A/N: Hello everyone! c: I'm gingerline! Er, just wanted to say that this might be a tad confusing at first, but to bear with me - it will make sense soon!
Efiáltis [ancient greek] - nightmare
Altean Mountains, Plegia
December, 2608 A.A.
It seems ages before Tharja stops for breath.
She feels as though she's run miles, by the acid spilled into her limbs and the tightness burning through her chest. And yet when she stumbles shakily against the nearest tree, glancing back uneasily, Tharja knows it couldn't have been far. Even through the thickly-woven woods, she can see flickers of light in the distance behind her - can hear murmurs and clangs of armor on the wind.
Muscles aching, her head falls back against the bark. She leans there for as long as she dares, inky strands tangling in the rest as she sucks in cloudy gasps.
It isn't long before the cold creeps upon her, like a film of glass sliding over her skin. It covers her to seep into her bones, inciting trembles that curling around herself can't soothe. Tharja grips the tome in her hands tightly, until the edges dig into her palms, and knows no matter how weak she feels she can't stay there long.
In the end, it's the din echoing faintly in her ears that spurs her forward. The sounds of hundreds of people, even at rest, is impossible to mask and - in the quiet of the woods - travels easily. The noise follows Tharja far into the forest, a shadow of fear nipping at her heels. A reminder.
It takes unnaturally long to lift herself from the trunk, to untangle her feet from the foliage, and her head swims with the effort. Days of grueling marching has taken its toll on her. But Tharja has no choice, and so she forces herself to stand, to forge on.
She takes in a shaky breath, then exhales, determined. But when Tharja peers into the solemn darkness before her, mind spinning, she finds she can't remember which direction she'd last been headed, or why.
The lights and clamor of the army lay behind her, though. Anywhere away from there is good enough for her.
Robin falters.
She hears a sudden rustling behind her, catches the crunch of nearing footsteps and doesn't think - she only reacts, jerking gracelessly to the side, electricity sparking at her fingertips.
There's a thump and a gasp - a youthful, startled gasp - and Robin braces herself, muscles taught-
"Shucks, miss - lady Robin - it's just me!"
Heart racing, Robin doesn't speak, tiny bolts arcing wildly across her skin. It's only when she lowers her arm ever so slightly, back firm against a tree, that she sees the shine of moonlight cast on Donnel's pot-helmet, makes out the outline of his gangly form in the darkness.
"I didn't mean ta startle ya!"
The boy's drawl is more pronounced than she remembers, but it's something she recognizes nonetheless, and relief melts through her. Donnel. It's only Donnel.
The boy eyes her cautiously, as if she's some kind of spooked animal, and with a start Robin realizes that her hand is still half-raised, sparks still dancing across her palm. She drops it, chest tightening.
"S-Sorry about that," she says. Her voice trembles as she speaks, blood rushing in her ears. "For a moment, I thought you were someone else, and... You aren't hurt, are you?"
"Nah." He smiles weakly, shrugging. "And don't worry nothin'. I did kinda come up behind ya an' everything."
She forces a smile in return, struggling to steady the pounding in heart. Her shoulder burns with phantom pains, and she repeats to herself that she's fine. It's only Donnel - one of their Shepherds, one she trusts implicitly.
"No, no - I should have noticed you sooner. I must have been distracted." Robin takes in small, quiet breaths as she glances at the trees surrounding them, dark and inhospitable. Feeling suddenly very exposed, she wipes sweat from her neck; it comes away cold. "...Though I have to say, I didn't expect anyone to be out here. What brings you out this late?"
It's not a challenging question - she's only asking - but unease flickers across his face as the young soldier shuffles, adjusting the rope wound around his shoulder, as if he's being questioned. Robin forgets that she's the Shepherd's second-in-command, sometimes.
"Er... I just saw some hog trails earlier," the teenager's voice almost squeaks as he explains, "On the march, you see. I see 'em a lot, back home. So I came to trap a few for mornin'... Er, if that's not against the rules, or anythin'-?"
"It's fine." Robin sighs, running her fingers through her hair, forcing herself to get it together. She focuses in on the boy before her. "Just... Don't wander too far from camp, all right? We're far enough ahead I don't anticipate any trouble, but..."
She sees the Risens' glowing red eyes in her mind. But you didn't anticipate any trouble with Emmeryn's rescue, did you? And look at what happened...
"...Just be careful."
"Yes ma'am!" Donnel agrees, and then salutes her. He means it to convey his seriousness, she knows, but the sight of the sixteen-year-old - expression weary, with something looking akin to blood splattering his clothes - makes the words taste bitter in her mouth.
Ducking under a branch, the boy steps closer, snow crunching softly beneath his boots. Anxiety prickles her skin as she sees his shadowed form approach, but when he shifts Robin's eyes are drawn to the white of a bandage, peeking just out from under his tunic.
Her chest twists sharply at the sight. "Are you really fine, Donnel?"
"Course I am!" He knocks his makeshift helmet with his fist, as if to demonstrate, but the clang of the cookware only makes Robin's heart sink lower. "Did get knocked around a little, but nothin' bad. Those Plegians weren't tryin' very hard, besides."
And thank the Gods, Robin reminds herself. If they had been - if Plegia's army had been anything more than a threadbare, unorganized mess - there would have been no salvaging her mistake. If she feels she's being crushed now, imagine what it would be-
She forces back the burn behind her lids, meeting Donnel's guileless brown eyes. Guilt digs into her chest. "Even so, we march to Ferox at dawn. You - especially now - you need your rest."
All of them do... Though she doesn't expect to get any more herself. Not tonight. A shiver runs through her and Robin wraps her arms around herself, wishing she had more protection than the thin linen of her nightshirt. But she'd forgotten her coat, in her daze - it was likely lying on the ground in her tent, empty, as if she'd suddenly disappeared into nothing in the night.
In a way, she has.
"Er, don't worry about me. Settin' up snares is easy." The boy gives her a thumbs up, though the way he winces as he raises his arm is far from reassuring. "Ol' Donny's got his traps like you got yer tactics, ya know. Quick an' all down pat."
"I wouldn't be so confident, then," Robin mutters under her breath. The guilt of the last several days burns like an open wound under her skin, fresh, and part of her actually wants to take off into the night, to flee from it and never turn back.
She knows she can never do it, though. Can never do it to Chrom. And besides, even if she wants to... where would she go?
"Everythin' all right?" Robin blinks, but Donnel averts his gaze. "You, uh... You looked a 'lil pale, is all... An' I don't think ya really got ready for the snow."
No, she hadn't. Robin's suddenly struck by how out of sorts she must seem. Walking around by herself, without a cloak, in the dead of night? With Plegia potentially at their heels and Risen lurking around every corner?
Now that Robin thinks about it, she's crazy herself, only... "I just needed some air."
She remembers waking with a jolt, dazed and heart lodged in her throat with visions dancing before her eyes. Even now, the feeling clings to her, sticky against her skin; her tent felt suffocating, the inevitable bustle of camp confining in ways she can't describe.
"Can't sleep?" Donnel guesses, and Robin looks at him. Is it that obvious?
"No," she's surprised to find herself admitting, "No, not really."
She sees the shadows flicker over her eyes again, feels the choking despair brimming in her heart as she'd shot awake, drenched in cold sweat.
"To be honest, me neither. All this fightin', and Gods awful things..." He shrugs again, hesitantly, and it's then that Robin notices the bags under his eyes, senses the weariness in his voice. "What we can't face up to wakin' we're forced to in our sleep, Ma always says."
"Is that so?" Robin finds herself scratching at the back of her hand, distracted. She's not sure what dreams are, exactly... "And what makes them go away?"
"Well, facin' up to our wakin' monsters, I'd guess." Donnel chuckles, sheepishly rubbing his head from under his pot-armor. "Though accordin' to Ma, all it takes is love an' a glass of warm milk."
"Does your mother give you all the answers?"
Robin smiles, words a hint sardonic. Maybe that would explain why Robin had none of her own.
"I can't say any folk knows that," he answers seriously, before suddenly he looks uneasy once again, eyes flickering from Robin's face to her arms, wrapped around herself, and back.
"I suppose not."
"Anyhow, er, miss Robin..." Her eyes follow him as he shifts for a moment, slipping his coat off on his shoulders. "If ya really can't sleep none, ya could... you know, come with me. If ya'd like."
"Come with you-?" Robin stares as the boy holds out his coat for her, surprise coloring her features. "Donnel-"
"Reckon you could use it more than me, I'd say." The boy re-affixes the rope wound around his shoulder, pulling it close to himself, cheeks flushed. "So... whatcha think? I could show ya some trappin', like I promised."
Robin's face scrunches, the heavy woolen fabric uncomfortable in her grip. The cold whips sharply at her skin, but it's not his place to... "'Promised'?"
"For when ya helped me with my fishin' hooks. Back when 'a first joined up," he clarifies. "I didn't know anythin' I could teach ya in return, but ya said you'd never been trappin' before... This is as good a time as any, ain't it? That is - if ya ain't got somethin' better to do... Do ya?"
He looks almost worried as he finishes, as if he's been presumptuous, though it just strikes Robin as - well, sweet. But she's...
Well, what? Busy avoiding sleep, Chrom, and every other person in general?
She thinks of standing there longer, lingering in the cold, chill seeping into her bones and leeching out her thoughts. Then she thinks of the alternative - laying back onto her bedroll, to be greeted by the nightmares that return to her night after night, leaving her haunted and shaking.
Robin shakes her head of the feeling, then sees the forest around them. It's sharp and nearly pitch-black, on cold and foreign soil - hardly somewhere anyone should be wandering in alone.
She supposes she did help him with those fishing hooks.
By the time Tharja feels far enough to relax, she almost can't feel her fingers. Or her legs, really, save the throbbing burn that started at her injured hip down, a web of fire warding off the numbing chill. Her teeth chatter as she draws her cloak's thin warmth as tightly around herself as possible, fingers straining the finely-woven cloth.
In the beginning, her heart raced so fast inside her chest she hadn't a thought for where she needed to go, but not anymore. Now, with the ache sharp in her bones and skin raw from the chill, dread bleeds into her thoughts, dances around her mind. She looks no closer to civilization than where she started, surrounded by nothing but black and forest, as if it will swallow her whole.
Perhaps deserting wasn't the best decision. Perhaps she should have waited-
"And then what?" she whispers to herself. "Missed this opportunity, only to die in a blizzard, surrounded by barbarians?"
That's how Ferox is always described, anyway. Though Tharja's still in Plegia at the moment, and to be honest, she's not sure if there's much of a difference. The winter cold is harsh and biting here, already so far from the deserts she's so accustomed to, and as for the barbarians... Well, if there's anything she's learned from this, it's that all people are barbaric in some way or another - Plegian, Ylissean, or Feroxi.
So maybe it was a mistake.
Tharja watches, heart aching, as the cold drifts down from the sky, settling on her silk coverings. The war... the crown's summons... She's been warned, so many times...
"Mother was right," Tharja realizes, quietly and to herself. "I am arrogant."
She admits it, but it's like most cases when you admit that you're wrong, when the damage is done and it's far too late to change anything. Like being stuck in the wilderness, on her own, without food or warm clothing or shelter - without any idea of how to get any of those herself. She's never had to before.
Tharja slides down to the base of the tree, pulling her knees to her chest. It feels childish, and she is not a child, but she misses her mother and home in this moment more than any other in her life, so perhaps it's fitting.
Time passes slowly, in a sluggish blur. Her thoughts drift, aimless. Tharja wonders what her father would think, if he knew what she's done. It was to survive, of course - but the Ylissean army, for Gods' sake...
She's startled out of her daze by a sound she can't place. At first, Tharja assumes it's an animal of some kind, rummaging through the brush behind her.
What she hears next tells her this isn't the case.
"Gods, are we far enough yet? We've been walkin' ages."
The complaining is punctuated by the thunk of something hard on metal, and before Tharja realizes what's happening, clumps of snow shower to the floor far to her right.
Her heart freezes. What-?
"I dunno, Captain didn't say..." comes the slow reply. Tharja can hear a muttered exchange after, a rustle of boots and brush, though their words are too low for her to make out. It's as if they're part of the familiar din - of clanging armor, loud voices and brash footsteps - but closer, much closer.
Tharja is suddenly aware of how easily they can see her. How, if they continue to veer just a little to their left, they'll notice the gleam of her ornaments as clearly as she sees the shine of their lances, glistening in the moonlight.
She sucks in a sharp breath at the same moment she jerks to the side, trying to hide herself. It would have been the most intelligent thing Tharja's done since this whole mess began - something quick; decisive - if she hadn't lunged to her feet so forcefully, snapping a brittle branch cleanly in two.
Crack.
"Did you hear that?"
The steady groan of boots over snow ceases, for a moment, at the rough voice. It's different than the others: deep with a heavy accent, one almost too thick for Tharja to understand. There's no mistaking the urgency in his voice, however.
Her heartbeat grows louder in her ears and her muscles tense as if to bolt, but in a moment of clarity Tharja forces herself to lay still, to press back against the tree.
There's a moment of silence.
"...I think I hear the cookin' fires."
"You don't hear cooking fires, idiot," the first voice - the impatient soldier - says shortly, and in spite of their obliviousness her pulse jumps at his tone. "They all went out hours ago, anyway."
A frustrated grunt fills the air, and when it's owner speaks she knows it's the older man, his raspy tones firm. "Are you even listening, you grynt?"
"Relax, Broder. You're hearin' things." Said man gives an unimpressed scoff, to which the whiny one snorts back, "This whole thing is a waste of time. Nothin' but trees and snow out here. Snow and more damn snow."
"At least it ain't sand," the dazed one points out. "Or Plegians."
"Yeah, at least. Now we might finally get to stop running for more than two damn minutes..." - another thunk, of an axe against a trunk - "Or we would. Fuckin' night shifts."
There's another murmur of agreement, though it's interrupted by a derisive, throaty laugh. "You call yourselves Feroxi, boys? Taken by an arrowhead's worth of snow?"
Tharja's shoulders ache and her back stings, holding herself awkwardly against the bark, but she only bites her lip.
The impatient one huffs, ignoring the jab. "Come on, we gone far enough, guys. It's the middle of no-where. Nobody'd be out here unless they're crazy."
"'Crazy', undead, or spies, you mean," Broder retorts, a grumble that sends nervous sparks up her spine. "You're a disgrace, Carlsen. We're finishing our rounds. Unless you'd rather face the Captain's whip?"
It's not aimed at her, of course, but the man's threat turns her blood cold. The night before the Exalt's execution flashes through her mind: the terrified Plegian soldiers - deserters, traitors - strapped to wooden fixtures where all could see, sand blowing into the open, bloody stripes of their backs.
Examples, they called them. The only way to keep the army together.
As if mirroring her thoughts, the difficult one - Carlsen - concedes. "Fine. As long as we're back before dawn."
The men's suspicions have been put to side, but when their boots crush through the brittle winter undergrowth, the sounds of their presence only seem to grow louder. Closer. From the corner of her eye, Tharja can see flashes of their armor from in between the trees, fading in and out of her sight.
Her breathing shallows, chest tightening, but Tharja inhales her panic and moves. She's careful - achingly careful - and mindful of the noisy foliage, of how any stray movement will give her away-
The footsteps continue unimpeded.
Closer.
Tharja steps a bit quicker, folds herself a little smaller. Her thoughts swirl and - almost instinctively - she tries to summon her magic, but she's too weak. Pulling for the source is like pulling through quicksand. Her heart hammers.
The light is faint and spotted, at best. If nothing else, then maybe the cover of darkness-
Snap.
Tharja's breathing stops completely as she hits the edge of a low-hanging branch, but for a moment there's no reaction - the soldiers don't notice her slinking away. But it's all for naught - before she realizes what's happening, there's furious rustling above her and a startled, angry squawk-
"Who goes there?!"
She pales.
"It's just a bird, you nervous bastard-"
The crunching footsteps fall silent.
"No, I know I'm not mistaken! You there - show yourself!"
The sound of the knowing yell startles her so much Tharja freezes. For an agonizing five seconds she stands there, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. Tharja feels suddenly like she did in the castle courtyard, in the dead silence just before battle - when the helplessness sets in, and it seems time's suddenly slipped through her fingers.
"I said show yourself!" A man's lance - presumably Broder's - slashes through the clawing interlock of trees and, just like back then, Tharja doesn't think - there's no time to think - she only acts, pushing herself violently into motion.
There's a chorus of gasps behind her as tears into the woods.
"Is that-?"
"What the hell-!"
"You there - halt! In the name of Khan Flavia, I order you to-"
Tharja doesn't wait for them to finish. She just pushes her legs forward, uncaring of the leafy ruckus she leaves in her wake, and urges herself to go faster.
"Move, you drittsekk! Do not let him escape!"
Her breathing comes hard and erratic, in gulps, and her feet hit the ground hard, jarring her with every step. It's only a few seconds before Tharja stumbles, crashing against the face of a tree, but she's running again before she even realizes the pain, gripping her tome iron-tight between her fingers.
"Seize him!"
The dark blur of the forest around Tharja attacks her as she runs - slicing her skin, harrowing her steps, offshoots whipping at her back like sudden blows - but she fights through it, adrenaline pumping her forward. They must not catch her.
She sees the flashes of blood. The wooden posts. The cracks of the whip, merciless.
Tharja feels the trees thinning out as she runs, every crash and ring of heavy armor pushing her to run quicker and quicker until-
Abruptly, something from below grabs her cloak and she hits the end of it, yanking her violently to the ground. The world tilts to the side and her shoulder burns as Tharja skids hard against the frost-encrusted earth, tome flying from her grip.
"I think I see him! He's over there!"
She scrambles desperately for purchase, heart thundering deafeningly in her ears, but her knees jerk slippery against the wet forest ground. Tharja hisses, frustrated tears building behind her lids-
-when suddenly, a man is right behind her. Her eyes widen.
The moonlight shines behind the soldier, outlining his bullish stature and the menacing point of his helm. Tharja's heart leaps out of her chest at the sight, but the man's running figure stops short as soon as he sees her, gasping - "Gods, it is a Plegian!"
It's almost a panicked exclamation, as if her being Plegian made her any less human than them - something vile or dangerous. Tharja's too terrified, too busy skittering backwards to be disgusted by it, but the inane shout is a startling reminder of what they think of her country - what they'd assume if they caught her, running from the army in the dead of night-
Tharja might be a fool, a coward, and a deserter, but she hadn't been lying when she said she had no love for King Gangrel... though who would believe her?
The Prince believed you, her mind reminds her.
"Hansen! You idiot, where are-"
But what fool would believe me now?
Panic overtakes her heart and squeezes as the two remaining men come crashing through the treeline. They shout words between themselves, their angry voices carrying on the wind but she can't make them out above the thundering in her ears.
Tharja struggles to her feet, desperation strumming through her limbs, but she's stopped suddenly by a demanding, "Don't move!"
A hulking man descends upon her - the blade of his lance trained to her - and she doesn't.
"Surrender your weapons, and come quietly!"
The grisly man in front of her - Broder, her mind supplies - barks at her as he comes nearer, face grim and threatening, the two other Feroxi - one wielding an axe, the other a sword - following closely at his heels.
Tharja's mind whirs, her breaths coming quick and shallow. There's three of them. One of her.
Surprise seems to flicker in his eyes at the sight of Tharja - a woman, dressed in desert-wear with blood dripping down her side - but the soldier's stance doesn't waver. If anything, it steels.
She catches the leather back of her tome, sprawled out in the snow at the lancer's feet, and understands. His eyes never leave Tharja but she knows, suddenly, that he's thinking of her, wondering what she's capable of-
You dark mages - blasphemous stains, I tell you-
The world feels like it's spinning out of control as the soldiers edges nearer and nearer, but Tharja grasps onto his reaction tightly, grips it with everything she has.
"Don't move! We have you outnumbered!"
She pulls for her magic, but it's still heavy, still just out of her reach-
They surround Tharja slowly - cautiously - and though she can't imagine running, let alone resisting, with her limbs so heavy, she raises her hand as if to defend herself.
Broder hesitates, lance wavering, and Tharja's on instinct once again when she seizes the opportunity, pushing to her feet-
"Are you deaf, bitch? He said-"
"Carlsen, don't-!"
"-don't you damn move!"
Tharja doesn't remember everything that happens next. All she remembers is seeing the barbarian rush her, expression murderous, the blade of an axe glinting menacingly in his grip, before suddenly he isn't anymore.
Dyndje!
Suddenly, just as a tide of fear washes over her, darkness is crashing against the soldier like a forceful wave, the spray shooting off the man as it knocks him back, weapon clattering harmlessly to the side.
"Carlsen!?"
The terror thumps and fades, leaving behind a throbbing ache in her bones, and Tharja doesn't realize she's shaking until her arm falls weakly to her side. There's a tingling at her fingertips, a numbing tingling like static, and wisps of flux's inky smoke follow in its wake.
One. That's one.
"Carlsen! Are you all-"
Tharja doesn't know how she does it, but in the next moment she's on her feet and moving. What direction, how fast or how slow, she doesn't know, but her legs burn with the strain and it's as if fire has erupted in her lungs. Dizziness skews her vision, her thoughts, but somehow, in her mind, she knows she isn't fast enough. Isn't strong enough.
All Tharja can think of is her idiotic, traitorous cousin, hanging from the palace wall - for crimes she can't be certain of, that were never named and never will be - an iron stake sticking from his neck, crimson leaking down into the streets below.
She betrayed a country once and lived. She doubts she will survive a second time.
"Hansen, don't-!"
Blazing heat clips her side, and in that moment it's like she pulls free from the quicksand when she whips around, gasping.
There's no room for thought - for hesitation - as her mind narrows to that moment, to the pain searing her side, the blur of metal behind her-
Dritë verbuese!
Tharja's eyes close instinctively as the curse's incantation rings loudly in her mind, but she knows what's happened when they open. Without warning, the light from her fingertips dissolves into darkness and sucks her of all breath. Magic takes all her energy, saps it violently from her body.
Tharja's limbs feel impossibly heavy, like stone, and her stomach twists sharply in nausea, like she might collapse with it. As the burly soldier staggers with a groan, covering his eyes, it takes all her strength to stumble shakily away from him.
Two... That's two...
She knows that she should run - needs to run - but her body seems to have forgotten how, as she stares dumbly at the second soldier falling to his knees in the snow. Tharja shakes her head, black spots dancing across her vision...
...Wait... There's a third... Where's the third?
A looming figure overtakes her, expression inscrutable.
Then her vision darkens, and she knows nothing at all.
A/N: Hello everyone, and thank you for taking the time to read this story! c: I'm a new to fanfiction (this is one of my first stories), so you have the time, please leave a review and tell me what you think!