a/n: whoops, i should probably clear up a misconception i perpetrated. Awakening is actually the first Fire Emblem game i've played - however, i'm currently playing Path of Radiance also, and i have FE:A to thank for introducing me to such a lovely franchise! ahhh!
i'm not sure how i'm doing with characterization (robin is suspiciously difficult for being a deuteragonist...), but in this one i actually shifted focus from robin and chrom (oh no!). i like libra a whole lot more than i really should, and tharja has been steadily growing on me. thus, this happened.
disclaimer: everything fire emblem: awakening related belongs to intelligent systems and/or nintendo, i own nothing but the sentence order.
as always, please enjoy!
in the interim ii-
The dust particles swayed, shining golden in the afternoon rays that soaked through high windows. Multicolored splotches of illumination spread over dark wood and stone, crystallized butterflies frozen to the floor and pews of the place of worship, smelling of must and incense and prayers offered.
Within these walls, peace reigned. A comfortable silence rested as if a blanket over the air within, calm and quiescent. Only the steady breathing of a single individual stirred the atmosphere.
Head bent in worship, straight blonde locks cascading down over his robed shoulders, Libra paid respect in prayer at the height of noon. His lips moved soundlessly, shaping words of thanks for the sun and the grass and the peace that attended Ylisse in the wake of the Mad King's fall. Though he also prayed for more private things - purity and, selfishly, forgiveness.
The dust swirled into a sudden hurricane, the stillness of the small church disrupted by the gentle creak of its large oaken doors being pushed shyly open. At the first instant of disturbance, the priest jolted, as if torn from reverie, rising sheepishly to his feet as if ashamed to be caught praying; this reaction was odd in and of itself, given that the young man was a member of the clergy, but none were keen enough to witness his lapse.
Instead, the shaft of light that spilled into the place of worship at the back of the room admitted from its depths the figure of a slight young woman, a girl whose head peeked inside the building before the rest of her being followed behind - tentatively, as if doing something she ought not be doing.
Once she stepped away from the light, a noise of recognition escaped Libra's mouth, simultaneously allowing the priest to relax and causing him to tense with... not quite suspicion, but more of a guarded interest, as he descended from the dais with measured steps.
The young woman pressed the door closed behind her, not taking her eyes off of the sunlit head of the room and the man standing at the foot of the small steps leading to it as she let the weight of her body set the oak back in its place.
"The priest," she droned, voice flat and disinterested as ever. "What a surprise."
Apparently unaffected by her tone, Libra's visage remained blank. "Tharja," he said, not unkindly, inclining his head in her direction. "Your presence here is -" he paused, looking for the right word, "- surprising, though not unwelcome. What brings a Grimleal to this holy place of prayer?"
She raised an eyebrow, continuing forward even as she regarded her acquaintance with apparent distaste. "Not going to beat around the bush, then?" she inquired, but failed to stage the statement as a question. Padding across the long, dusty red carpet in feet that were conspicuously shoeless but wrapped in a thick, dark fabric, her form - sharp-cut raven tresses framing a thin face, fragile but almost indecently-bared body, stick limbs folded securely around a book in her arms (not a tome, the priest noted with interest) - became as clear and defined as her bored expression. Her demeanor was... almost haughty.
A lesser man may have taken offense at her manner, especially considering the dark mage's choice of faith and her current location, but Libra took Tharja's actions in stride, waiting patiently for the approaching Plegian to reach him.
She pointedly did not answer his question, but did let her eyes wander from one stained-glass window to another. "It reeks," she observed suddenly as she looked upon an image of the Divine Dragon. "Like stale magic."
"My apologies," Libra allowed gently, clasping his hands before himself. "It is my preference to burn incense when in prayer. I find sandalwood to be quite calming - if you may pardon my candor, I had not expected a visitor."
"In a public church."
At her simultaneously flat, skeptical, and incredulous tone, the priest inclined his head slightly, allowing the sorceress the point. "There are many who offer prayers only in time of great strife. This is true of any religion."
Tharja came to a halt before the blond man. Thin, sheer fabric-covered arms twined around the book held tight to her chest - yet the rest of her posture exuded an almost arrogant sort of confidence. The observation puzzled Libra once he had made it.
Her dark eyes were guarded. "So," she said. "Here?"
His chin dipped again. "My brothers and sisters in faith have been gracious and welcoming. I wish only to be able to worship, and to serve Lord Chrom as I served Lady Emmeryn, have he ever need of my staff or my axe." However, the way the sentence ended - cleaved as if by the same weapon he wielded - left a conspicuous few beats of silence that yawned, as if he had been about to say more but had decided against it.
"Mm." Tharja hummed in response, gazing around at the vaulted yet simple house of worship again, more intrigued than defensive. Again, knowing the faith which the magician actively practiced, the priest was pleasantly surprised.
"You seem comfortable," he remarked lightly, mildly.
At his statement, the young woman glanced at him sharply. The venom in her eyes was an automatic response; dry, like stale poison. However, the intensity was not diminished as he was regarded with a discerning stare.
Seeing no trace of humor or meaningful twist to his visage, Tharja took the man's comment at face value. "Churches are all the same. Little buildings where people can pretend someone is listening to what they want." There was hardly an antagonistic tone to her voice, no more so than usual: merely, she stated her opinions as they were held, with frankness that Libra found refreshing.
Rather than take offense to her opinion, the war monk blinked in interest. "You are not of the Grimleal faith?" he inquired curiously. It made sense, but the very notion challenged his held belief that all Plegians were Grimleal. Are they not?
The sorceress pursed her lips tightly for a heartbeat and a half. "Not by choice. And I'm not very agreeable to things being forced on me."
"Few are," Libra agreed. "Do you seek freedom in Ylisse, then?"
Tharja chuckled, as if the comment amused her. "You of all people should understand what a lie this thing called 'freedom' is." Skating past the delicate subject with more poise than would be expected of the dark-witted, introverted young woman, a small smile graced her features - one that sent shivers running down Libra's spine for indiscernible reasons. "I would follow the object of my affections to the end of the earth. This puny halidom is the land he loves. As long as the apothecaries are halfway decent..."
He was surprised at himself for having expected anything but that answer. She had changed little in these few months. "And where is Robin on such a fine day?" the blond man inquired, voice kept carefully level.
"With the idiot prince and his entourage," she droned drily. "At a bakery down the avenue. The klutz asked for pie-making tips." The displeasure in her voice was evident. "My love is getting... edgy."
Rather than consider Tharja's strange ability at more than a surface level (evidently the work of a hex of some kind, which was frightening in and of itself), Libra allowed a tiny quirk of his lips, amused by the image of Sumia holding up the group discussing the finer points of baking.
"Hm," Tharja articulated suddenly, dark eyes snapping to Libra. "You –"
"Yes?" Libra asked, the gentle sound of his voice masking the fact that he had quite deliberately interrupted her.
Raven tresses swayed as she tossed her head almost impatiently. "Don't play dumb with me," she implored sharply. "Your heartbeat stuttered like a frightened rabbit. What's got you nervous?"
His normally placid and unflappable demeanor seemed unchanged - except for a tightness in his neck and jaw that belied displeasure of some kind. "It's nothing," he intoned, an undercurrent of pleading in his soft speech.
The sorceress regarded him again with a deeply searching stare. Libra's jaw clenched tighter, but the expression on his face remained pleasant - for fifty seconds, the scrutiny went uninterrupted, as the priest and the dark mage held each other's gazes.
As the fifty-first second passed, a small coil of smoke rose up, undulating in serpentine form as the last inch of the very last stick of incense collapsed into ash upon the altar at the head of the dais.
At the same time, a throaty giggle escaped from Tharja's mouth, a soft smile breaking over her lips. "... You can sense it too," she said, regarding Libra with an almost renewed sense of respect. A glow seemed to animate her usually flat features.
His already feminine, pale complexion had grown even a few shades whiter, as the blond dipped his head in response. "There is great change approaching. Slumbering, ready to be awakened."
"And he will be at its center," she veritably cooed. "He is more... I can feel it."
Tharja may be content to stand on the edge of a precipice with her arms flung wide, but Libra much preferred solid ground all around. He had not fear, only a frightful kind of trepidation - as he felt that, whatever this change may be... it was nothing good.
"You don't trust him around the prince," she said knowingly.
The tenseness in the frame of his shoulders spoke volumes.
Undeterred, the Plegian smiled again. (The excitement in her features that had always remained absent seemed unnatural when it finally arose.) "Keep offering prayers to your Divine Dragon. Perhaps the next one will be heard. Or the next..."
Her intent was not to be vicious for the sake of being vicious - only she reveled in discussing the subject, and happened to be of the frank opinion that prayers were nothing if not useless. Even knowing this of Tharja, it nonetheless took Libra a second to purse his lips and swallow a scathing rebuttal. (That was not his way, and he wanted to be angry at her for provoking it; but he could only truly blame himself. After all, he was of the most use on the battlefield, was he not? Though he wanted to avoid that truth, he knew she was right. Staying secluded would do nothing - but neither was he to raise unnecessary alarm by requesting an audience with Lord Chrom and speaking of his concerns. No, this would have to be done gently...)
His voice was steely with resolve. "I will do what I must to protect this world," he swore, drawing an honestly surprised glance from Tharja. Vindication. "I count both you and Robin among my comrades - my friends. But if we meet next as enemies, then so be it."
He didn't even want to entertain the notion that he might have to turn against his fellow soldiers. But the inkling of a seed of an idea as to what the source of the winds of change they felt could be pressed at him... while he hoped, desired, prayed he was wrong, the doubt persisted.
"I'm impressed," the sorceress said sincerely, the ironic lilt to her voice being characteristic of her nature and style of speaking more so than intentional irony of the phrase. "Make sure you keep that resolve so you can find it again if... when the time comes."
Sweeping the cloth pieces of her ensemble to herself, she turned on one heel and made to leave. "I appreciate the hospitality, priest of Naga," she called over her shoulder as she went.
"Tharja," Libra said, not having stirred from his position, waiting for the young woman to look back to him. She did so, and as their eyes met again, a sincere expression of kindness spread across his visage. "I pray," he said, "you find the answers you are searching for."
An imperceptible widening of her eyes that couldn't possibly be seen from the fifteen feet that separated them was her only response. A few seconds passed as their eyes stayed locked, however; the pair presented an odd image, a priest standing tall and a sorceress paused in motion, half-angled to depart, dark wood pews and candlelight pooling around them, rays of stained-glass light casting odd hues over the warm-colored church.
"Pfft," Tharja eventually articulated, allowing the dismissive puff of breath to escape her lips. "Hold onto that drivel for confessions."
footnote: the book tharja is holding is a condensed history on the religion that worships naga - hence libra's last statement.