Chapter 6
Time - Evening, 4 days after the Harvest Festival
Place - Ylisstol
The city is burning and my friends are dead…
That had certainly been the case the last time Gerome had looked out over the city from a balcony of the royal palace. Despite his friendship with Lucina and her royal parents, he hadn't exactly sought out the opportunity to rub elbows with the upper crust of Ylisse.
Now, as he waited to speak with Mort, he didn't really have much of a say in the matter. He'd be rubbing elbows alright. Gods willing he'd soon get the chance to ram his elbow into that psychotic tyrant's throat.
He hadn't actually seen much of Mort since he had announced himself as Brady and been told he could not leave the palace. He had been kept under close watch. His attempts to nonchalantly discover why they had been looking for Brady were met with unconvincing assertions that they were simply cross checking the census data to see who hadn't been showing up for the headcounts.
Of course, he didn't buy that for a second. Mort had called out three names in succession: Laurent, Noire, Brady. Two were dead, and all three had come from a timeline that no longer existed. No one outside of his close circle of friends, who had traveled through time with him, and their heroic parents they had reunited with, knew about this.
He had called Lucina a princess, too. Shortly before he had murdered her.
Who was this guy? How could he possibly know about them?
Gerome was forced to admit that no amount of brooding now would give him any answers. He would have to play along for now and gather what information he could. Then, as soon as he could strike back…
A cool evening breeze blew against his naked, unmasked face. The night sky was a vibrant purple. The city below was silent. It would almost be peaceful, were it not for the Risen guards patrolling every street. The silence was forced, unnatural.
He could suddenly hear muffled yelling behind him. Mort was in his chambers, meeting with some lackey of his. Apparently he was receiving unpleasant news, which warmed Gerome's spirits considerably.
Gerome strained to eavesdrop, picking up what sounded like "let her get away" and "just a child." He thought on this for a moment, then recalled what Gaius had told him - that Nah was sent north to retrieve Chrom and as many soldiers as she could to help liberate Ylisstol. Perhaps she was continuing to evade capture. Atta girl.
He could hear more angry demands, phrases like "any means necessary" standing out amongst the rest. Gerome continued to strain to hear, but quickly went back to looking nonchalantly over the city as the door to the balcony started to open.
The entrance was eclipsed by the colossal figure of Wulf.
The two men locked gazes. It was a vicious, intense, primal stare-down. These were the glares that had started wars between entire tribes of cavemen.
Without blinking, Gerome said, "does your master wish to see me?"
Wulf snorted. Gerome had been hoping the 'master' comment might get under his skin, but the big Plegian did not appear to take the bait.
"Soon," Wulf responded. There was a tense moment of silence before he went on. "You wish to fight me. I can see it in your eyes. Mort says you are useful to us alive right now, though I do not know how anyone so weak and frail could be of use to anyone. As soon as he says you are no longer useful, I will grant you your fight. I will break every bone in your body and beat you with my bare hands until you are dead."
Gerome stood his ground, still not breaking eye contact. As he and Wulf stood face to face, he was surprised to see they were the same height. From a distance the man looked much taller, perhaps due to how confidently he carried himself.
"Perhaps," Gerome acknowledged. "I am sure it will be a good fight, whoever may win."
Wulf chuckled, clearly entertained by the fact Gerome could even imagine a victory.
"Enough talk. Your master will see you, now."
Wulf moved aside, motioning for Gerome to head back into the palace.
Gerome walked past him, unafraid. He was not rattled by threats. Speaking in front of a crowd made him nervous, as did the prospect of intimacy, but a brutal fight to the death? If anything it made his blood stir, made him feel more alive.
With Wulf following behind him, he made his way through one of the beautiful corridors of Castle Ylisstol. The image of such a famous icon of peace and hope defiled by Risen and murderous Plegians only further fueled his hatred. Mort had set up his chambers in a former war room that had so frequently been occupied by Robin, Chrom's closest friend and tactician. Joab was parked in front of the closed door, leaning lazily on a pike while one hand dug around in his ear.
"Howdy, Brady," Joab said with a giggle. "How've your accomodations been? Food alright? Can I get you someone to help warm ya bed? A nice girl? We can pluck a nice young street urchin, drop her off for ya."
Gerome ignored the crass man while he cackled to himself.
The door opened, and a woman exited. Gerome got only a quick look at her before she darted off down the hallway, but something struck him as odd. As he watched her retreating form, it struck him: her ears. The only people he had ever seen with long, pointed ears like that had been Manakete.
"I sympathize, man, that one's got a great ass," Joab said, apparently noticing Gerome staring at the retreating woman. "Boss wants to see you now, though. So get your pecker out of your hand and go on in. Heheheh!"
Grateful, at least, to not have to be within sight, sound or smell of Joab, Gerome entered Mort's room. The door was closed behind him.
A large oak table stood in the center of the room, atop which were a variety of large maps, figurines depicting troop deployment, and books on strategy. Seeing it brought memories rushing back, of Lucina urging him to attend these strategy meetings during the campaigns against the Conqueror in Valm, and against the Grimleal in Plegia. At first he had refused, unwilling to pretend he was any more than a simple grunt, one of the pawns on the table rather than the hand that moved it. Eventually he had relented, and helped Lucina, Chrom and Robin plan their way to victory.
Now the map showed a different conflict; Mort had mapped out where the current Ylissean forces were stationed. Frederick and Cordelia, Ylisstol's two top military leaders other than his father, were in Valm with a large contingent of soldiers, helping the Valmese people rebuild and replenish after the previous war. Chrom, his royal guard, and their Feroxi allies were to the north, and Mort had drawn a large red X through the countryside between them and Ylisstol. That was, admittedly, a bit concerning.
There was a clearing of the throat, and Gerome looked up. Mort stood across from him, leaning on the table, smiling genially.
"Ahh, Brady! Good of you to make it," said the Plegian king. "I trust you've been enjoying your stay in the palace?"
Gerome fixed him with an icy stare. "What do you want?"
"Tsk, tsk," Mort said with a sigh. "No tact, no diplomacy. Ah, well, we can't all be graced with my charisma. We're not all natural born leaders. Some of us just do what they're told. Are you good at doing what you're told, Brady?"
Gerome looked down at the table between them. He feared if he maintained eye contact much longer he would lunge across and throttle the smug bastard. But his threat rang in his ears...If you so much as raise a finger against me in disobedience, I will have my Risen pick a child at random, pluck him out of his mother's arms, and slit his throat in front of you…
"What do you want?" he asked again, struggling to keep his voice calm.
Mort leaned forward, cracking his knuckles against the wooden table as he did so. "Where were you the past three days, Brady? We've been keeping close tabs on everyone. Headcounts every evening before curfew, cross-checking with the census information for city residents. But some people who should be here haven't been showing up. That's not fair to everyone else, now is it?"
Gerome looked back up. He had to exude confidence, make himself look honest, believable.
"I saw the Risen coming and got scared," he said. "So I hid. That's all."
"Oh, that's all?" Mort asked, continuing to speak in an infuriatingly condescending tone of voice. "I thought we were fairly thorough in our search. It must have been a rather good hiding place. I wonder if anyone else could have fit in there with you?"
Gerome said nothing.
"Look at me, Brady," Mort said, and something about his voice was...compelling. Gerome looked up, as if his head was not entirely under his own control.
What kind of power was this?
"I'm going to stop beating around the bush," Mort said, picking up one of the small wooden soldiers on the table and idly running his fingers along it. "We're missing some VIPs that are here, somewhere in the city. Hiding, like you were. I need to find them, and I think you can help me."
"VIPs…?" Gerome asked, determined to play dumb even if Mort clearly wasn't buying it.
"With Chrom and Maribelle in Regna Ferox, the affairs of the city are in the hands of Lissa, Chrom's younger sister, and Gaius, her husband. Both were seen the day of the attack, and I have good reason to believe they did not leave. So they're here, somewhere in the city. Hiding."
Gerome kept his face and mind blank.
"You want me to help you find them?" he asked.
"Yes. And of course the whole killing a child thing still applies. I don't deal well with disobedience. My father probably never hugged me enough, who can say."
Gerome slowly nodded, making sure his muscles were under his own control again.
What choice did he have? At least pretending to go along with it for now would buy him some time to think of a plan. Maybe he could warn Gaius and Lissa, help them prepare for the worst…
"I'll try," he said. "But I cannot promise anything. I did not see them earlier…" Was he a good liar without his mask? Perhaps Mort was reading him like an open book. It was probably a book with lots of big pictures and single-syllabic words.
"Oh, that's all I can ask. Be resourceful! I'm sure you have it in you." Mort clapped his hands, and the door to the hall opened. "You're free to go."
Gerome glanced over his shoulder at Wulf and Joab, flanking the door, eyeing him with clear malice.
"Go? You mean...leave the keep?" he asked, hesitantly.
"Well, I can't expect you to find someone hiding in the city while you're trapped in here, can I? Come on, Brady, I'm not that unreasonable!" Mort waved a hand, and Wulf and Joab moved further apart, making the doorway look a bit less threatening. "My men, and the Risen, will know not to hassle you. Well, they may hassle you a little. Have to keep up appearances and all."
Gerome stood there a moment longer. This was all a bit much to take in. He had played at strategy a few times, to make Lucina happy, but at his core he was just a soldier. He knew, if he had an axe in his hand, and if so much more weren't at stake, he could end this here and now.
But as it was, it felt like Mort was running laps around him.
The Plegian conqueror had turned away, apparently completely engrossed in some other matter. Gerome turned to leave. If his brain wasn't going to help him out of this mess, perhaps his gut would.
As he passed by Wulf and Joab, he heard them mutter something just low enough that he couldn't hear it. Joab chuckled, that laugh that made Gerome feel like he was crawling in bed bugs.
The guards, Risen and Plegian alike, gave him dark, mistrustful glances as he made his way down the palace hallways to the front gate. He ignored them, gaze focused straight ahead, posture straight. Show no fear, show no hesitation.
From the upper halls of the castle, he wound his way down to the throne room. The large chamber had been the site of their final stand back in the future. He had seen it dwindle over time from a bastion of human resistance to a crumbling ruin.
Now it was filled with hustle and bustle once again, but it was Risen and Plegians scurrying about. It took Gerome a few moments of irritated confusion before he realized what they were even doing.
Mort was...redecorating?
The entire back wall of the throne room, behind the throne itself, was being meticulously torn down. In its place, a large metal frame was being set up. Apparently Mort had grand ideas about what he wanted his castle to look like.
This was bizarre, and a further example of Mort's complete disregard for anything sacred, but Gerome couldn't get too bothered about it right now. There were more important things to do.
As he stepped outside, the last few vibrant rays of pink and purple from the setting sun were fading into pure, inky blackness. Something about it felt almost oppressive, unnatural. Gerome suppressed a shiver as he made his way down the castle steps.
So, he was a free man. Allegedly. Where to first?
He walked at a steady pace, keeping himself looking calm, unhurried, nonchalant. A few Risen patrols, armed and carrying torches for visibility, marched through the streets in a steady, symmetrical pattern. Whenever one spotted Gerome, they would glower for a moment, but then move on. Mort's message had gotten around fast. Did he have some hold on these creatures, the way he had briefly compelled Gerome himself? Did the entire army truly operate based on Mort's willpower?
As he moved away from the castle, the Risen patrols grew more sparse. He watched as one duo, starkly outlined by their torches, turned a corner onto an adjacent street, leaving him alone in perfect darkness. He quickly hunched down and ducked into an alleyway.
A few trash cans, evident from the smell that they had been left unattended since the occupation began, were stacked up along a wall. He walked past at first, then paused, backed up a bit, and made a dramatic show of clumsily knocking one over. Then he hustled, head down, to the far end of the alleyway, around a corner, and promptly doubled back towards where he had started in a parallel alley, nimbly dodging obstacles in his path without making a sound.
When he was back at the street he had started on, he saw two Risen, quite conspicuously not using any torches, inspecting the alleyway with the knocked-over trash can.
Free to go, indeed, eh? Maybe Mort really did think he was an idiot…
He lurked up behind the two Risen as they inspected the entrance to the alleyway, and in a swift, brutal motion, grabbed their heads and brought them together, cracking their skulls and letting them slump to the ground. He then picked them up, one at a time, and stuffed them into the trash.
That made him feel a little better. Now to go see mom.
And as he made his way off, thinking himself incredibly clever, Joab suppressed a giggle and oozed back into the darkness to follow.
His parents had never seemed truly at home in the estate Chrom had gifted them after the war. They were grateful, certainly, and it was a wonderful environment to start a family in. But his mother had a warrior's heart and his father had grown up wading through pig shit. Something about that just didn't mesh with cobblestone pathways and elegant gardens.
Gerome hunched down amidst the foliage that many of the other high-class Ylisseans liked to keep on display in their front yards. A few flickering lights ahead indicated that the Risen were still patrolling, and after taking care to lose his personal tail, he was in no hurry to go announcing his presence again. He was not going to get his mother dragged into this. In fact, a rather persistent voice in the back of his mind was saying he shouldn't visit her at all. He had already lost his father again. If he wasn't careful, history might continue to repeat itself…
But she deserved to know he was okay. Especially if she had been there in the square to witness him brazenly claiming to be Brady, and getting marched into the castle.
As going up to the front door and knocking seemed like a poor plan of action, Gerome hunched down and made his way around to the back of the house. There was an old wall covered in thick vines, not because his parents had been lazy with the yardwork, but because apparently walls covered in old vines made a place look more distinguished. It was all very silly to Gerome, but at the moment he was thankful for this bizarre tradition.
Taking one last look around to make sure no guards were coming, he began to quickly and effortlessly climb the wall until he reached a second story window. On the off chance the Gods were currently taking pity on him, he gave it a quick push. They weren't, of course; the window was locked tight.
Hanging on to the vines with his left arm, he reached into a pocket with his right hand and grabbed a small, sharp rock. In a swift, powerful motion, he smashed it through a lower corner of the window, cracking the glass just enough to push the pane out of the sill. He lowered it to the floor as quietly as possible, before following into the building.
He looked around the dark room he had landed in. It was a den, meant for lounging about with guests. It didn't appear to have been used in a while.
He'd check his parents bedroom first, see if his mom was in there...hopefully he wouldn't scare her by suddenly popping up like this, but…
The blade of an axe pressed lightly against his throat. A soft voice whispered by his ear, "you picked the wrong house."
He froze, his body instinctively breaking out in a cold sweat. Damn, she hadn't lost her touch…
"It's me," he stammered. "Mother…"
The axe moved away, giving him a bit of breathing room. He spun around to see his mother, standing in the dark, studying him.
"Gerome," she whispered. "I'm so glad to see you." She embraced him warmly, and Gerome felt himself overcome with emotion, burying his face in her shoulder, shrouded by her long red hair.
They stayed there for a few minutes, frozen in time. Each knew they weren't likely to have many more peaceful moments like this for the foreseeable future.
When they separated, Cherche was laughing lightly, tears glistening in her eyes. "Thank you for coming to visit me. I know it must have been risky...though I admit, I'd rather you hadn't broken the window…"
"Sorry," Gerome said, smiling awkwardly. Even with his own mother, even in such a heartfelt moment, he could feel his face start to burn as she looked at him. He yearned for a mask to hide behind.
"I'm kidding," Cherche clarified. "Break all the windows you like, if it means I get to see you're okay." She had put her axe down, and was lighting some candles to give the room a more cozy feel.
"Were you just waiting in here for someone to show up…?" he asked, a bit unsettled by that behaviour.
"Gaius and Lissa went missing when the occupation began," Cherche replied. "If they were taken, I worried they'd come for me next…"
Gerome cut her off, grateful to have a bit of good news to give her. "Gaius and Lissa are fine," he said. "They're underground, hiding with Owain, Brady, uh, Owain again, and some sick and wounded refugees. Gaius was the one who helped me get back into the city." He decided his mother didn't need to hear that the prince had managed this by bashing him over the head and dragging his unconscious body.
Cherche breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. I've stayed here because so far it's seemed safer than attempting to get Minerva and make a break for it. But if they made any indication that they would hurt me or my son…"
"...How is Gerome doing?" Gerome asked, the words still sounding strange even after all these years.
Cherche let out a dejected sigh. "Thankfully he's still young enough to not really understand what's going on. After Nah came by and told me about Donnel, I…" here she struggled to continue speaking, though it was clearly difficult. "I sat him down and explained that his father had gone away, and wouldn't be coming back. He...he thinks he's off on some grand adventure, somewhere across the sea. Perhaps, in a way, he's right…"
She wiped her tears away with her sleeve. Gerome continued to stand there, a few feet away, watching her. He wanted to say: I was once told both of my parents would never be coming back. At least he still has you. I lost everything, and I turned out…
But here he stood, unable to bring himself to offer a comforting pat on the shoulder to his grieving mother. He hadn't turned out just fine. His time in the dead future had broken him.
And history was repeating itself.
"Mort has allowed me to get close to him," Gerome said, instead. "He wants me to help find Gaius and Lissa. I'll play along while I can, but I promise you, as soon as the opportunity arises, I will strike him down. I will avenge Donnel."
Cherche looked at him for a long moment. Gerome knew the fierce heart of a warrior that beat within his mother's chest. She had fought a wyvern into submission as a teenager. Beat back armies of Risen. Fought tooth and nail on the Valmese front against the infamous Walhart the Conqueror. If there was anyone who would be sympathetic to the fury in his heart…
Then she shook her head. "I don't want you putting yourself at risk, Gerome," she said.
Gerome was taken aback by this. He frowned. "I'm at risk every day that I'm here in this city. We all are. But if I have this opportunity, to right so many wrongs-"
"It wouldn't be righting any wrongs to make me lose my son, in addition to my husband!" Cherche snapped.
"I'm not your son!" Gerome snapped back. He saw the hurt look on her face, but fury propelled him forward. "My parents are dead! My princess is dead! Any purpose I had, any excuse to keep on living, has been torn away from me! But your real son, the real Gerome, still has a chance! If I can kill Mort and end this occupation, and give you and him a chance to live a normal, happy life again, then even if it costs me my life, it will have been worth it! I won't have another version of me grow up broken and filled with hate!"
Cherche continued to stare at him, speechless, the tears in her eyes drying.
"Hate is all I have left," Gerome continued. "I watched a woman I love die in front of me. And I didn't feel sadness, or remorse. I felt hate. I should have died in that attack on the Harvest Festival, but hate pushed my body through it. It's all that's keeping me alive."
Cherche appeared about to respond, but her mouth seemed to have gone dry. She cleared her throat and turned her head away.
"I'm sorry," she finally said. "But I don't believe that. There's something else in there, keeping you going."
Gerome shook his head. "I shouldn't stay any longer. My presence here is putting you and your son in danger."
He pushed past her, across the room, and crawled out the window through which he had entered. Gripping the vines, he turned and looked back, at his mother standing there watching him, discernable emotion gone from her face.
"I'm sorry about the window," he said, awkwardly, before dropping to the ground.
Two different voices dominated his mind as he walked through the dark, empty city.
One said: you should go back and apologize. You are her son, and it was cruel to take that away from her. Yes, tensions are high, but Gods forbid, what if something happens? Do you want your last moments with her to have been spent in anger?
The other said: She is strong, and can handle it. I am a realist, and have never been one to sugar coat a situation to spare the feelings of another. Every word I spoke was the truth, and though it may have been difficult to hear, it was necessary to say.
The second voice was louder at the moment, but the first was still awfully persistent…
A third voice chimed in. This one was familiar, and it said: there is danger present, behind and to the right.
The other voices quickly shut up. Part of him was frankly relieved that he could stop worrying about an argument with his mother and focus on something much easier, like people trying to kill him.
He continued to walk normally, casually, acting as if he thought he was truly alone. Only when an alley opened up on his right did he suddenly duck inside, wait for a moment in the pitch black, then lunge forward when a figure tried to sneakily round the corner after him-
The figure flew backwards, landing on its ass. This was the desired result, yes, but it was a bit odd as Gerome had not yet actually thrown a punch.
"Damnit, Gerome, you're gonna give me a heart attack! Sheesh…" hissed Brady, arms held up over his head in a position of abject surrender.
Gerome sighed, and offered a hand to help him up.
"What are you doing, out and about? Were you following me?" Gerome growled.
"I just wanted to talk to ya, but I wasn't exactly about to go yellin' your name to get your attention, y'know? Seems like a good way to have every Risen in the district come use our guts for garters," Brady explained, looking sullenly at the ground.
"Okay. I'm sorry I almost punched you," Gerome said, wondering if a punch with all his strength behind it would kill the poor kid. "But it's dangerous out here! They're looking for you! You should have stayed underground with the others."
"He did stay with us," came another voice, and Gerome suddenly realized that Gaius was there, in the darkness beside him, and quite possibly had been this entire time. "Brady came rushing down to tell us about how you claimed to be him, and were taken into the castle by Mort."
"You didn't have to do that, ya know…" Brady quietly mumbled.
"We figured you'd be able to hold out for a while, but it sort of threw our 'just wait for Chrom' plan out the window," Gaius explained. "The odds may be against us, but we're not just gonna sit around and let you get killed." Gaius quirked an eyebrow, as if suddenly realizing something. "Although...given that you're currently out and about...did you manage to escape?"
"No!" Gerome replied. "Mort sent me out to find you and Lissa! He…" Gerome gulped. He debated not telling the truth; what if Gaius decided to turn himself in, let himself get executed out of some noble desire to save innocent lives?
Gaius watched him, concern apparent in his eyes. "He what? What is he threatening?"
Gerome gave in. "He said he'd start murdering innocent children if I don't do what he says."
The three of them all fell silent.
Finally, Gerome broke it. "We can't give in to him, Gaius. You can't just surrender yourself and Lissa. He'll have you both publicly executed!"
Gaius remained quiet, tapping his chin, pondering his options.
"The guy is a sick son of a bitch," he mumbled. "Threatens to murder kids to get his way. Guy like that might just murder kids for fun anyway. Then we'll have died for nothing."
"Right," Gerome said, nodding adamantly. "So we have to find some other way, some way to fight back, to rebel, even if…"
Gaius held up a hand. "We're not letting him hurt any more innocents, either. We were already up here, right? And we weren't just going to storm the castle to free you. We have a plan."
Brady slapped Gerome excitedly on the shoulder. "It's gonna be great, pal. We're gonna help start a whole rebellion!"
Gerome looked between the two princes, hoping for a better explanation. "A...rebellion? But Mort has more Risen than we have soldiers. Not to mention the fact that everyone's weapons were...confi...scated…"
He trailed off, looking in awe as Gaius pulled a burlap sack out from the shadows behind him, tipping it forward and loosening the top just enough for Gerome to see the pile of weaponry that sat inside.
"They were behind lock and key, yeah," Gaius said with a grin. "Which means it took me about thirty seconds longer to get them than if they had been laying under a big sign that said, 'free weapons, please take.'"
"We're gonna go sneakin' around, hidin' 'em places where folks can get 'em," Brady said, clearly giddy with excitement. "Start spreadin' the word to as many people as possible. Then during roll call, we swarm Mort - bam, pow, right in the kisser!"
"He controls the Risen," Gaius explained. "We capture him, we neutralize the entire army. But we've got exactly one shot at this. If this rebellion fails, a lot of innocent people are going to get slaughtered. And Mort will see to it we don't have a second chance."
Gerome nodded, slowly. All things considered, it wasn't a great plan. Too much reliance on chance, on untested fighters, on the enemy being caught unprepared. But it was a plan, which was more than he had been able to come up with himself.
"Is it just the two of you up here, spreading weapons? Seems like that would take a while. What about Owain?"
"Owain is still underground, guarding the entrance. Lissa and those we left behind will need help in the event of a sudden evacuation," Gaius explained.
"We do have someone else, though," Brady said.
On cue, another pair of slow, soft footsteps began to approach the alley where they were all currently lurking. There was a sound like a stone being dragged across a bed of gravel, and it took Gerome a moment to realize it was someone clearing their throat.
"Good to see you again, kid." Gerome squinted, but could not see the figure in the darkness; too much of their face was covered, besides. He recognized the voice, however, a voice that sounded pained and hoarse, as if every word was a struggle to get out.
"Roy," Gerome said, with a welcoming nod. "I admit, I'm surprised you're up and about. Last I saw you, you said it hurt to walk."
"Brady here is a fine healer," Roy responded, slowly, deliberately, fully aware that to speak any less carefully would cause him undue agony. "Plenty else still hurts, but at least I can walk."
"I admit, I thought he'd be a liability," Gaius said, "but he insisted he come along, and he's proven surprisingly nimble for someone who was one particularly bad cough away from death just a few days ago."
"I will give my life to save my kingdom," Roy said, "as many times as I can."
Gerome stared at the bandaged figure for a moment. Something about that phrase seemed odd. Then something else struck him.
"When last we spoke, I told you my name was Gerome...and you said it wasn't, not anymore. What did you mean by that?" Shortly afterwards, Gerome had pretended to be Brady, unexpectedly gaining a new name, in a sense. But the idea that this cripple was actually prophetic was a bit much to believe.
Roy was silent for a moment, apparently giving Gerome a long, searching look over. Finally he took a sharp inhalation of breath, and grunted, "you seem to be a good and noble man. I suspect men like that won't last long here."
Gerome slowly nodded. He was inclined to agree; with the latter, anyway.
"We can't loiter here much longer," Gaius announced. "We've got a lot more ground to cover before daybreak, and even being optimistic, we're going to need a few productive nights of this." He turned to Gerome, clasping him by the shoulder. "As for you…"
"I wish I could join you, but I would only put you in further danger," Gerome responded. "Mort will be looking for me...expecting me to turn you in…"
"Right," Gaius said with a nod, "which is why I have a special mission for you. I need you to stall. I don't know how, and for that I'm sorry. But we need time, and you're the only one in a position to buy it for us."
Gerome hesitated. "I'll...do what I can," he said, "though I'm not sure what that will be."
"That's all I can ask," Gaius admitted. "Just do your best. Without getting yourself maimed or killed, of course. Cherche would probably rip my limbs off if I let you get killed, and I'm rather attached to all of them, ha ha."
Gerome's mood darkened at the mention of that name. He turned away from the three of them.
"I should head back to the castle," he said. "Get going. You've got a lot of work to do."
Gaius and Brady shuffled past him, each patting him appreciatively on the back as they walked by. Roy stood by him for a moment longer.
"Take care, Gerome," he said, and there was a warmth there that actually took Gerome off guard. For a moment - a brief, fleeting moment - he felt an inexplicably deep bond with this man who was essentially a stranger.
"Thanks," Gerome said. He meant it. "You take care of yourself, too."
Roy shuffled off after the two Princes, his dark, bandaged form soon melding into the shadows and disappearing completely.
Leaving Gerome alone with his thoughts, and without a clue what to do next.
Mort smiled, and Joab smiled back. As smiles went, they couldn't be more different. Joab smiled with his entire face, his rotting and uneven teeth beaming for the whole world to see. Mort smirked, a slight quirking upwards of the ends of his lips. A snake could smile wider than that.
"Good work, friend," Mort said, nodding appreciatively. "Take Wulf with you. Round them up. Yes, the child, too. Bring them to me, and try not to hurt them too badly."
Joab nodded and turned away, walking down the steps from the throne. Wulf stood nearby, as he always did, armed with his massive battle-axe and ready for any confrontation that might present itself. He nodded as Joab approached, and together they made their way across the grand hall and back out into the quiet, dark streets of Ylisstol.
A few Risen guards were meandering about, but they hardly counted. Mort was used to ignoring them by now. He felt alone, comfortable, safe.
He turned away from the entrance, gazed upon the back wall of the throne room. His engineers had been hard at work ever since his little insurgent had left earlier. The framework continued to be built up, and now the large circular form of a gate was beginning to come into focus.
It would be a bit more time before it was completed, but he could already feel the power reverberating through it. This would be a site of greatness. This throne room had been used for important rituals before, he knew, but this one...it would be the greatest of all.
He stared through the empty gate, through the wall behind it, to a place only he could see.
A city burning, inhabited only by the dead.
