Chapter 8
Time - Afternoon, 7 days after the Harvest Festival
Place - Market District, Ylisstol
The city is burning and my friends are dead…
As the occupation of Ylisstol lurched towards it's second week, Mort had decided that it was time for business as usual to resume. No more were people allowed to just cower in their homes; no, it was time to go back to work and get to stimulating that economy.
As Gerome walked through the crowded market district, it felt as dead and empty as ever.
There was very little chatter. With armed Risen patrols every few dozen feet, no one was willing to get caught slacking off or goofing around. Who knew what would happen? They may very well be gutted on the spot.
But while people nervously avoided eye contact with the Risen, and with each other, many people shot hateful glares towards Gerome. They moved out of the way when he went past. One shopkeeper even pretended not to hear him when Gerome asked to see the vegetables he was selling.
They had seen him move in and out of the castle for several days now. The Risen didn't accost him. Clearly, he was one of "them." An occupier. A traitor. The enemy.
There was a crash nearby, as a man was shoved into his stall, sending slabs of meat clattering to the ground.
"This meat is spoiled," grumbled a Risen guard, looming over him.
"Y-you burned my farm down, and my animals ran!" the man whimpered. "I-I-I can't sell goods I don't have!"
The Risen drew it's axe. "Then what good are you?"
The farmer's knees buckled under him, and he collapsed backwards in terror, arms thrown up to protect his face. "Please, please, don't…"
The axe didn't come down.
When the farmer lowered his arms to see why he wasn't dead, a man was standing over him, facing down the Risen.
"Step aside, boy," the Risen growled.
"Mort won't appreciate it if you cut down his errand boy," Gerome replied, keeping his voice cool and level. He hated himself for even acknowledging such a title...but apparently it worked. The Risen sheathed it's axe.
It craned its neck and spat on the farmer behind Gerome, then turned and walked off.
"Are you alright?" Gerome asked, bending down to give the poor man a hand.
The man looked at it suspiciously a moment before finally accepting. Gerome pulled the farmer to his feet. He looked like a poor, dumb country boy, with no idea what to do now that his livestock was gone.
It sure reminded him of someone…
"Thanks," the man mumbled, clearly still nervous. "I'm sorry, uh, I thought you were...y'know, one of them…"
Gerome lowered his voice. "They think I am. But I want them gone just as much as anyone else."
The man was silent for a moment, then nodded. "You should-" he began, but stopped as another Risen patrol sauntered past. Once they appeared to be out of earshot, he lowered his voice even further, to just above a whisper, and said, "you should head to Nutmeg Inn when the sun goes down. Revolution is coming!"
He slipped away into the crowd before Gerome could respond.
Revolution was coming...that was promising. It would seem Gaius, Brady, and Roy had made some progress in spreading the word. So long as Mort didn't catch on, then perhaps this nightmare would be over soon…
Gerome looked up at the sky. It was still early afternoon, so he had a few hours before he'd be expected back at the castle for evening roll call. And in the meantime, he had to look busy, really convince Mort he was hunting out insurgents. Well, perhaps it he could kill two birds with one stone.
Time to see what's going on at Nutmeg Inn.
He made his way out of the market district, keeping his shoulders hunched in an attempt not to stand out too much from the crowd. Much like his previous nightly escapades, he had no intention of letting the Risen sniff around after him. Unfortunately, it was going to be harder to keep out of sight in the broad daylight…
Hardly any Ylisseans were hanging around outside the market district. No children playing in the streets, no families enjoying the nice autumn weather, no pets being walked. As such there were considerably fewer Risen patrols out here, though their line of sight would be much better. Stupid lack of shadows to cling to.
He decided to head back towards the palace - or at least be seen going in that direction. A few Risen patrols eyed him warily. If they did have some sort of hive mind, perhaps they had all taken offense to his standing up to one.
They did not attempt to stop him or follow him, however, so in truth he couldn't care less about their ire. As soon as he was out of sight of any patrols, he ducked into an alley.
"Never spent so much time in alleyways in my life," he muttered to himself. Now, what was the best way to navigate around Ylisstol from here without being seen…
He remembered something Gaius had mentioned, about old tunnels all throughout the city. The prince had allegedly used them back when he was an accomplished burglar, a time that he swore he regretted despite regularly reminiscing fondly over.
Gerome kept his eyes towards the ground and scanned around. He needed a manhole, a grating, anything…
And...there! Back towards the way he had just come from, a pale, circular lid down to the sewers.
Two Risen stepped on it as they made their patrol down the street. Gerome swiftly ducked his head back out of sight. A patrol in broad daylight. This was going to be tricky.
He smirked. Challenges like this were what he lived for.
He hunched down in the alley, watched, and waited.
He counted. The patrol moved north, step by step, until it was out of sight. Then, two minutes and ten seconds later, came back into view moving south.
Three times in a row he watched and counted. Two minutes and ten seconds each time. Okay. He could do this.
The fourth time the patrol disappeared out of sight, he bolted from his hiding spot, darting straight towards the manhole cover, keeping count under his breath. Only thirty-six seconds to get there; easy…
He bent over and grabbed the cover, straining with all his might as he dragged it to the side. It was much heavier than he had expected, and made a loud clatter as it scraped across the pavement. Given how silent the rest of the city was, he could only imagine how loudly this sudden cacophony must have sounded to anyone in the area…
As soon as the opening was wide enough for him to fit through, he gripped the old ladder along the side and swung his body down. He reached up to grab the cover to drag back over to him, but heard the clatter of footsteps running towards him. He could just see Risen approaching as he ducked his head out of sight, kicked his feet back, and slid down the ladder all the way into the tunnel below.
It was further down than he had expected. When his feet hit the ground, the shock shot through his body. He also almost slipped; the ground here seemed coated with some sort of thick slime. And while it was too dark to see anything effectively, the smell in the air lent heavy credence to the idea that this was a sewage tunnel.
Looking up, he could see the heads of several Risen looking down at him, framed by a halo of sunlight. Hopefully the thick darkness down here kept his features hidden; the whole point of this escapade was to keep the Risen from knowing where he was! So long as they thought he was just a random civilian making a break for it, he could get out of this…
He didn't wait any longer. He took off down the tunnel, the sounds of the Risen clattering down after him echoing around him.
This place was a goddamn maze, and the lack of any light, natural or otherwise, certainly didn't help his escape plan. He moved as fast as he could without losing his footing on the slippery stones, one hand brushing a wall at all times to help give him some sense of balance and direction.
The footsteps, guttural voices, and rattling of weaponry continued following close behind. Much too close for comfort. There had to be some way to lose them-
He walked face first into a metal grating. It looked as if he had wandered down a tunnel with a dead end; the water was able to flow through the grating, but there was no way he would ever be able to fit through.
An idea struck him. He didn't like it.
A moment later the Risen hit the grating. They both looked around, confused.
"Where did he go?" one grumbled. The other mumbled a curse.
And behind them, like an ancient leviathan, Gerome rose, water and filth cascading off of him. He lunged forward and snapped the neck of the Risen closest to him with one swift twist. He grabbed the axe from it's hand as it fell, and brought it up as the second one charged at him. They collided and stumbled into the sewage, rolling and splashing until Gerome was able to drive the blade into it's neck.
He stood back up, feeling weary and disgusting. This had all been to protect his identity, and by extension to protect anyone Mort would kill to punish him. It had been worth it.
And yet, he could see Inigo laughing at him, and saying with a grin, "Gee, Gerome, you sure look like shit!"
He groaned, and lurched forward.
A few hours passed, enough for the sun to set and darkness to begin to fall over Ylisstol. The roll call was over, and people had been encouraged to quietly return to their homes.
An old, rusted service door opened a street over from Nutmeg Inn and a soggy, foul-smelling man carefully slipped out.
Slowly he made his way towards the door of the inn. From outside, the place looked abandoned. The paint was old and faded, the windows were dark and grimy, and no sound could be heard emanating from within. Regardless, Gerome made sure the coast was clear, then went up to the front door and carefully knocked.
Nothing happened.
He waited a moment, grew agitated, and knocked more aggressively. If that merchant had lied, or given him the wrong information…
The door opened a crack.
"Password?" asked a voice.
"I recognize your voice, Gaius, and I swear by all the Gods, if you don't let me in, my vengeance will be swift and merciless."
"Password was 'caramel,' but close enough."
The door opened a bit further. The room beyond seemed dark and empty, which was obviously impossible given Gaius had just been standing there. Gerome slipped in and shut the door behind him.
A hand grabbed him, as if to steer him along through the darkness, but quickly let go.
"Holy hell, what is that?"
"You don't want to know. I don't suppose there's anywhere I can wash off or grab a change of clothes?"
He heard Gaius sigh. "I mean, it is an inn. Fine, go clean up, we'll have the spooky clandestine revolutionary underground meeting when you're done."
It was another hour or so into the night when Gerome had finished toweling himself off and changing into some slightly-too-small spare clothing the innkeeper had laying around. The smell was still noticeable but it was at least muted. He made his way downstairs, moving carefully in the darkness, until a hand grabbed him to steer him along once more.
"Are we good now? Do you need to use the bathroom? Maybe grab dinner?" Gaius asked sarcastically.
"I'm fine. Where is everyone?"
He was led to a wall behind the bar in the main common room of the inn. Gaius deftly moved of a few old, decorative bottles around, then pushed on a blank panel. To Gerome's mild surprise, the wall opened up, revealing another room behind it, this one more well lit and filled with a few dozen people.
As they stepped into the light, Gerome looked at Gaius and let out an involuntary gasp. "What the hell?"
Gaius looked around, confused. "What? What is it?"
"You're head! It's...covered in some kind of...mud?"
Gaius laughed. "Oh! It's hair dye. My red mop is rather distinctive, so Lissa figured if she poured a few boxes of black dye into it, I'd be harder to notice."
Gerome gave an awkward cough. "It was a nice thought, but...I think 'a few boxes' may have been too much. It looks like it's trying to eat your entire head."
Gaius waved this off. "Whatever. Owain keeps saying that we should 'embrace our inner darkness,' given the shadowy nature of our mission. ...Weird kid. Still don't know where the hell he got it from."
Gerome allowed himself a slight smile. He looked over the room. It seemed to be operating like a normal tavern; people will drinking, chatting, huddled in groups. It was quiet and low-key, sure, but there was a tinge of excitement in the air.
"I take it this is the army you've amassed so far..?" he asked.
"Hah! Not even. This is the tip of the iceberg," Gaius said, rather smugly. "Brady is handing out weapons in a warehouse. Roy is specifically organizing a team to try and break into the dungeons to free Severa and Libra. We're getting ready, Gerome. A few more days, and this revolution is going to hit hard and fast."
Gerome nodded. He felt the same sensation in his gut that he did before any major battle. Some fear, not the sort to make him run, but the sort to hone his nerves and keep him cautious, mixed with resolute determination and even a bit of excitement. This had to work. The heart and soul of the city depended on it.
"Gaius," he said, his tone serious enough to grab the Prince's attention. "When the time comes, and we attack...do whatever you must to keep everyone safe, obviously, but if at all possible...will you save Mort?"
"SAVE Mort?" Gaius asked, incredulous.
"For me," Gerome continued. "Save him for me to kill."
Gaius was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "I'll do what I can."
"Thank you," Gerome said. He didn't know if it would help, if it would appease some of the rage inside him, give him something to feel aside from hate. But it was certainly worth a shot.
"Hey, I know you," came another voice, as someone from the crowd stumbled forward and squinted at Gerome. "You're that guy working for Mort! What're you…!"
"Calm down! Keep your voice down!" Gaius snapped. "He's with us. Okay? I vouch for him."
"You have my word, friend," Gerome said, maintaining firm eye contact. The man appeared to have been drinking a bit, and eyed Gerome distrustfully, though he seemed to have a hard time standing his ground when Gerome stared back.
"...Fine," the man mumbled. "But you better be damn careful, kid. 'M watchin' you…"
"Right…" Gerome said, as the man walked off.
"Ignore him," Gaius said. "You're in a tough spot, but you're doing great. Just another day or two, that's all. Just hold out for another day or two."
Gerome nodded. "I should get back. I'll tell him I've got a lead on your hideout, just...that I need another day to get in. I'll make him think I'm close to keep him off my back while you finish preparations."
"Great," Gaius said. "Thanks, Gerome, for everything you're putting up with. We won't let you down. I'll make sure the coast is clear and help escort you out."
"I've gotten pretty adept at dodging the Risen patrols once night has fallen," Gerome said. "I'll be able to get back to the castle without anyone knowing where I was today."
They walked back through the hidden door, into the darkened main room of the inn. Before they reached the exit, Gaius stopped him one last time.
"Gerome, thanks for checking in, but...you probably shouldn't come back here," he said. "It's too risky. We've got this handled. You should keep your head down and stay safe."
"I'm in this just as deep as any of you!" Gerome shot back. "Probably moreso! You can't stop me from helping this rebellion!"
"No, I can't," Gaius conceded. "But I can ask you, as a friend, to please not let your emotions cloud your judgment. I couldn't ever face your mom if I let you waltz up to Mort and get yourself executed."
"I've been careful, and will continue to be careful," Gerome said, firmly. "Either way...I guess I'll be seeing you when the time comes. Take care, Gaius. Give my regards to Lissa."
"Aye," Gaius said, quietly, as he closed the door behind Gerome.
And that was it. It was as if the meeting had never happened; Gerome was alone, in the still, silent night, in front of a clearly abandoned inn.
He didn't let himself get seen by the Risen patrols until he was close enough to the castle that he could have potentially come from any direction. He welcomed the mistrusting looks of the Plegians, and hungry stares of the Risen, as he made his way up the castle steps.
He had to make his way through the throne room to get to the simple storage room where he had been sleeping, not quite a prison cell, but not luxury accommodations either.
As he passed through, head down and moving as quickly as he could without arousing suspicion, something made him slow to a halt. He felt queasy. Something was very wrong.
"Welcome back, Brady!"
Mort was sitting on his throne. Joab stood by his side, but other than that, there was nobody in the vast chamber. No guards, no Risen, nobody.
And behind Mort, his bizarre architectural creation continued to come to life. A circular gate had been constructed, and Mort's men had procured strange power sources to connect all around the base. Gerome still had no idea what the hell this thing was supposed to symbolize.
"...Sir," Gerome responded, curtly.
"Come on over here, my friend! Let's have a good chat." Mort waved an arm, beckoning Gerome forward. He grimaced inwardly, but had no choice but to obey.
As he approached the throne, Mort straightened up and leaned forward, studying Gerome curiously. "Tell me about your progress, Brady. You have made some progress, yes?"
Gerome glanced over towards Joab, who was snickering as obnoxiously as ever, then looked back to Mort. "I'm...close. I just need another day to work my sources…"
"So you have not, as of yet, found where Prince Gaius and his rebels are hiding?" Mort asked, rather forcefully. "I've had dead Risen patrols popping up, Brady. Our armory was broken into and weapons were stolen. I can't have this, Brady. I need results."
"You'll have them!" Gerome said, rather loudly, his voice cracking. "If you'll let me get some sleep, I'll be back at it first thing in the morning-"
"One moment, Brady," Mort said, holding up a hand. "You mean to tell me that you did NOT go to Nutmeg Inn tonight?"
Gerome's blood ran cold. He swallowed, and tried to keep his voice flat. "Nutmeg Inn..? I, ah, had heard that might be one of their hideouts, but...I can't yet verify…"
Mort sighed, and leaned back in his throne. He clapped his hands, and a door opened somewhere behind Gerome. He turned to see two guards moving forward, escorting the farmer that Gerome had rescued in the market district that morning.
"What was it you said Brady here told you this morning, friend?" Mort asked.
The farmer looked at Gerome, his eyes filled with fear and sorrow. He gulped, and answered, "he said he wanted to take you down, m'lord. I...I told him about Nutmeg Inn, then hid nearby and watched the entrance. Sure enough, he went in about an hour ago, after the sun had set. I ran right here, soon as I saw it." He turned to Gerome, and began babbling so quickly that he was almost incoherent. "I'm real sorry, man, this isn't personal, but my livelihood is at stake. I can't survive without a farm or livestock, and the only one who can help me is King Mort!"
"You did well! You were very smart, to do what you did," Mort said, smiling genially. "I'm a firm believer in both the carrot and the stick. Obedience is to be rewarded. Give this man a nice room, and in the morning, let him have his pick of the farmland that hasn't been razed," he said to his guards. They nodded and escorted the snitch away, who was bobbing and babbling a stream of heartfelt thanks to his benevolent lord.
Mort stood, and stepped up to Gerome, who was frozen on the spot.
"And now," he said, "the stick. Disobedience must be punished. Wulf! Bring them out!"
Gerome hadn't thought his stomach could sink any further. He turned, and saw the huge Plegian shoving someone in front of him. Her mouth was covered with a gag, and her arms were bound tightly behind her back. She stumbled as Wulf gave her another sharp shove, but quickly recovered, standing up straight with dignity and grace once more.
"Mother!" Gerome shouted, before he could stop himself.
"Mother?" Mort said, amused. "She's so young and pretty. Must have aged wonderfully." He stepped forward and reached out a hand to touch her long, red mane of hair. She narrowed her eyes and growled something muffled and unintelligible.
"So, if this is mommy," Mort said, ignoring her, "that would make him...a baby brother? I can see the resemblance!"
Wulf had one huge hand wrapped around the skinny arm of little Gerome. He pulled, hard, lifting the boy off his feet. Wulf dangled him in the air in front of Gerome.
"You remember what I told you," Mort said. "Unlike you, I'm not dishonest. I keep my word."
"No!" Gerome screamed, tears welling in his face. "No, please, no, kill me instead, kill me."
Suddenly Mort was holding a blade. Through the turmoil of emotion banging around in Gerome's head, a strange thought rang out: that was Balmung, a legendary blade that had been possessed by Robin the tactician. It had disappeared along with Robin and Aversa, after the defeat of Grima. How had Mort managed to get it?
Mort shoved him backwards, down the stairs, away from the throne. Behind him, through panicked tears, Gerome thought he saw the gate light up. Strange sounds pierced his consciousness. It was as if someone was trying to speak to him, but the words were being shouted from a thousand miles away.
"Wulf, Joab, sound the alarm," Mort instructed. "We're having an emergency roll call. Everyone is to report to the square out front by the top of the hour."
"Aye aye, cap'n!" Joab said with a giggle. Wulf said nothing, but grabbed both Cherche and Little Gerome, dragging them outside.
Mort pointed the blade at Gerome's chest. "Outside. Now."
"What are you...what are you going to…" Gerome mumbled, feeling numb.
"A rebellion is brewing, Brady! You know this and I know this. And I won't have it! I WON'T HAVE IT!" he screamed, truly coming unhinged. "It's time for Ylisstol to learn what happens when you disobey me! Now MOVE!"
For the second time, a supernatural force seemed to overcome Gerome, and he felt his body obey Mort's instructions without any consent from his brain. He turned and began walking outside into the dark night, the sound of the alarm ringing out over the still city.
If there were a time to think of a way out of this mess, it was now. Now or never.
He thought…
...Of nothing. No grant strategy, no daring escape. His mind was a total blank. He wasn't a hero. He was no Robin, or Chrom, or Lucina. It shouldn't have been him in this situation. It should never have been him.
And now, thanks to him, the city would soon be burning, and all his friends would be dead.
