I — In which Gerome mourns, and the gift is given
Gerome lives in a world where death is commonplace. The stench of it rides on the black breath of each Risen, filling his nostrils with something so foul, he can taste it on his tongue. The Grimleal have a different flavor of death to offer, with the glittering runes and the mumbled incantations that flow like honey, but it only makes their killing blows are more effective. And always looming on the horizon is Grima himself, his call heralding more doom and destruction.
In this world, Gerome must kill. He's left with no choice. He must kill, or die himself. So each day he grows stronger, and each day he deals out death. Whether it be Risen or Grimleal matters little anymore. He only knows the opponent and his axe, and when they meet, the story ends. There is no emotion. No remorse. No tears.
Tears only come to him at night, when his mother's screams beckon them.
Tonight, he awakens to find himself crying once again. He is drenched in sweat, and his entire body is trembling. Tearing at his hair, he brings his knees to meet his chin, trying in vain to swallow his sobs.
Back then, he'd known it was simply a matter of time. One by one, each of his playmates was gently told that their mommy and daddy weren't coming home anymore. Gerome had watched each one of them crumple when they realized their invincible parents weren't as invincible as they thought. As one of the elder children, he'd figured it wouldn't hit him quite as hard.
But when Minerva landed beside him that fateful afternoon, he was proven wrong.
He vaguely remembers a figure, shrouded in shadow, trying to give him the news, but it was pointless. No one needed to tell him his parents were dead. It was clear enough to him in the empty place beside Chrom, were his father should be. In the wyvern's empty saddle, where his mother should be. In the anguished cries of both boy and dragon, loud enough for even Grima to take notice.
Each night, Gerome sees it in his dreams. It is always the same. His parents, Cherche and Frederick, both mighty knights serving mighty lords. His parents, screaming with the agony of death.
He grits his teeth, trying desperately to clear his mind. He truly needs the rest. There will be more killing to do tomorrow, and parents yet to avenge.
But, for now, he cries.
...
His nerves waltz under his skin as he faces the door. He cradles the gift a little closer, trying to understand the sensation. What reason had he to fear Lucina? They've been comrades-in-arms for years.
Shrugging away the jittery feelings, he raises a loose fist and raps on the door.
"Come in," Lucina bids him.
Gerome enters cautiously, scanning the room. The throne room is kept neat, but its age shows in the subtle disrepair. The most evident damage is in the hurriedly patched walls and scuffed floors, though such could be expected when a place typically reserved for diplomacy becomes an intermittent training hall for the Ylissean army. Upon closer inspection, he notes the once vivid green banner of Ylisse hanging limply from the ceiling, faded and frayed. And just beyond it sits the throne, gathering dust, for Lucina refuses to even touch it since her father's passing.
He relaxes when he finds her alone, facing off with a tattered training dummy. He doesn't want to encounter any of the others if he doesn't have to. He isn't one to socialize on a whim.
Lucina looks up from the shredded face of her opponent. Relaxing her stance, she smiles at him warmly. "Ah, Gerome! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
His nervous feelings scamper about in his chest, but his expression remains stoic. "I come concerning your journey."
One of her eyebrows quirks with curiosity. "Oh? What of it?"
His words suddenly flee. Embarrassed at his sudden lack of grace, he shoves the bundle in his arms into her hands.
She seems stunned. Her eyes venture from the the gift to meet his own with a look of confusion. "Is this for me?"
"Yes," he says, thankful to find his voice once again. "I thought you might find use for it."
Gingerly, she unfolds the kerchief he has wrapped around the object. When it is revealed at last, she gasps with surprise. "Oh, Gerome..."
"You will encounter many familiar faces," he explains. "Both those of our foes, and those of our parents. And to both, the Brand in your eye will make your lineage clear." As an afterthought, he adds quietly, "It is my belief that the past should not be affected any more than it must be. This mask will serve to conceal your identity, and thereby serve to protect the Shepherds of the past from any knowledge of your pilgrimage through time."
Lucina scoops up the mask as if it is a baby bird. "The craftsmanship is superb," she notes, admiring it.
Inwardly, Gerome glows with pride. He'd built it to suit her. He'd spent many a day in the forge between battles, trying to shape the lump of bronze into a mask worthy of a royal. To conceal her Brand, yet still allow her to see, he'd crafted slotted vents instead of traditional gaping holes, cut with careful precision. There was the hammering too, hours upon hours of it, hoping the indentations would fit the contour of her face. He'd used his sleepless nights, along with the dwindling candlelight and the last of his mother's golden lacquer from Roseanne, to paint the fine outline. He'd put forth an enormous effort into that little mask, but for her protection, there's nothing he would not do.
But this, he decides, he will neglect to tell her.
Instead, he says, "It was hard to come by."
Her warm smile returns tenfold. "Well, it is much appreciated. Thank you, Gerome."
Everything inside him ripples, nearly causing him to stagger. With a silent curse, he turns the jerking movement into a formal bow before she has time to notice. "It is nothing."
The throne room doors burst open without warning. Standing there is a soldier, clad in the blue of the Ylissean army. Breathless, he cries, "Risen! Outside the castle!"
Gerome and Lucina look to one another, the beauty that had passed between them long gone. All that remains in their gazes is cold, hard realization. Yet again, they must risk their lives for their withering world. They've done it before, and they'll do it a thousand times more if it means the world their parents fought for could be saved.
They both stride quickly towards the doorway, matching pace. He slows somewhat so that she exits first.
"Have you alerted the others?" Lucina asks the soldier, the bite of urgency in her voice.
"N-No, milady! I sent another man to tell them," he replies nervously.
"Good," she says with a nod. Then she halts, considering her new mask before carefully handing it off to the man. "Please take this to my chamber. Make sure it is safe."
The man studies the object, a bit confused, but compliant. "Y-Yes, milady!"
She gives a final reaffirming nod, then breaks into a run down the hallway. Gerome sprints after her, watching her blue locks sway from behind.
...
The dusky hues of early dawn are just discernible when Gerome finally retires.
Tonight's battle was easily the hardest he and his comrades had ever fought. The Risen had arrived in droves, one after another, and struck with an eerie ferocity that never let up all night. The Grimleal had been behind the attack, no doubt. It was truly a miracle that they'd all survived the ordeal, scraping by with only minor injuries.
They had held their ground tonight, but Gerome knows just as well as the others that they couldn't hold back another onslaught like the one tonight. They next time they face the enemy on the field of battle, the castle will fall.
Fortunately, Naga has a pristine sense of timing. According to The Voice, the rite is prepared. Lucina will leave on this day dawning before him, and escape this hell.
He rips off his armor in a fit of groggy frustration. He'd known this day would come for some time now. Lucina had insisted upon going into the past on her own, and he had agreed to it. Then, he'd only considered his own wish: to impact himself and those of that timeline as little as possible. But now, he finds himself doubting his decision. He had protected Lucina all her life, just as his father had served her father. How can he abandon her so easily in her time of need? How can he send her into the unknown with no guarantee of protection for the horrors she will face? He'd gladly fight and die to reverse the cruel fate they share, but that vow meant little if the gaping chasm of time separated them.
For a moment, he is almost tempted to join in her crusade.
Almost.
Then an image of two people flashes behind his eyes, like a bitter reminder, and he remembers why he did not want to go in the first place.
Thoroughly exhausted, he flops onto his bed, limbs strewn about haphazardly. He tries to convince himself that Lucina will be fine. She has unparalleled strength in her blade and in her character. Her skills in battle are second-to-none, and she is equally skilled with her words. And now, she had the most powerful weapon in that mask: A new face, a new identity, and a new life.
The thought of the mask makes him thrash around with frustration once more. No matter how well he'd contained his embarrassment, he'd still made a fool of himself in front of her. His only purpose had been to simply give her the mask, but his knees had quaked like a schoolgirl's. Why? He'd admired Lucina since they were children, but the feeling had become nothing more than reverence as they grew. Fear had never held a place in his heart in regard to her...what could have changed?
Tired of pondering, Gerome jams a pillow under his head. His final conscious prayer is for a blissful, dreamless sleep.
If only he were so lucky.
A/N: Well, here we are. Welcome, lovely readers, to my OTP.
Rather angsty, eh? I didn't bother to count how many times I used the word "death" in its many forms. I know it's a lot.
The real question is, why am I posting this before updating Moments in Time? Which is a fantastic question. Since I'm sick in bed, I'm trying to get some things done that I've been meaning to. This story was one of those things. Moments in Time is another. Hopefully I'll get something up over there today. If not, expect something within the week, and accept my sincerest apology.
I adore sweet reviews, but I love constructive criticism even more. Both are accepted lovingly.
Until next time, everyone.