A/N: Oh man, my first finished fic in years. FE13's vaguely written future has been breeding plot bunnies in my head for way too long now, and it's about time I started putting them on paper. This one's a slight AU with an F!Robin/Chrom background, but Morgan's the focus of it. He's a good boy.
Hope you enjoy. :)
"Master Grima!"
The words slipped from Morgan's mouth before he really thought about it. The figure standing across the drowned ruin had his master's shape, yes, but this was a different world from his own. He couldn't make assumptions like that.
Thankfully, his voice was drowned out by a thunderclap.
Morgan had never actually seen Robin fight before, not without the fell dragon's power behind her blows. She didn't seem to even need it. Her specialty was lightning magic. Each strike was loud, bathing the ruin in brilliant light. Like clockwork, the risen fell one by one, burnt to a crisp.
He'd never tell her that he was the one who'd summoned them in the first place.
With nervous anticipation, he ran forward, hopping over rubble until he was face to face with the mage, his mother—his past mother.
She thumbed a page of her tome and Morgan slowly raised his hands. He did look like a Grimleal priest, and he couldn't blame the Shepherds for distrusting their kind. "What did you call me?" Her voice was cold and eerily familiar.
"Mother!" Morgan grinned because despite everything, he was still excited to meet her. "Mother, by the gods, I found you!" He laughed. "I must sound insane right now, but please hear me out. It's a bit of a long story, but..."
"...You came from the future?"
He nodded, but Robin still seemed reserved. "Lucina never mentioned having a little brother."
Ah.
"Sh-she didn't?"
Well, he couldn't blame her.
He pulled off his left glove and turned his hand to show her the mark of Grima, mirroring her own. Her expression softened from hostility to mild unease, but before she could say anything, a new voice shouted, "Robin! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Chrom!" Robin smiled easily and waved, then gestured at Morgan. "You'll never guess who this is!"
It was hard for the boy not to stare. The exalt himself was making his way towards them, divine blade Falchion in hand. His clothes were stained by combat and his hair stuck to his scalp with sweat, yet he still somehow seemed noble.
His father, in the flesh!
Robin's voice broke through his thoughts. "So what is your name, anyway?"
The answer came from someone else.
"Morgan?"
He froze. Lucina rushed past their father and he didn't know how he was supposed to feel. The last time he'd met her they were both wearing masks, and she didn't know who he was. She had no idea how much of a liar he was, and it hurt. Morgan had to fight the urge to break down and tell her everything.
At least it felt genuine when he cried, "Lucinaaaa!"
Gods, how he'd missed her.
The princess stopped an arm's length away, looking him in the eyes. She didn't seem hostile, just afraid. Hope was dangerous. "This isn't some cruel joke, is it? No tricks?"
"No tricks!" Morgan grinned widely, but his coat felt heavy on his shoulders. "It's really me!"
It was enough. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, and he met it with all the fervor of a reunited sibling.
Chrom just looked concerned.
"Before you start anything, love," Robin intervened, "know that they're our kids."
The realisation slowly dawned on his face. Before he could help himself, Chrom was grinning ear to ear. He laughed—a warm, rich sound. "This place truly is blessed!"
Morgan and Lucina sat at the docks, catching up before the army was to set sail. It was late in the day and the setting sun bathed the town in orange light. The scene felt all too familiar, with the ruined buildings and lingering smoke.
Neither of them had seen a boat before, and this pier was packed to the brim with Feroxi and Plegian warships, sails gently swayed by the wind. The world was still alive. They were still adjusting to that.
"What happened to you?"
The question was inevitable. Morgan swung his feet as he pondered, wondering what he could tell her. "I don't know, Luci," he decided with a sigh, "My head feels all jumbled up. It's like I was sleeping for a long time, and now I'm awake and trying to make sense of fever dreams."
"You remembered me and Mother."
A smile formed on his lips, "I guess it's because you're both important to me. I know I've always wanted to be a great tactician like Mother, and you… well, you're inspiring! Keeping the whole world together, despite everything."
Lucina blushed at that.
It was true, she was amazing.
Still, she wasn't letting go.
"Three years."
Lucina's voice had an edge to it.
"It was three years between when you disappeared and when we'd left through Naga's gate." Her eyes were distant, skybound, like she was envisioning everything all over again. "I was so worried, Morgan. We couldn't afford to send scouting parties, and after a while even I started to believe you were…"
...Dead.
He may as well have been.
"I'm sorry," Morgan mumbled, and she'd never know how much he meant it.
His memories haunted his dreams.
He had power again. Raw magic flowed through his veins and exhilarated his senses. All he wanted was more. More more more more more. The more he killed, the more strength he gained.
The less shame he felt.
Then suddenly it all slipped through his fingers and he was alone, powerless.
Fret not, my child.
No. Not alone, never alone.
Destiny still follows the chosen course.
Trembling, he looked at the back of his hand, Grima's mark glowing a brilliant red. It gazed up at him, grinning like some sated beast. The world around him was dark, smelling of death and fire. Smoke choked his lungs and stung his eyes. He coughed and curled in on himself.
When he awoke, he tasted ash.
The truth would complicate things far too much.
Morgan honestly did want to get to know Robin as she was before the whole god business, but the more he thought about it, the more afraid he was of becoming too attached. He had to remind himself that none of this was truly real, just a reflection of the past. So he avoided his mother carefully, stayed polite and tore himself apart from the inside.
Unfortunately, they would be a month at sea and he and his mother shared the same vessel.
"Hey, Morgan?"
Her voice was a lot softer than he was used to. He turned to her and bowed his head, straightening as soon as he'd realized it. The Shepherds weren't so formal. "Yes, Mother?"
"We haven't really taken any time to get to know each other," she said, shifting awkwardly on her feet. There was thin wooden box tucked under her arm. "I'm done making plans for the voyage… for now, anyway, so… well, I was wondering if you'd like to play a game of tactics."
Morgan grinned widely.
Ah, hell.
"Yes, please!"
She'd beaten him soundly three times over, but throughout the whole thing, she gave him advice and pointed out his mistakes. It was all rather enjoyable, but at the third victory, something like sadness crossed Robin's face. "The reason I keep beating you, Morgan, is because you're treating your units as expendable."
Huh.
"If you hadn't sacrificed your infantry here," she pointed at the ravine on the board, "then later on you'd have been able to counter my assault." Her tone was strained. "I guess it's a bit hard to care for wooden pieces, but you must remember that every soldier on the battlefield is a person. As tactician, your job isn't just to win, it's to make sure as many of these people come home alive."
"That's… not something I've really thought about before," Morgan admitted.
He commanded the dead, after all.
"Casualties are inevitable, but keeping them down helps morale… but I think that's a bit beyond this game board." Robin was smiling at him. "You're actually quite good at this, I'm impressed."
Her praise was music to his ears.
"Do you feel that?" Lucina was breathless, and Morgan suspected it wasn't just from the long trek up the Great Mila Tree.
Chrom seemed to be feeling it as well, "Like a sense of… peace."
Morgan looked at his hands. Not for him. He wasn't welcome here, in Naga's hallowed ground. It felt like he'd stepped into a bright light and it was stripping away at the layers of his soul, to reveal just how blackened it was.
He wanted to bolt.
Chrom was everything he thought and more. An inspiration to the nation and the troops, to his friends and his family. In fact, he was a lot like Lucina in that way.
…A fool who trusted too easily.
The words from a bygone memory often found themselves at the forefront of Morgan's mind. He decided that while yes, his father was indeed a fool who trusted too easily, he was in turn easy to trust. If there was any leader that could truly inspire hope, it was Chrom, and even Morgan himself had become swept up in it.
At least, for the campaign in Valm.
Now that it was over, he wasn't so sure anymore.
It was three days after their victory that he bumped into him in the halls of the late Emperor's castle. Chrom had defeated Walhart in single combat but took a considerable amount of damage as well. He wore his tunic loosely, Morgan could see the bandages underneath and Falchion rested at his hip despite the added weight. There was no way he was comfortable right now.
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off immediately.
"Shhhh… Lissa will freak out if she finds out that I'm up… or worse, when Frederick hears…" Chrom paled. "Please?"
"Okay." Morgan smiled. "I didn't see anything tonight."
His father sighed from relief. "I just need to stretch my legs a bit, get some fresh air. You're welcome to join me, if you'd like."
His smile turned into a grin. It was rare to find his father alone, the man was usually surrounded by one advisor or another, and he hadn't yet spent any one on one time with him.
" Just… keep this a secret, alright?" Chrom repeated, "None this happened."
Morgan saluted, "Yes, sir."
Outside, the air was cool and crisp. The sky above was a canopy of stars and on the ground sprawled the many camps of the united resistance. Chrom leaned against the railing and took a deep, satisfied breath.
He then looked at his son and asked, "How's your memory coming along?"
Morgan blinked. He'd mostly forgotten about the amnesia. Not that there was anything to remember of his father anyway.
Just his smile as he left for Plegian sands, never to return again.
"...Nothing. I can't remember anything."
Chrom sighed. "Figures. Your mother's been with us for three years now, and she hasn't made any progress either. Funny, how such a thing can run in the family." He chuckled, then stopped when his chest ached.
"Tell me, are you happy here with the Shepherds?"
The question caught Morgan off guard. In fact, he was surprised it was a question at all. He didn't brood any more than the rest of the children. In fact, he was one of the cheerier of the group, if he could truly count himself among them.
"Of course! I get to meet new people, go to new places, learn tactics first hand..." He was enjoying this very much. "And I'm fighting for a reason I can agree with. It feels like… like I'm doing something right. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now."
It was the truth.
"As for my memories… I'm making new ones now, I think that's what's most important."
Chrom reached over to muss the boy's hair. "You're your Mother's son, alright. I'm glad you're here, and now that the war's over, we'll finally be able to make peacetime memories too."
Peace?
No, there wouldn't be any peace, but how could he tell him that?
He was looking at a dead man.
Plegia had the Fire Emblem.
Morgan sat at the desk in his tent, trying to read, trying to ignore the heavy sense of foreboding that churned in his gut. It was the promised time soon, and then all this peace, this hope… all of it would be swallowed by hellfire.
"Enjoying your time with the Shepherds?"
Morgan turned at his mother's voice and froze. Reality crashed down upon him.
He dropped from his seat, down to his knees.
"It's been… an amazing opportunity. I've learned much."
"And fate still follows its chosen course! You've done well, child." Grima was smiling. "The awakening draws near. I hope you're prepared, if my avatar refuses the gift…"
...Then he was next in line.
"Morgan?" Chrom poked his head into the tent. "Are you busy? I heard you talking, but—are you okay?"
Morgan was on the ground, drenched in sweat.
The boy's eyes jumped to where Grima had been, but she was gone.
"No, no, I'm okay. Not busy. Just thinking out loud," he stammered as he stood up, brushing dust off his coat. "Is something the matter, Father?"
"It's your mother and Lucina, they're not in the camp. I was hoping you knew something."
Eyes watched him from nowhere and everywhere at once. Morgan focused on his father. "Maybe they just needed some time alone?"
"I don't know… I've got a bad feeling that I can't shake." Chrom was looking at his son strangely now. "Are you sure you're okay?"
He really wasn't.
Your dear sister is up to no good. Do not stall.
"I'm okay," Morgan asserted, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "Let's go find them."
He was lead to the scene by his intuition. It was unsettling, the whole situation felt wrong. Lucina's Falchion looked like it was on fire, cast in the light of the setting sun. Its blade was pointed at their mother's throat.
Grima laughed.
She spouts righteousness, but even she is ready to kill her own kin!
It made Morgan angry.
Still, he sighed, his shoulders dropping. It made sense, in its own tragic way. He watched silently as Chrom intervened, Lucina broke into tears, and his mother stayed alive.
His mother, who was ready to die.
His father lived.
Chrom could barely stand, grasping his side, supported by Robin. Despite what was written, she'd stayed at his side. This was a victory by any account, but…
"If you'll not claim the sacrifice laid at the Dragon's Table… well…"
Grima stood across from the pair, hands in her pockets, calm as can be. She looked at Morgan with pride in her eyes, and everyone else followed. He wanted to disappear.
"Morgan."
My sweet, wonderful child.
He walked forward, practically able to taste the magic in the air. Even so high up, he could hear the chanting of the Grimleal below. Yes… as soon as he willed it, all those thousands of lives would be given to him in sacrifice, and he'd stand side by side with Grima. A god of his own right.
"Morgan, what's going on?"
It was his mother's voice this time. Funny, she and his master sounded the same but he'd learned to tell them apart. Morgan stood beside Grima and cast his eyes upon the Shepherds. His parents were shocked, but Lucina was horrified.
Now you know.
He laughed. "I've been lying to you all."
"You don't have to do this, son," Robin sounded desperate, and Grima cut her off.
"He is not your son. He is mine, he was always mine."
Mine, mine, mine alone.
"Look at me, Morgan." He did. His mother was trying to plead with him, and it only made him feel sick. Strange, he used to like it when people grovelled. "Please don't do this. You're not some pawn, you have control over this."
Do not listen to her. She is weak. You are so much more.
He stared at the woman who wasn't truly his mother, who was kind and selfless and brave, who believed that fate could be changed. Then he looked back at Grima, meeting her eyes and the red glow beneath them, and he realised that fate… what a joke fate was. At this moment, he held fate in his own mortal hands.
"I refuse."
The demon's mask of calm cracked.
YOU DARE?
The thought threatened to split his skull apart, but he stood tall and strong.
"I refuse," he repeated.
"Very well," Grima growled.
"THEN YOU SHALL DIE WITH THE REST OF THEM!"
His mother was dead.
Grima's mark vanished from the back of his hand.
Lucina refused to talk to him.
Three years passed. Every week no matter what, Morgan, with Chrom and his aunt Lissa rode out to the countryside in search of his mother. It was more of a ritual than anything at this point, a way to remember her by.
He'd been trapped in his longing for her once in his life, he'd never fall to it again.
One day though, they found her alive, lying in a field. Chrom pulled her up. They laughed and cried and embraced.
The first thing the exalt did was declare a national holiday.
"I remember," Robin said to her son in a hushed tone, after pulling him away from the celebration. Her smile was familiar, and it sent a chill down his spine. "I remember my past, but… I also remember yours."
Fire and death and smoke and sky.
He wasn't sure what to say.
A strained laugh bubbled up from her chest. "I thought I'd earned my death, but still that wretched Naga makes me suffer! How I hate this human heart."
He wasn't even sure who he was talking to anymore.
"How do you stand it? How can you bear it, after everything I put you through?"
Morgan had been told time and again that in truth, there was no difference between Robin and Grima, only the choices that they made. Maybe it didn't matter.
He reacted in the only way he knew how, with a careful smile. "Father told me something while you were away. He said that our pasts don't determine who we are, that it's the decisions we make today that matter. The things you've done… the things I've done, they were…"
"Inexcusable."
"...But if I haven't given up on myself yet, so you can't give up either. It's thanks to what we've done that we live in this world today, both the good and the bad, even if it's easy to forget that sometimes."
He stood and offered his hand.
"So let's put the past behind us and start the rest of our lives. Together."
Maybe it was selfish, but he was glad he wasn't alone.