Author's Note:

Hey guys! Okay, so instead of totally working on the other things I should be doing, I've been working on this long-time-in-the-making fic, which I've absolutely slaved over for a few months...on just the outline. At this point, I've written a few chapters, but I really can't wait to post them so I'll be updating as frequently as possible!

Anyways, I absolutely hope you enjoy it (it IS a very different take on Awakening, so if you have any comments/questions, feel free to let me know!) and best wishes!

Disclaimer - Fire Emblem: Awakening is, sadly, not mine. All credit for characters, setting, and some of the plot goes to it's rightful owners. Cheers!

Prologue –

It felt that in that moment, the world slowed.

Ilya could see the soldiers marching ever on towards her, their straightened jackets a crisp, blooded red that matched the title of Plegia, the crown of the Mad King, the mark of a downed monarchy. She could see the crying people in the crowd, screaming for their queen, sobbing, or even the few that stood with straight faces to show their utmost respect, their heads bowed.

She could see the mark of Grima on her hand, the same hand that was chained to the guillotine that she was soon to be beheaded under—the mark glistened in the light of the sun, an oddly ironic thing, Ilya thought, as she considered her fate. Yes, it highly ironic that her mark of the Fell Dragon would glisten on the day of her death.

She could see the anxious tapping of her husband's foot from where he sat atop his throne, the creased brow of his face, the beads of sweat that donned his cheeks and fell down past his nose. He was nervous, she mused, her mouth slightly entertained at the thought and twisted up in the corners, even if it revealed just the smallest of smiles. She did deserve to smile on her death day, at least.

She could see the way that the man who was to kill her walked up the stairs, his axe heavy in his hands, and everything in that moment hit at once, perhaps for the better. It was best to only feel the fear just before the death anyways, she figured.

And Ilya was happy to die—it was her time to pay for her crimes, the ones that she felt were dignified in their own rights, the ones she felt were understandable and true when it came to the choices in her life. The crimes that really should not of been crimes, the ones that would have been moral, would have been sane, would have been right if she hadn't married that bastard of a king.

She could see now the fault in her ways, how she should of waited to be married, how being tricked by the king for her beauty and her grace and her elegancy was a mistake. The Mad King of Plegia had no place among his people, had no place in royalty or dignity or even honesty. Gangrel used her to earn the people's trust and now—well now he was just throwing it all away.

The queen, killed for her wrongdoing and shame to her country. Ilya could see the headlines now and once again, the smile to her mouth widened in just the slightest way as she looked out over her people. One face caught in particular and the once entertained smile fell from her face.

He was the reason for her wrongdoing, the reason she betrayed her husband; the man in the crowd was cloaked but his face was revealed, his eyes watching ever-so insistently on the woman chained to the place she would die. Ilya figured he wouldn't come. Too much pain for the both of them.

"Ilya Fairhallow," the voice came, loud and unbecoming, and the woman couldn't ignore it, no matter how hard she tried to block it from her mind. She tore her gaze from the man she loved to look up at the speaker. Her husband stood from his throne as he spoke, toying with the tassels that fell around his neck from the cape that he so did not deserve. "You have wronged both your kingdom and your people by shaming your husband and thus must pay the most ultimate price. Do you admit to your crimes?" Gangrel took a step closer. "Or will you defend them?"

The square of the city grew silent, the people sniffling or sniveling or wiping at their eyes just a noise to the wind. It took a moment for the woman to collect her thoughts, to bring herself to the present time as she was brought back from the slowed time of her own mind. Ilya raised her head and looked her king straight in the eye, defiant and proud.

"I will defend them."

More silence.

"Sleeping with a man while married to another is not a crime recommended to defend, Ilya," Gangrel drawled, as if he was growing bored. The woman figured he already had another woman lined up to marry for tomorrow, considering she herself was no longer of any use. She tried to resist another smile. "What say you in your defense?"

"I was in love," she said simply, and the king took a step back in surprise, as though her answer actually shocked him. "When we were married, Gangrel, I thought we were in love. But I was wrong. We weren't in love, we were in lust. Or more so, perhaps, you were. I had always thought what we had was love."

"Irrelevant," the man spat, and his face twisted up. "If you do not have anything worth my time to add to your case, then let us get on with it."

"When you beat me was when I realized we weren't in love. I was the only one that was feeling anything other than primal instinct. I was the only one who wasn't driven by lust, but by compassion, by true feelings, and by what I felt was right. So when you beat me again, Gangrel, what was I supposed to do?" Ilya's face grew darker, her eyes tightened. "Sit alone in fear that I wouldn't make it through the day? Through the month? The year? He made me happy and he loved me, which by all means was much more than you could ever do."

"Enough!" The king's face had grown red, his face bulging. His hands had turned pure white where they clutched tightly at the hilt of his sword. "Your son was found to be of another man's blood than mine, thus proving your guilt and enough evidence for your death. In turn, I must cleanse my home of the unworthy blood, beginning with you…and ending with your son."

Ilya's face changed immediately, her eyes shifting into panic, her mouth turning down. Her pale hair fell in waves over her face as she pleaded, fighting for one of the things that she was already dying for. She struggled in her restraints, reaching ever more towards the man who ordered her death. "No! Not him. Please not him. Let him be! I'm already paying full price for my crimes, Gangrel. Let my son go."

He watched her for a moment, her pleading face, and watched as the blood fell from her wrists, the ones that had struggled against the chains and split themselves in the process, and then gave a slight, maniac smile. "Though your death will be much less than what blood should be spilt, I will house the boy of unworthy blood as my own. Perhaps because I feel as though it is of my own fault he was brought into this world. All because I married a bitch, the child is forced to be a part of this."

When the crowd began to hum in just a slight approval, Ilya realized what fatal mistake she had fallen into. It had been a trap, she realized, a muse to get the people to approve of their king. Now he was sparing a young boy with a mother who was soon to die—he was being merciful, he was being kind.

And everything Ilya had fought for was gone.

"Kill me, then," she whispered, and she turned her head to the crowd, tears glistening in her eyes, "Kill me then and be done with it, for I have many things that need to be done and only an eternity to do them."

The axe man pushed her into position, her head roughly shoved against the wooden frames, and as she looked out over the faces of people she knew so well, the people she had always fought for, she found the face she was looking for hidden amongst those in the back. He gave her a look of sorrow, but from his cloak, she could see the tiny arm of an infant, the pale, smooth skin of a child. Her daughter raised her arm again, and it was nearly as if she was saying farewell, a gesture goodbye.

Ilya felt a tear fall down her face as the man in the crowd gave her a deep nod, his eyes caught up in hers. Her mouth moved to whisper with no sounds, to form the words that she wanted him to hear in the last few moments in the sunlit day of her end. "Keep her safe, Validar," she mouthed, "Keep her safe."

And with that, the axe fell and so ended the reign of Ilya the Queen.