Inside the Hourglass
Total Story Summary
Pairings: pairings that are canon for this story are Legault/Isadora/Harken, Hector/Lyn/Kent, Matthew/Leila, Eliwood/Ninian, Lowen/Rebecca, Pent/Louise, and Heath/Priscilla. Any other pairings are implied. The pairings are not the main emphasis of the story.
Rating: Overall, T for mature themes, sexual implications, pregnancy, language, gore, and safety. Some chapters may fall into K+; however, as I'm not entirely sure on the story's overall rating, it's best to go with the highest estimate.
Summary: Loss, regret, and anger were commonplace in war, but the army had yet to experience an aftermath like this. FE7, collection of stories involving different characters experiencing the same event.
A/N: This was originally just a Lucius fic, and you can read the unedited first chapter (Our Army's Saint). However, I was told that the talk about my tactician was a distraction, and suddenly, I decided I could cover the same event with different characters. There was so much going on in the battle and after it, and changing perspective could tell other parts of the story.
Note that the chapters don't really go in a series. They're more like self-contained one-shots surrounding the same event. You do not have to read them all to make sense of them.
I do accept critique. Please, do feel free to make it in-depth, because I will change it. The versions displayed in this story will be current drafts, meaning that I may update them at random. I will track updates on my profile, and upload any old drafts to my LJ. Thank you in advance!
Comments are loved, even if they aren't critiques. I will take requests as well; I may not finish said requests, but I'll take them.
Chapter Legend
1 - Silence ; Lucius-centric, no pairings. Gore warning.
2 - Pieces of the Heart ; Louise-centric, Pent/Louise and Eliwood/Ninian. Pregnancy warning, sexual implications warning.
3 - Sunshine and Ants ; Erk-centric, Pent/Louise. No warning.
Other chapters in the works:
- Legault
Chapter Summary
Character: Lucius
Pairings: None
Warnings: Gore
Summary: Having been silenced at the time of his dear friend's death, Lucius feels guilty for what has passed.
Chapter notes: Originally a one-shot, but then I decided to expand on the events and flesh out other characters, considering that I enjoy the political nuances an attack on such a city as Ostia could cause, and also because there are other lovely characters to write about. Also, no one role plays Fire Emblem with me, so I have no other outlets for Fire Emblem-related inspiration.
If you read "Our Army's Saint", note that the ending to this one and most of the middle are different. It's more Lucius-centric, and I went with the original ending, with no perspective switch to Legault. I figure Legault will get his own story, and his new dialogue will set up other adventures for several other characters.
One
Silenced
In this white wave
I am sinking
in this silence
in this white wave
in this silence
I believe
Dawn had come. Lucius doused the fire with the bucket of ash sitting near the hearth. Then, he pulled back the soft cotton sheets on his bed. Ostia's guest rooms were fine (perhaps too fine for his tastes) but Hector insisted that everyone take a good rest. They all needed it, especially since the castle had been invaded the night before.
But despite his exhaustion, Lucius could not bring himself to sleep. He tossed and turned, threw off the blankets, changed his position on the bed, and even tried sleeping on the floor. Finally, frustration got the better of him and he gave up. By then the sun was up. The Knights of Ostia rose with the sun, and no amount of exhaustion would stop the morning training to progress. Lucius stepped to the window to watch.
Any other day would have seen a full courtyard, but today was different. Only thirteen knights stood training—little under half of what the regiment had been before. Lucius didn't know this, nor did he know that, at this point in time, Oswin was looking over the numbers lost and finding that thirteen out of thirty was fortunate.
The Knights did not know this either, or they knew and did not care. They practiced with wooden swords, despite bruises and cuts and muscle strains. Lucius, pale hand shaking on the stone sill, watched without a single reaction. How much he had changed over the course of a few hours. A year ago, he would have winced at each practice sword's blow. But now, he felt nothing. After all, a wooden sword was nothing compared to the wounds that a real sword could inflict.
He could only watch for so long. Then he glanced back to the messy bed, decided that it was useless to try to sleep, and tried to force himself to make the bed. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find the heart. Sighing, Lucius left the room without his boots, wearing his tabard without a belt. He idly remembered his days at the monastery—he used to be lashed for messy robes. Well, Bishop Redley couldn't use the paddle here, now could he?
After winding his way through the stone halls of Ostia, he came across Serra. For the first time since meeting her, he hoped she would not speak. But she grabbed his sleeve, and he turned to her with a scowl so uncharacteristic that she removed her hand immediately.
"Lucius," her voice was hesitant, "you shouldn't blame yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault."
He forced a smile, if only to get her to shut up. "Thank you, Sister Serra." They both knew he didn't mean it, but neither acknowledged it. A long silence followed, mostly filled with Serra trying to find something to say. Finally, she just waved and shuffled off. Lucius watched her go with a touch of envy. Once she was away from him, she would forget what happened. Lucius, though, could not escape it.
His blood was the same color as his hair. It oozed from his shoulder, trickled from his skull, dribbled out from between his lips. Never before had Lucius seen so much blood. Yet he could not heal him, nor could he defend him. And Lucius, helpless, tried to shout, to warn him, but as hard as he strained, no sound left his lips.
The last time Lucius saw him, Raven turned back, his last axe in hand. "Isadora! Take Lucius and go!"
"And leave you behind?"
"I'll be fine. I just need you to get Lucius to safety for me." Raven smiled; Lucius had seen that smile before. It was the same grin that Kent wore as he had charged Lloyd Reed: the smile that a warrior gets when he's certain he'll be dying. To see it on Raven's face... Lucius couldn't help but root himself to the spot, the look on his face attempting to convey what he could not with words.
He could not fight the arms around him, nor could he jump from Isadora's steed. He took one last glance over his shoulder. Raven stood, facing a line of archers with an axe in hand, his back to Isadora and Lucius. Lucius tried to open his mouth to speak, but words wouldn't come. Silence. He would have to leave his friend in silence.
That was the last time Lucius saw Raven alive.
When his body was recovered from the field, Lucius wasn't even able to react.
According to Legault, Priscilla blamed Lucius for what happened. Lucius didn't think ill of her for it; he blamed himself for it, too. It was Isadora's opinion that really made Lucius miserable. She blamed Raven, saying he could have asked for elixirs instead of insisting that Lucius keep them. She also blamed Matthew, who had been there at the start and had vanished part of the way through. If he had only let them know that he was going to get more supplies before darting off, Raven would still be alive.
"Though really," Legault said, adjusting his headband, "they've got it all wrong. No, the real blame goes to Nergal. If it weren't for him, none of this would have happened, and the Fang would still be just the way it should be."
Lucius, as he had been doing throughout the entire conversation, remained silent and just listened to Legault talk. The fact that Legault was willing to talk to him without patronizing him or spewing clichés was a relief. Yet Lucius couldn't bring himself to speak back. Speaking back would mean he would have to listen to himself, and he hated himself right now.
"Or maybe everyone's to blame. Or no one." The assassin shrugged. "Saria's pissed, though. Stay away from her. She'll do the same thing to you as she did to Isadora." Lucius didn't even need to ask, because Legault was used to having one-sided conversations. "She came across Izzy earlier and pitched a fit. Called her an idiot for not staying near the main body of the army, said that she couldn't work if everyone was all spread out... I've never seen her this livid."
"I've never seen her angry," Lucius murmured.
Legault smirked. "Talking to me now, then? And I'm talking about Saria, not Isadora."
"I've never seen Saria angry." Indeed, Lucius couldn't imagine that Saria ever got mad. She got blunt at times, and certainly felt stress, but outright anger?
"I certainly have," Legault said, chuckling. "She's a woman of Bern, Lucius. She's got a temper. All of 'em do." The assassin leaned against the archway, staring out into the courtyard where he and Lucius could be, if the monk would just stand up and move into the nice warm sunlight.
Being a topic other than the night before, Lucius latched onto that sentence. "How do you know Saria's from Bern?"
"Oh, I know everything about everyone." Legault sank to a sit, giving up on the dream of warm, warm sunlight. He glanced at Lucius and noticed the monk was staring at him in awe and perhaps a bit of repulsion. "Really, it's all in the accent," he added quickly. "I don't stalk you, hell no, but you can tell from the way she talks. Listen to me, then listen to Heath and Vaida. You've never noticed?"
The monk shook his head.
"Ah, yes, that would be why you didn't know." Sighing, Legault placed his hands behind him and stretched out his legs. "You can generally tell where people are from by the way they speak. For example, if Lady Lyndis dressed like a normal Lycian woman, and cut her hair in a more Lycian fashion, she'd be able to disguise her Sacaean heritage so long as she didn't open her mouth."
"She doesn't sound the same as Rath or Karel, though."
The assassin shook his head. "All the tribes have different accents. I've never met enough Sacaeans to learn them all, so I couldn't tell you. I also couldn't say that Lady Lyndis is a good enough example of the Lorca accent, as she had a Lycian mother and Lycian nobles generally speak the same way."
"Huh."
There was silence for a few moments. Then Legault groaned and stood up. "It's been great chatting with you, Luce." He dusted off his pants and shirt, then nodded to the monk. "I told Hector that I'd check around the place, see what I find out."
"Isn't that Matthew's job?"
Legault nodded and shrugged at the same time. "He's getting information, yes, but he's out of the keep, or should be at least. Saria's foaming at the mouth. Hector doesn't want her to be provoked any more than necessary. So our best info-hounds are, well, Jaffar and myself. And Hector..."
Lucius nodded, understanding what Legault meant. As Lyn put it, "Not all people forgive as easily as you do, Lucius."
With one final two-fingered salute, Legault turned and headed off. And so, Lucius was left on his own, the silence closing in on him.
Pain. Blood. Death. Gore.
He kept hearing screams of pain from soldiers he couldn't heal, kept feeling the pain of Isadora's armor in his back, kept seeing Raven with his eyes unfocused and mouth agape. Pain surged through him. His breathing became irregular, his muscles began to spasm, and his eyes began to water.
It passed, and left him weaker for it. He was barely able to maintain a sitting position. If it hadn't been for the pillar next to him, he would have collapsed. How long had passed? Ten, twenty minutes? He had to find some sort of distraction before he had another attack, but he couldn't move his legs. Even the cold stone of the pillar against his cheek and arms wasn't registering. His flesh reacted but he could not feel the cold.
Perhaps, if he stayed here long enough, he would wither away into nothing, and then, if Saint Elimine was kind, he would see Raven again. But somewhere, deep inside, he knew that he'd have to get up and move on. His head told him that nothing could change the past. It also told him that Raven had wanted only one thing before he died—to see Lucius safe and sound.
As hard as it was, Lucius would give his friend that final wish. Shaking, Lucius forced his legs to move. Then, slowly, he stood, pushing away from the pillar to stand on his own two feet. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but he refused to let himself collapse. He could do this. Hadn't Matthew been on the field immediately after Leila's death? Hadn't Lyn remained stoic when Kent was dragged off the field? Hadn't Eliwood swore to lead the campaign, even after his father's death? Lucius would not let himself act like the only person to have lost a loved one.
In time, he would mourn. But for now, he would suffer in silence and fight on. Until further notice, there would be no past and no future. There would only be the now. If Lucius could do that... Perhaps, just perhaps he could bear anything.
It was a hot summer afternoon and Lucius found himself standing out in the fields, searching on end for his parchment. The fourteen-year-old boy could feel the sweat dribble off the back of his neck. Damn, it was so hot! And the fact that Lord Cornwell would be enraged with the poor acolyte should his failure be discovered didn't help either. He had just come in, and to lose an important paper in the hayfield... Lucius could imagine the lash coming down upon his back, painful and sharp.
Then, suddenly, a pair of grubby hands held up a piece of dirt-stained paper. "This what'cha lookin' for?"
Lucius found himself looking down into the face of a redheaded boy, with deep brown eyes and a wide grin on his face. The acolyte blinked, then grabbed the paper and returned the smile, all his nervousness dissipating in moments. "Thank you! I was afraid I'd lost this!"
The boy grinned, then scratched his nose with the side of his head. "I just saw it over there," he pointed off into the fields.
"Thank you again!" And then Lucius turned to be off. The boy, however, didn't leave; instead, he jogged to keep up, striding at Lucius's side and grinning.
"So, you're the new monk here, right?" Lucius nodded, then the boy wrinkled his nose. "You're awful pretty to be a guy, you know that?"
Lucius flushed. "I-I'm a boy, I assure you."
The redhead laughed. "I believe you. They wouldn't let a girl be a monk!" Then he glanced up at Lucius. "What's your name, monk?"
"Lucius," replied the monk.
There was a brief pause, then a wide grin. "I'm Raymond, and I'll tell you all about Cornwell. It's a great place, and there are plenty of places to hide!"
At first, hesitation. Then, a smile that was just as sincere as the one on the face of the eight-year-old boy. "I'll look forward to that, Raymond."
The days that followed that were among the happiest days of Lucius's life. Little did he know that Raymond thought the same thing; even if Lucius added a "Lord" to his name after that first encounter, Lucius wasn't afraid to play with him like the other kids in Cornwell were. For the first time in a while for Raymond, and for the first time in his life for Lucius, each had a friend to call his own.
Happiness cannot last forever, but it can always be remembered...