felt like. Luckily for you, you didn't disappoint me."
"Good. So. I told the kitchen to prepare their best. I heard you liked bear meat, so I took out a hunting party earlier today. It didn't go down easily, but the effort adds to the flavor. "
"A certain 'rustic charm', I'm sure."
Matthew smirked. Maybe the witch was just hoping to kill her enemies with sarcasm. It was thick enough for choking on, and sharp enough to slice a throat.
"A damn sight better than the delicate excuse for a main course you brought last time. Hardly any flavor to it at all."
"I'm sorry that Plegia didn't have to drown its meals in salt just so it wouldn't rot because no-one has figured out any other way to keep meat from rotting."
"And I'm sorry that you can't tell a good meal if it gets up off the table and bites you."
"It might. You barbarians seem to like it better raw."
"Barbarians?"
"No. I take it back. Barbarians have better standards."
"Do they?"
"I assume so. Their cooking didn't make me want to retch."
Hector and the witch glared at each other across the table. Matthew reached for his dagger. There tended to be two ways this kind of thing would go, and he wanted to be prepared, no matter how accurate his read was for the room.
"Well. If there's nothing for you here, you should go back. I've given you enough hospitality to pay for what you offered me."
"You really think that? Do you know what the last man who begged for my talents offered? He would pay me with his soul. And here you are, thinking I'll be bought off with a few trinkets, a room for a little while, and the pathetic excuse for cooking that you barbarians use."
"If you think you've earned more, you should take it!"
Even the slowest of the guards had picked it up by now. Matthew could see them stumbling for their proper stances. It was easy to tell the ones who'd been in service against the Black Fang. They were the ones who'd still be alive if it came to bloodshed.
"I will!"
And it was too late for them as well, this time. Matthew might be fast enough, but Hector and the witch were already in the middle of the table, knocking aside the dishes…
And kissing like newlyweds. Really, it was shameful for an unmarried couple. This was how royal lines picked up bastards.
"Ahem. Guards? Might be best if you did your best to forget all this and let your lord keep a little of his dignity. God knows that Hector won't be doing much on his own account. And of course, any of you planning to mention this later for some troubador to build a song out of, well, I didn't hear about it."
The witch turned her head towards Matthew.
"Will you want me to kill some of the palace starr if I stay? I could help with your reputation."
Hector looked over from Matthew to the guards to a shamed Oswin.
"I'll consider it."
Now
"You know, the witch is going to be the death of all of us."
"Not so loud!"
Leygance shook his head.
"None of her people are in earshot. I know everyone on this patrol is solid. We can speak plainly."
"Plainly. About the witch who can turn men into frogs and summon the dead to do her bidding. I'm sure it will go perfectly."
"Oh, of course she can. And kill dragons, and make men's blood boil in their veins, and a thousand other rumors to elevate some foreign common born trash so no-one will question her marrying into royalty and polluting the blood of the seven heroes with sewer water."
"You shouldn't…"
"I thought you had more spine, Lieutenant. If she could do half of what they claim, she'd have killed every honest Ostian the second they doubted her. Our lips wouldn't give away anything our hearts didn't."
Lt. Devias looked around, seeing ghosts in every shadow. After a second, he gulped down an experimental breath of air.
Still alive.
"I suppose…"
"I know. When Lord Hector was alive, I tolerated her. We all did. It was foolish, but we were loyal vassals, we loved our liege, and everything moved along like it should, more or less. But now if you can believe the stories spreading around, and I don't see why we should doubt Zephiel broke Ostia's armies like everyone else foolish enough to stand in his way, it's her and her blood on the throne. Well. It's not something a right minded Ostian should take, is it?"
"No. No! Of course not! She never showed the proper respect for the nation's traditions! Or its royal guard!"
"Didn't argue for our increased salary!"
"Of course not! Rumor is…"
Leygance leaned in closer.
"She lobbied for the money to be spread to the damned peasants. Her people, the ones who never contribute."
"No!"
"Said it was better than just putting a boot on their necks. Can't say the boot does much harm in Etruria or Bern. They know what's proper! But no. Lycia's stuck in the gutter with them, because it brought in common rot, and rot spreads. Pretty soon, the whole order's going to fall apart, and it's all because of her."
Devias looked down at his boots. His expensive boots, the kind a street urchin or farmer might claim could have filled their coffers for years. The kind a man might be killed for, if… well. The witch might say that the people were relatively content now, but that was how the commoners always talked before a revolution. Devias's grandfather had lived through one, and the old man's stories were enough to make the lieutenant shiver every time he looked at a pitchfork.
"There has to be something we can do, General. I mean, leaving a practitioner of the black arts in power… it's not done."
"Of course not. Fortunately, not every nation has fallen into madness."
"Are you thinking of Etruria?"
"Not a prayer. The witch has their mage general under her thumb. A few party tricks, and she bows to a peasant. No hope there. No. I was thinking of Bern."
Deias froze.
"Bern."
"Of course."
"But that's treason! You… they're the enemy!"
"And look at where that brought us! The brink of ruin, between an army that never wanted to do us real harm, and our own incompetent leadership. I had a few friends who saw reason before I did. We hand them the witch, they let us alone. And I hear Zephiel has a habit of rewarding his friends, if they come to their senses before he arrives."
"And the rest of the league? You can't expect them..."
"They're already ahead of us. Well, not Pharae, damned idiot there thinks the witch saved his wife or some nonsense like that, but most of the lords realized that it's better to be eating scraps from the victor's table than to be carved up as the main course. They were willing to let Hector try his luck, but… that ran out."
"And you have a plan for this?"
Leygance nodded and smiled. Well. He'd been worried that he was moving too fast, that someone would get cold feet from fear or misplaced affection. Too weak to secure Ostia a future. Seemed he'd been right to have confidence.
"Of course. As I said, I had some friend setting things up. Nothing treasonous, you understand. I would never dream of taking a step against my country, but I had to make sure that, if worse came to worse, our homeland would be looked after. It wasn't about my security…"
"Of course not!"
"But about Ostia. Exactly. I wanted to do what's right. Same as now. Anyway, Zephiel's a reasonable man. Heir to one of the seven heroes, and he looks it. Not a drussed up trollop from the sewers. Someone you can trust. A few people might object if they knew now, but they'll see we made the right call in the end. So. Here's how it goes. We loyalists take the castle, capture the Queen and Hector's oldest brat, and make a formal surrender in their name. Everything's in place, ready to go smooth. And, if the witch and her brat happen to die in the confusion, well. Good thing there's an heir safely out of the way ready to take the throne under Zephiel's watchful eye."
Devias chewed on his lip.
"Are you sure that's wise? The people do like Lilina."
"Soft? Not becoming for an officer."
"I just…"
Leygance waved off the comment.
"Don't worry. I understand. She was a cute enough little girl, and she could have been a fine young woman, if she'd been raised right. Unfortunately, her mother didn't, so she's as stubborn as her late and lamented father. Not a good fit for the court, not a good fit anywhere. There might be a few tears shed, and if she happened to live, it might not be a disaster, but I can't say it would be good for Ostia. Her sister, now? Sweet as a summer's day, and gentle as they come. No worries about biting the hand that feeds there, even if an 'accident' happened."
"And you're acting soon?"
"Damn soon, if I can trust you. Country's been under the witch's thumb too long. It's about time the upper class reminded the people of the natural order. You and me, we're going to set things right. And we'll get the due of heroes."
Devias slowly nodded.
"Of course. About damn time, to my way of thinking."
"That's the spirit! Come on. We can kick this off by sundown tomorrow, if I know how this is best handled, and if your men are as keen spirited as you are. For now, we can celebrate with a drink."
Devias smiled, but only for a moment. He could have sworn a skull blinked its empty sockets as they walked past.
A small voice at the back of his head promised that nothing would go that smoothly with a witch around.
Then
Oswin bowed, as deep as his armor would let him.
"It's an honor to be hosting a holy man, Bishop Yoder. I only hope that you'll find the castle suited to your needs, and that you find the Marquis's marriage worthy of your blessings."
Yoder smiled.
"I can't say I find myself needing more than God provides. As for honor, I think that goes to the ones inviting a doddering old man to such a happy occasion. You have a cleric of your own here, if my memory hasn't quite failed me, and I'm sure she could speak for the couple in the eyes of God and the saints quite as well as I could."
Oswin frowned.
"You haven't met our cleric, I'm afraid. Some days, I think her power comes from… other sources. And I'm not sure the chapel would survive a dispute between her holiness and the bride to be."
"Well. I suppose… the Lord works in mysterious ways. I should meet with the bride myself. After all, I'll be announcing her before God himself, and all his assembled followers. I would hate to be left without any of her virtues to testify to. I would do her a disservice if I spoke in platitudes."
"Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have plenty of platitudes, no matter what I do."
Yoder turned to see… speak of the Devil was a plainly inappropriate term here. It reduced the weight of scriptures and saints, insulted a child of God, and was a cliche on top of that. He didn't have time for that kind of phrase when he was on duty. But it seemed clear it was the comment the woman wanted.
Tharja, if Yoder remembered her name correctly, was dressed like a model witch, hidden in the shadows and glowering out at the world.
"Go on, then. Get the condemnations over with. I might not turn you into a frog if you're quick about it."
Yoder smiled.
"Condemn you?"
"You know what I am, if you aren't deaf and remarkably stupid. The infamous dark mage, here to drag the soul of Ostia into hell."
Yoder's smile twitched at one end, in time with the light in his eye.
"I heard she worships dragons. That she engages in all kinds of impropriety, that she sneers at the common man, and hardly speaks with anyone but the lord Hector, even then communicating mostly in sneers and half expressed irritation."
"Heh. You can hear. Good. Hector might have been forced to tolerate you, but I want you to know just where you stand."
Yoder nodded.
"I do. In the shadow of a most worthy lady, and a person of a caliber this world needs in a position of power."
"WHAT?"
"Oh, it comes from being an old man. You start learning what you don't hear is as important as what you do. And I've never yet heard of anything worse than a runny nose suffered by the undeserving. I also haven't heard all the wails of sorrow common to our world around this castle. So few infants stillborn, so few cut down before their time, or dying slowly in agony where their bodies fail them instead of passing away as smoothly as a man awakening on a perfect spring morning."
Tharja glared.
"You must have me confused for some foolish wandering do-gooder. I don't care what happens outside this castle. I hardly care about anyone in it. If I happen to make a few miserable peasants slightly less miserable, it's an unhappy accident."
"Heh."
"Are you mocking me?"
"I just remembered the words of Saint Elmine. Once, on visiting a village, she spent all night blessing their springs, only seen by a small child. On being found, she swore him to silence. The deed was meant to bring glory to God and happiness to the sad lot of man. Glory to one woman would distract from the true author of their joy."
"I remind you of your plastic saint?"
"Not the first person who came to mind, but I thought it would be unfair to the both of you to bring up anyone who came to mind before."
It wasn't generally considered a compliment to compare someone to one of your exes, no matter how much good intent you brought to the statement.
"Hmmph. Well. I'm sure you have enough for your little speech. I don't want to waste more of my time with this. Tell Hector whatever you need. I'm sure he'll have more patience for whatever religious idiocy you want to spread."
"I'm sure he will. I'm grateful you even had this much time for an old man pushing well into the edges of his allotted time. It's not often in these fallen days a man can see the hand of God so close to Earth."
Tharja turned away and marched down the hall. A perfect model of the royal witch, stern and cruel as the summer's sun.
It must have been a trick of the eye that Yoder saw something else on her face as she looked back to her room. A slight tinge of red on the pale white of her skin.
Another old story bubbled to the bishop's mind. Probably entirely irrelevant. It was about Saint Elmine, as she ascended to heaven. It was said by her companions she had never looked quite so surprised.
Say what you would about the great and good. In Yoder's experience, they were often much more prepared for suffering than compliments.
Now
Ogier had thought he was prepared for pain. A soldier's duty was to be ready for whatever came for him, from harsh winters on watch to the enemy's blade at your throat, and he'd done the exercises like every other recruit.
When he was feeling arrogant, which was less appealing by the second, he would have thought he came more ready than most. He'd starved and scrapped in the gutters, unlike the nobles that made up most of the knights. He knew pain of the body and a little pain of the soul. It should have been enough.
Only he didn't prepare for treason, and it turned out that hurt more than all his old pains put together.
Almost as much as the whip on his back. It was still raw when the new interrogator came in.
"Ogier, is it?"
"Yes."
"You seem like a good kid, Ogier. Not someone I would have promoted, not with your background, but you know how much Ostia has given you, and I thought you'd try to give back. Only now, you have your chance, no risk, to help remove the greatest threat to the sanctity of Ostia…"
The interrogator shook his head.
"Well, here we are. Sorry that the last guy was so harsh. Probably didn't believe you, which I can see even if I don't like it. You think we're in the wrong here?"
Ogier coughed.
The interrogator frowned.
"Aw, you can say it. I mean, it's not like I don't understand. You think this is about avoiding war, getting out without spending more blood on a lost cause. And I can't say I don't see it. But come at…"
Ogier managed to force his jaw open.
"It is wrong. This is treason. I won't have it."
"And there you go. The 'T' word. Wish you hadn't said that. I kind of wanted to let you off light, just put you in a box with the other malcontents we've rounded up until we sort things, but you had to go and… well. At least you'll provide an object lesson."
The interrogator reached for his sword.
"This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you. Well..."
And then the man started coughing. And he didn't stop until he was on the ground, curled in a ball of agony.
Ogier judged him wrong, it seemed. The man was honest after all.
Then
Hector was blind.
Normally, it was a phrase other people used when they thought he couldn't hear. When it was in general, and not too cruelly meant, it just came from being a man in love. When it was specific, it came when they thought the ruler of Ostia was all muscle and no brain, a disruptive influence on the dance of court politics, unable to see what was going against him.
At the moment, however, it was simply a fact. If he didn't know better, he might chalk it up to his last night as a bachelor, but Matthew knew what taverns could be trusted with royalty, and there was no chance Oswin would allow him to slip away into the lower class of drinking hall. He took a breath and tried not to think of the one clear memory he had of his mother reading to him. There wasn't really a dragon eating the sun every night, and it was ridiculous for a man who'd actually killed a dragon (and who regularly spoke with another on much more pleasant terms) to worry about that kind of thing.
"It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."
Hector turned his head towards the noise.
"Tharja."
"I thought you might be lonely."
"Well, someone was. Did you and the others…"
"I left them on threat of terrible death after an hour. Your pink haired cleric is maddening."
"She's my cleric now? That assumes she would ever listen to my orders."
"Hmm. Perhaps a little hex could…"
"No."
"Fine."
Hector turned his head, more on reflex than any hope of a change.
"You're worried about this, aren't you?"
"Of course not."
"I'm not either, if that's why you came. Uther is long buried now, and that means I'm the only one who sits in judgement over my decisions. Eliwood can make sure no-one objects too loudly if there's trouble. Which there will be, because some people will act like the slightest breach of etiquette is the same as starting a full scale war."
"And we'll live happily ever after?"
In the dark, the sarcasm on the witch's voice was thicker than ever.
"We'll…"
It was hard to lie in the dark. Hector cleared his throat.
"We'll try."
Tharja's hair shook left to right, pushing a small breeze towards Hector's face, a smell of old moss and the flowers that only grow near lands rich with the dead.
"We won't. I know how this ends. You'll leave me. Dead on a distant battlefield, leaving our children without a father, and leaving me a widow."
Hector slowly nodded.
"I probably will. I was never meant to die in my own bed, even before I drew Armads. It's not who I am, and it's not something I could do, even if I wanted to. But you have my word I'll fight with every breath I have to come home to you every time I leave your side, and our son..."
"Daughter."
"What?"
"Two daughters. Neither takes after you quite as much as you'd like, but you love them more than your own life. The eldest will spend more time with Eliwood's son than you feel entirely comfortable with, if only because you're sure he's not good enough for her. Partially because she could break his arm like a twig. And you die before either is full grown. You die heartbroken, because you weren't good enough to save them from what's coming."
"How do you know this?"
"You can use a dragon's fingernails to see a little of someone's fate. Yours was just more obvious than most."
"Where did you… is that why you were following Ninian around with tiny clippers?"
"If I didn't tell her, why would I tell you?"
Hector sighed.
"Was there anything else?"
"Betrayal. Regret. Death. There's no other end for us. The only way out is if you walk away. I can't promise you a happy ending without me. I can just promise if you marry me, it will end in tears."
"That's all you can give me, then? So much for the great witch. No denying fate for us."
"I'll leave. I had things waiting for me back home that I've abandoned for too long. I'll curse you on my way out, for breaking my heart and abandoning me, but you'll have your years of comfort… You said 'us'."
"Of course. I don't back down from challenges, if you didn't notice. I didn't bow for a dragon, I fought the Black Fang until their end, and I'm still standing. Death might take me, but it won't take me sitting down and waiting like an old man. And it won't keep me from marrying the most remarkable woman I've ever met, any more than the insults of nobles or your own… eccentricities."
"You're too stubborn for your own good."
"I've been told."
"And it will be the death of you."
"I've been told."
"Well. You'll need someone around to protect you until then. I suppose I was foolish enough to volunteer. I'll protect your life until I need to avenge your death."
"And I'll fight to my last breath to come home to you."
"Is that a promise?"
"...It will be, soon enough. On both of our souls. You know where weddings had their start?"
Hector could hear the undercurrent of maniacal laughter in Tharja's voice, and smiled. This was what he was signing on for, despite every reasonable sign that he should just walk away and let there be an end to the horror.
"You can tell me again afterwards. I'm sure you have some unique insights I missed the first time."
"Of course. There's no point in warning you early."
The witch cackled and vanished, leaving Hector alone with his restored sight.
He straightened his collar and shook his head. No matter how much he'd regret the decision, at least he wouldn't live with it for too long.
Now
Roy tried to pay attention to Marcus. He really did!
A good student knew how to pay attention to his elders. A good student was alert to their wisdom, hard won and hard fought, and willing to take it whenever it was offered. Even if a great enough man could afford to keep his own council, Roy was still too young to trust his instincts over so great a distance.
But all the good will in the world was no good against a simple case of nerves, and Roy's were still unused to battle, and still less used to… whatever was in the air here.
After Thria, of course, he had good reason to be nervous. Treason and murder were the order of the day, with trusted vassals murdering their liege lords, ancient alliances ripped apart like so much paper, and dragons again walking the land. With the stories that lead him to Ostia, he expected an army waiting.
Roy didn't like the thought of an army, had no love for battle and the loss of good lives for a cause only God could judge, but he understood it now. He could kill a man and return to his work as long as he needed, and could keep his stomach in check until he had his privacy. It was a known evil in a world rife with chaos. It might be the coldest comfort, but here, anything would do.
Instead, the doors were barred, the people were terrified, and there wasn't as much as a breath from an invading or rebellious army. From time to time, Roy smelled something terrible on the wind, or saw a splash of blood, but that was all.
It was easy to be afraid in an atmosphere like this, but Lilina might be in danger… Ostia might be in danger. A threat to one of the league was a threat to all, and Roy was certainly more concerned with that than the safety of one childhood friend.
Really.
Marcus smiled. A trifle forced, but a smile all the same.
"If you're concerned for Lilina, set your mind a little more at ease. She's too spirited to go down without a fight we would have heard in Pharae."
"I was just considering my duties, Marcus… but thank you. I...ah!"
A strong wind interrupted Roy's thoughts. A quick glance upwards showed it came from a pegasus's wings
"Whoa! Hey chief! Scouting run complete, just like orders!"
"Err… thank you, Shana. What do you have to report?"
"Well, the castle is officially spooky, if that helps. Definitely spookier than it used to be."
"I'm sure…"
"I mean, whew, you get some mercenaries retiring to kind of spooky places to say how tough they were, but this is double, maaybe even triple spooky."
"Yes, that's very well, but did you have anything else?"
"There weren't any archers firing at me. So we're probably okay to go in closer to the spooky, spooky castle. Assuming you can, with how spooky it was."
"...Thank you, Shana."
Shanna snapped off a salute.
"Any time, chief!"
If Roy was honest, it was a relief to have Shanna back. Her chattering, while endless, was a shield against the silence of the Ostian countryside. A better lord might be able to carry the burden himself, but his nerves may well have failed if left to their own devices. The flapping of wing and gum alike kept him going to the castle's gate.
There, even Shanna's nerve failed, and her chatter faltered. The doors were open. The moat unguarded. A man merely looking at the place would feel it undefended. A man present would never be such a fool.
Roy took a breath.
"If… if Lilina is still alive, I should relay the news. Hector of Ostia was by all my father's accounts the truest friend, the noblest lord, and the kindest man ever to walk under heaven. He deserves a proper burial, with all the rites the church of Saint Elmine has reserved for a hero."
Shanna flashed a thumbs up. From ten feet back.
"You do that, chief!"
Roy sighed.
He took a step forward. A second.
"You brought his body."
Roy froze. The witch stood in front of him. Lilina's mother, and the most feared human being in Ostia. If she even was human.
"Y...yes, ma'am. We heard stories of a rebellion, and…"
"It's dealt with."
The witch smiled. Her eyes were sad, but she smiled.
"There's no need to worry about them. Ever again."
"I suppose… that's a relief."
"It's necessary. I don't want any risk of an uprising while I'm gone. Fear isn't always the best, but it will have to do for now."
"Gone?"
The witch look down on Roy (Not the easiest task when they were the same height, but she managed all the same).
"My husband is dead. His killer is still alive. What did you expect I would do?"
"I... with all due respect to your person and your rank, I was too focused on the duties of my position to consider how you would play yours. I am grateful for any aid offered."
"Good for you. Lilina insisted you would have enough sense to go along without any threats."
"Thank you?"
"And, of course, you'll keep her safe. Or you'll have me to deal with."
"Of… of course."
The witch smiled from the nose down.
"Good. We understand each other. Now, we have work to do."
(Author's Notes: Been a while, hasn't it?
Well, I'd give an excuse, but none seem suited for the occasion. Figure it's best to just move to discussing the story at hand.
So, Fire Emblem Heroes, the cellphone game, had a popularity poll, with the results divided up by gender. Hector and Tharja were both in the bronze medal position which inevitably lead, like everything else in modern Fire Emblem, to shipping.
This was meant to be much, much shorter, I swear. But sometimes these things grow in the telling.
So, hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading, and until next time, take care.)