The desert is scorching hot. The sun hits the sand and everything else, burning it white hot. There are a few ruins scattered about, lost stone blocks within a sea of yellow. The sky is blue, not even a hint of a cloud covering the sun. The sun beats down on a lone traveller, who has long since abandoned his heavy coat. His boots sink into the sand, making it even harder to walk, taking twice as long. He wipes the sweat off his brow for the umpteenth time that day. The sun continues its relentless assault.
The Plegian capital is dead ahead, but for Morgan, making the rest of the journey is almost too much. He already has what he's going to say planned out completely in his head. Executing his plan is another thing, however. The stone towers marking the gate of entrance to the city breaks over the horizon, and he pushes forward, towards his end goal. He thanks his lucky stars that aside from his blue hair, he looks quite Plegian, even though he takes physically after his father more. His skin tone and facial structure give him away, and now he's grown, he's managed to lose the baby fat that lay on his face before.
"Halt!" A guard cries, and Morgan stops dead in his tracks, mere metres from the entrance to the city. He winces- so close, yet so far. "What's your business, traveller?"
"I'm here to see Campari. I have a query with him about the lineage of the Plegian throne," he says, mustering up as much confidence as he can.
"Campari won't listen to a child!" The guard scoffs. "He knows he's not the rightful heir to the throne, but since she won't come, he's assumed the role. If you want to know more, read a history book!"
"I have," Morgan counters, cold, calculated. "And I know that I'm the rightful king of Plegia. Let me in to see Campari."
"Hey!" The guard calls, alerting the guard atop the other stone pillar. The other jumps to attention, blinking ferociously against the sun shining into his eyes. "This kid says he's the king of Plegia by birth!"
"Did Validar have another kid? It's possible- he looks old enough to be our Lord's offspring."
"If you'd let me in, I can explain to Campari personally," Morgan offers, quickly losing his patience.
"Oh, we'll let you in. But you're going to prison! There's no way we're letting a blasphemer wander the streets of our good city!"
"No, wait, I can explain!" Morgan exclaims, taking a tentative step backwards, his hand flying to the tome in his back as an automatic form of defence. The guard who originally spoke to him hops down from the tower, and grabs him, tossing the tome to the side.
"See, he's attacking us! Open the gate," he signals to his friend, and Morgan is lead into the busy streets of Plegia.
The castle is very different to the one Morgan had gotten used to back in Ylisse. It had been a couple of weeks since he was there, but the long carpeted hallways and the smiling faces of the servants still stick in his mind. He assumes, however, that the dungeon he was now in bears some resemblance to the one in Ylisstol. The bars of his cell were beginning to rust, and he glares at the inmate next to him- who had clearly seen better days. On his left was a stone wall, which he backs up against.
"What're ye in here for?" The criminal on his right leers, and Morgan wavers, before deciding he may as well come clean.
"Blasphemy, apparently," he shrugs. It isn't really blasphemy, when he isn't claiming to have any connection to either Grima or Naga. In truth he has connections with both gods, but he isn't about to open his mouth and mention that to anyone. Truthfully it was treason, but again- when you're technically third in line and your mother and elder sister have no interest, is it really treason?
"That's a crime and a half," the thief, as he later admits, mentions, raising an eyebrow, impressed. "You'll be executed for that. Stoning, I believe."
"I won't be."
"Oh, ye will. No trial or nothing."
"I will convince them. I have a letter in my coat- I'm sure they've found it."
A clanking of armour makes the thief scoot back into the furthest corner of his own cell, which Morgan is eternally glad of. The stench of the man, who had clearly been in here for a good while, was beginning to get to him, despite their conversation only being short. The guard who had brought him in comes into the room, followed by a prison guard, followed by Aversa, followed by Campari. Aversa peers through the bars at Morgan, who does everything in his power to keep his face neutral.
"Gods, he looks like Chrom," she spits.
"This is the boy!" The guard says. "Appeared at the height of midday, sweat pouring off him, claiming to be the king of Plegia!"
He is dismissed with a wave of Campari's hand. Morgan notices the lack of a crown on his head, and remembers what he'd heard before- Campari was an unwilling king, elected by the people in place of Validar. The previous king was too extreme in his ways- the Grimleal were the ones that brought the throne back to him, not the people. Morgan glances towards the prison guard, who holds his cloak.
"We found this letter within his belongings, sire," he says, handing the thin envelope over to Campari. Aversa sneers at it on it's way past her face. Campari turns the envelope over, and upon seeing the wax holding it closed, he gasps.
"This is the seal of the House of Ylisse!" He exclaims in wonder, tearing the letter open. There's an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes while he reads it, Aversa peering over his shoulder. "By the gods. A time traveller! But… you look like Chrom, with the skin of the queen and demeanor to match hers. It must be true! And of course, this letter verifies it!"
"There is no way we're letting this mongrel run our country!" Aversa yells, her outrage clear. "We need more proof than a letter about time travel from my dearest sister! He could've made all this up!"
"So you're saying that the version of yourself in this timeline is the baby Robin just had, the one that lies asleep in Ylisse's palace?" Campari presses, ignoring Aversa's outburst.
"Yes, sir," Morgan speaks, for the first time. His voice is calm and leveled. He is trying his best to be respectful, yet his glares towards Aversa make her almost boil over.
"I recognise him!" She claims. "He fought beside them in the war."
"You're only giving him more proof, milady," the prison guard mumbles.
"Silence, fool!" She says, pointing a long nail directly towards his neck. "I say we just kill him. What good is he going to do? Raised a Ylissian. He knows nothing of Plegian ways!"
"I've been living in Plegia for three years," Morgan admits. "In a town near to where the old kingdom of Altea lay. I don't claim knowledge of your religion-"
"Grima is dead anyway. What can the Grimleal do?" Campari says.
"Plenty," Aversa laughs. "You forget, dear sir, that the Grimleal make up most of the population! Even those who worship him but don't want to become part of the sect would sneer at this child."
"I have the Mark," Morgan says suddenly, and Aversa stops in her tracks.
"What did you say?"
"I have the Mark," he repeats, slower, more deliberate.
"Nonsense."
"It's true."
"What Mark?" Campari asks, thrown by Morgan's sudden admission.
"He surely means the Mark of Grima. Impossible. Our lord Grima is dead, and so any trace of him should have vanished along with his remains!"
"Mother thought so too," Morgan pipes up. "She had the Mark, and it's gone now. When she returned after defeating him, after a long two years, it was gone. No trace remains."
"She probably still has that awful gaudy tattoo, though. She was such a devoted Grimleal until father noticed her mark… then she ran."
"I didn't know that…"
"She probably doesn't remember," Aversa says flippantly. "Now, where is your mark, if what you claim is true?"
Morgan sits on the small stool in his cell, and reaches down to unbuckle one boot. He pulls it off, and then the sock he wears as well. Aversa visibly flinches when she sees the mark, bright purple against Morgan's tanned skin. It's six eyes stare up at Morgan, and he pulls his sock and boot on quickly, not wanting to stare at this mark of shame any longer.
"The Grimleal will love him," Aversa says, her voice filled with awe.
"Are you against him any longer?" Campari asks, although from the look in her eyes, he knows there isn't much point in asking.
"No. This child- he is the herald. The chosen one. A rightful king, and a vessel for our lord Grima. All hail King Morgan," she drawls.
The prison guard unlocks Morgan's cell. Aversa reaches in and grabs him by the arm. His cloak is thrown around his shoulders, and he is pushed through to the main hall of the castle. From there, he is led into the throne room, and now he has time to put his arms into his cloak. Campari gestures towards the throne, and he sits tentatively. Aversa bows deeply, and places the crown, sitting beside the royal chair, on top of his head.
"Long live the king."
"Long live the king!"
"Long live the king," she whispers, and although he's where he wanted to be, Morgan can't help but feel an immense amount of pressure.
Chrom takes Morgan from Robin one afternoon, allowing her a few hours of peace. She decides to spend it with Maribelle over a cup of tea. Maribelle insists on bringing out her finest china and fanciest tea bags. The dining room is quiet at this time of the afternoon, with only the odd maid wandering in to check that there was enough plates set out for dinner or that the tablecloth was properly pressed.
"There's been tension within the city lately," Maribelle divulges. "Suspicions about you, in fact. Gaius told me he overheard whisperings of an anti Plegia movement."
"I'm not the hugest fan of Plegia myself. Why would my birthplace matter? I've been living here for many years- I'm married to their Exalt!" Robin says bitterly, sipping on her tea.
"An anti Plegian movement," Maribelle reiterates. "Your husband started some accidental scaremongering with his panic after you returned from Plegia. That started a chain reaction- those in the streets are fearful now too."
"There are Plegians living here that have been here since the end of the war with Gangrel. There's people living here that were here long before that too. Why now?"
"You better have a word with Chrom."
"This conversation is getting awfully political," Robin says, grabbing another biscuit from the plate and dunking it in her tea, to which Maribelle turns up her nose. "I thought we were supposed to be relaxing," she manages through a mouthful of biscuit.
"And I though you were supposed to be a lady," Maribelle shudders. "Either way, Robin, this is important. As queen, you need to have a good understanding of what's happening outside the palace walls."
"I'm on maternity leave," Robin points out, infuriating the troubadour even further.
"You do not get maternity leave from being a queen!" Maribelle exclaims, and upon seeing Robin's smirk, quickly calms down. "I know Chrom doesn't really expect you to do much, but once your children are older you will be expected to take on a more political role, a more prominent role."
"Morgan is barely two months old. I don't need to worry just yet."
"Perhaps not about that, but I do have some more unsettling news for you. You know those assassins we captured all that time ago?"
"That was a long time ago. Are they even relevant any more? I mean, there haven't been any similar attacks since."
"We're worried, considering the things that Gaius has heard in the city. And he's not the only one- Panne and Miriel also heard of these goings on. Anyway, as I was saying, those people had no connection to the Plegians as we originally thought. The confessed yesterday evening, and have been put away in jail properly, where they belong. They too are part of this movement against Plegians." Maribelle bites her lip, as if she wasn't willing to share this information with Robin.
"Oh," Robin's voice is quiet now. She thought that originally, her crime was just being queen. That someone hated her because of her disappearance and reappearance, someone hated Chrom, perhaps. In fact, for a long time, she was convinced the assassination was for Chrom, not her. What had she done? But now she finds out that they hate her because of her race- and what was she supposed to do about that?
"Robin?" Maribelle asks quietly.
"I want to find Chrom. Come with me and look after Morgan and Lucina for a while," Robin says suddenly, jumping to her feet.
"Whatever you wish, my lady."
They find him all too easily- sitting in his favourite spot under a magnolia tree. Lucina rolls about on the grass, and Robin is all too thankful the little princess is wearing a dark dress today. Chrom rocks Morgan, asleep, in his arms, peering over the blanket into his son's face. It's probably too warm for the blanket, but Robin doesn't say anything about this as she approaches.
"I thought you were having a day off from minding the kids?" Chrom asks, looking up at her. She reaches her arms out silently, and he passes Morgan across to her. Without even looking at her child she hands him over to Maribelle, who calls Lucina to her side.
"Maribelle will look after them for a while for us," she can barely control the sadness within her voice, and Lucina glances over at her mother, worry clearly expressed on her face. With that, the blonde woman escorts Lucina away, whispering kind words to her as she backs away.
"What's wrong, dear?" Chrom asks as Robin flops down on the grass beside him.
"I'm just not having a good day," she mumbles, resting her head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer to his chest.
"I thought it was something I did. You seemed really angry."
"I wouldn't come to you for comfort if I was annoyed at you, would I?" Robin counteracts. "No, no. I just didn't want to cry in front of the kids. Or Maribelle, for that."
"Care to share your problems with a caring ear?" Chrom offers, entwining his fingers in her hair absentmindedly.
"You probably already know about the anti Plegians that are gathering in town."
"I didn't want to alarm you," he says softly.
"Well, that's what upset me. I can't- I mean- I've done nothing! Nothing! Why do they hate me because I'm from a different country?" Tears well up in Robin's eyes and spill over, and Chrom can do nothing but tighten his grip around her and place a kiss on her forehead.
"This is my fault. I accidentally started this. I didn't mean all Plegians- of course not! I meant Aversa, and Campari, those in charge. They wanted to steal our child to put on their throne- how else was I supposed to react?"
"I know, I know. I don't blame you. Your words have been misinterpreted. I just… they hate me because I'm an immigrant!" She spits the word out like it's poison, not wanting to keep it inside any longer. "As if I even have memories of Plegia from when I was a child," she grumbles.
"I will fix this, Robin. Trust in me. Please? Even after what I've done. I know I don't deserve your love after I was accidentally the cause of a movement against you and your people-" She worms her way out of his grip, and takes his face within her hands, staring him dead in the eyes.
"Chrom," she manages, through tears. "This was not your fault. The people in the streets have been listening wrong. And there's been hate for our neighbours forever- if anything, this is the fault of your ancestors, and theirs. But let's not place blame. Let's just… forget about it for now. I want to spend the rest of my afternoon off with you, and not think about the fact that I was almost assassinated a year ago."
"Has it really been that long?"
"Almost. Just eleven months."
"Gods. I can't believe you've been back that long. It feels like forever that we found you in that field. And then you had no memory…"
"Not the time to reminisce, love. We need to live in the present. Too much has happened in our pasts to think about all that."
"We can remember happy memories, though. Remember our wedding day?" Chrom says, leaning in close to her. She lets go of his face finally, and he falls back on the grass. She laughs, any trace of tears negated with the bright sound of her laugh.
"How could I forget? Everyone was there. Frederick was your best man."
"Ah, Frederick. I do miss him."
"Of course. I do too. I still find myself wondering where he is."
"Same with me. But then the realisation hits me, and I have to ground myself again." His voice wavers ever so slightly, and she places a hand on top of his. "You looked radiant in your wedding dress. You look beautiful every day," he comments, and Robin blushes, as if he was talking when they first met.
"Stop that."
"What, telling the truth? I don't think that'd make me a great leader."
"You can be a great leader and not shower me with compliments at every passing moments," she rebuts.
"But you're my wife, and I love you, so I will anyway." This time when he leans in close, Robin is the one that closes the small amount of space between them; her mouth easily finding it's way to his. "Like I said, I love you," he says when they break apart, a smile plastered on his face.
"Sire!" A voice calls, and the rustling of grass makes Robin back away from Chrom a little, their fingers still entwined. A guard stands a few metres ahead of them, out of breath, clearly running frantically. "Milady," he regards, and Robin inclines her head to him.
"Peace, soldier," Chrom says, holding up a hand. "What's the matter?"
"Fires in the city! Many a fire, buildings going up in flames! The fire brigade has been called, sire!"
"What do you mean fires? Arson or accidental?" Chrom says, pushing himself to his feet. Robin follows suit, worry evident on her face.
"Arson I would reckon, sir. Doesn't look like no accident to me. There are people on the street; they're burning flags!"
"What flags?" Robin asks quickly, before Chrom has a chance to think of a response.
"Black. With a purple symbol, like milady had on her hand before."
"No," Robin whispers, her eyes wide with fear.
"Alert the shepherds, and have Sumia and Lissa get down here with their bags and Robin's packed. Get Maribelle to bring Lucina and Morgan back. Arm the castle," Chrom lists off, and the guard nods quickly, before turning back towards the castle and taking off at a breakneck pace.
"This can't happen. What have we done to deserve this?"
"You have done nothing to deserve riots in your name," Chrom reassures. "If I hear anyone speak directly against you, I will have them executed for treason-"
"Chrom!"
"No. You have to go. I'm getting Sumia and Lissa to take you to the safe house. Where we tried to bring Emmeryn all that time ago."
"She ended up kidnapped in Plegia! I…" Robin wavers.
"Go, Robin."
"What about you?"
"I will stay here and defend Ylisstol. I have some strong mages on my side, and Vaike and Panne I'm sure will help. Perhaps if things get really out of hand we can call a favour…"
"What are you talking about?"
"It doesn't matter currently. But you have to go."
"But-"
"Robin!" He grabs her arms, holding her away from him. Then, in one fluid movement, he pulls her in, into a tight embrace. "This is for your own good. Now, go!"
A/N: Slightly early update since Pokemon comes out for me tomorrow and I want a day to play it uninterrupted ;; also, this was all planned out before Brexit and Trump and all, so I think the immigration theme is quite fitting (unintenionally so) at this time in our history.