Chapter 1: Fairytales
Every year, the forest grows a little closer to their borders.
It keeps Chrom's arms strong, and his sword swings determined. He lashes into the shadowed branches again and again, knowing that each bite from the blade is another inch of ground claimed for Ylisse. The trees crackle and groan around him, but still give way. Sometimes his blade strikes something else, and he has to roll to the side before the monsters of the wood can retaliate.
It's become second nature to lash into beast and wood alike; they're all facets of the same primordial entity that threatens to swallow his kingdom. But Falchion is equal to all of them.
The blade goes from severing woodland to cutting through a monster, sending it howling through the woods and breaking more branches in its death throes. He can hear answering snaps and clashes of steel off to his sides. A sign the others are warring against the wilds.
Each night they have their patrols, riding the wane game trails and half swallowed footpaths, trying to drive back the growth. Axes are best for the job, but sometimes the forest fights back; that's what the hunting spears and horses are best for. The whicker of the animals filters through the undergrowth; the domesticated beasts don't like this place any more than some of the soldiers do, and are eager to be back home.
"That's enough for now." Comes a voice, stilling Chrom's movements. He tries to obey, even as his body screams in protest, saying there's still more fight left in him. But Frederick's orders leave no room for argument. That much is clear when the knight rides in front of Chrom, fresh, strangely colored blood showing on his spear.
And looking around, Chrom sees signs of a fight cut short. A beast of the wilds lays half in and out of the undergrowth, still twitching. Leonine paws scratch the dirt, while a scorpion's tail writhes as life leaves the body; a new breed spat out by the forest, to try and slow them down.
And there's evidence of more twisted creatures, collapsed in the briars and bushes-
As he stares at the corpses and lets Falchion dip earthward, he catches a sight of something strange and pale moving through the woods. There's little more than a rustle of leaves and branches in its wake, and a whisper of displaced air and breath; almost like the faintest suggestion of a growl. Chrom freezes at the sight for a moment, wondering at the pale beast… And why it doesn't attack, like the others. But then the next moment, the silvery creature melts into the shadows. When he tries to find it again, his eyes tangle on strange violet flowers so vivid they almost hurt the eyes.
"Milord. We'd best be on our way. There isn't much daylight left in the sky, and the moons will be out soon." Frederick warns him, and Chrom can only nod. He turns his back on the forest with reluctance; but all around him, the others are eager enough to get back to shelter.
Every night, the shadows grow a little darker.
As he follows the troops back, Chrom scans the undergrowth and takes in the tally; they've warred with fewer beasts this time, and cut down more of the wood as a result. But for all that, he's certain they've only managed to hold the line, and reclaim a little from the last turn of the moon. Back when the beasts had been more aggressive.
Looking around, he can see more signs of monsters; slashes gouged in the trees, strange paw prints left in the dirt… And the growls and chitters filtering down through the far reaches of the forest. It reminds him that there's worse out there than what they've faced tonight. A reason to bring his blade back up-
He sees little more than a flash of shadow and silver, barreling out of the forest with an angry snarl. A flash of fangs snaps a bare inch from his face. Chrom flinches from the fangs, falling backwards and into a tangle of brambles and dirt. The jolt makes him bring the blade up, as a horse-sized wolf charges out of the forest, sinks fangs into his shoulder-
And then it breaks away with a shriek, as his blade carves out an answering wound on the creature. The fangs yank out of his skin with a burst of blood and pain, the monster flinching back into the trees.
For a moment, Chrom can only stare from his spot in the dirt.
"Milord!?" Frederick rides up to him, eyes wide in confusion.
"I-I'm alright." Chrom whispers, tracing a thumb over his wounds. That attack had come faster than any of the creatures he's faced tonight… And left deeper punctures in his skin.
"I'll be alright." He says again, pulling himself up. He spares a scowl at the forest, and the wolf that evaded his blade.
Every turn of the moon, the wolves howl a little nearer to their walls.
Chrom turns his gaze from all of the chaos and his wounds, focusing on the patches of sky overhead. The tangled branches fall away with each step and snort from the horses, showing a glimmering band of stars. It's a path in the sky, mirroring the road that takes them all home, to the welcoming glow of the castle, the city, and its myriad torches. Chrom tries to focus on that, and not on the way his wounds ache.
Every time he rides away, he leaves a little bit more of himself behind on the thorns and briars.
The wild wood demands a heavy price, for fighting it. And no matter what precautions they take, he always seems to pay that price in red flesh. It's no exaggeration to say the wilds have a taste for his blood by now. And each time, they demand a greater amount of it.
His wounds ache the entire ride back to the castle. Even when they've left the forest far behind, he can feel bits of wild and wood-borne poison still burning in his skin. His wounds take on a baleful, green glow, as the magic from the wild wars with the blessings of Naga in his blood. Chrom grits his teeth against it all, already knowing what will happen. His aches will slowly dim through the night, vanish completely at the first lights of morning, and by sundown he'll be ready for another sortie… And another audience from his father.
This is the part he enjoys the least. Stepping into a hall filled with opulence, of long twisting stonework that mimics the trees and flowers found outside… But looking somehow prouder. Chandeliers overhead mingle with mage lights and carefully sculpted flower lanterns, bathing the grand hall in a rainbow of color.
All of it is lost on his father, sitting almost like a statue in his throne, eyes cold and measuring Chrom as he makes the report.
"We've made strides today," Chrom begins. He tries not to squirm in place, knowing that he doesn't belong in this gleaming hall; not with his wounds weeping red, dirt and leaves smeared in his hair, and long rents torn into his armor and cape. He looks more like an entity of the forest, not someone who fights it. Nevertheless, he has a report to give, regardless of how many stares he draws from the court.
"I killed two monsters by my own hands. Frederick another two. Sully and her riders accounted for five, while our foot soldiers gained a full hectare." He swears that for a moment, his father looks satisfied.
"Well enough. Continue at this pace, and perhaps we can go on the offensive. For now, rest and regain your strength for the next sortie." The king makes a gesture, dismissing the troops after speaking a few faint words of praise. The other Shepherds disperse… But Chrom finds himself staying put.
"Father. In light of this I wonder if… May I see-?" He doesn't even get to finish the question. His father answers it with a curt glare.
"You should know the answer by now. You practically bleed green, after your journey into the forest. No, I won't risk my firstborn heir." Chrom ducks his head, hoping his father won't see the resentment blazing in his own eyes.
'He's right. You should know the answer. And you should know what a risk you present to Emm.'
But still, even as he turns and walks down the palace, he can't help but look out to her rooms. He hesitates for a moment too long; the runes on the doorways begin to glow red, and the light almost burns into his eyes. He turns before the wards get any worse, and remind Chrom of the taint still running fresh in his veins.
His sister carries even worse than that; she'd led the Shepherds once, against the might of the wilds. And she had paid the price, much like Chrom does now. He still remembers the day his father ordered her confined to the palace, lest the touch of the wild overwhelm her, and turn her into a woods witch.
'Small wonder you can't see her. Do YOU want to be responsible for her going mad? And besides that, when it comes to madness you're doing a good enough job of that for your entire family.'
He quickens his steps, trying to outrun his thoughts. He's not in a mood to join either Lissa in prayer and reflection, nor Sully and the others as they drink their hurts away and wait to mend. Instead, he rushes to his own rooms, all but slamming the door behind him.
There's no candlelight here; nothing but the light of Grima's moon shining through the grand window, along with the night breeze.
He's kept silent about this; that whenever Grima or Naga's baleful eyes stare down from the night sky, he can hear the cries of the forest. He tried to shut and bar his window against them, the first time it happened. And the silence was enough to drive him mad.
There's a different breed of madness curling through him now, as he takes a seat near the window and listens to the calls of the forest. Despite fighting sword and fist against the wild just candle marks ago… There's something about the rustle of leaves that soothes his nerves and smooths his temper. There's the calls of beasts as well, the bugling of the elk and call of deer the royal family once hunted, or the owl calls. It all forms a strange music, equal to any court minstrel.
He wonders if Emm listens to this call as well…
…Or if she hears the new cry that builds up from the trees. It's a long, undulating call, a mix between song and mournful, almost human wail… And the long howl of a beast.
'Gods, that's a wolf!' His thoughts finally catch up and scream at him, jolting Chrom from the cry's spell. Something digs into his gut, and he looks down to see the window pressed against him, his body half out of the opening. The roof and courtyard stretches before him, both looking unforgiving if he opts to fall completely.
Chrom winces back, slamming the windows shut in the process. The cry cuts out, replaced by that maddening silence… But he can't bring himself to open the glass again. A chill creeps over his skin and soaks him with sweat, and he can only shake his head, wondering at what came over him.
-o-o-o-
Every night, she fights her own battle.
It's a struggle each time the sun sinks past the trees and the shadows grow long; the fading light sends changes through her body. Even now, with the moons rising like twin eyes, each half lidded, above the forest, left over crackles of pain and tension fire through her muscles. It makes all her fur bristle, and her lips curl back to show freshly grown fangs.
Every sundown brings a fever, a rage, and a snapping to her bones.
Her form can never seem to decide what it wants to be; wolf, or something else. Depending on the phase of the moon, it veers closer to one or the other, but seldom able to change over completely. It's been like that more and more often now; as another wound gets cut into the forest, she feels that same hurt, and it makes her shapes bleed together. And her thoughts feel that same blurring.
Every night, the brand on her hand and paw burns a little more brightly.
When she's in this wilder shape it's hard to remember life spent on two limbs, instead of four; like she's recalling the details of a murky, feverish dream. And worse is the hurt along her flesh; the bite from the sword still burns near her heart, each beat sending a little more fire into her blood.
She watches the intruders and their castle, from her spot on the hill. The castle is strange in her new eyes, too many straight lines and bright, burning lights.
A part of her wants to hate it; just like a part of her wanted to sink her fangs into the intruders of her forest and soak the earth with their blood. Starting with the wretched prince and his sword-
But then, she remembers how she'd stopped short, both by the blade and a strange hesitation. Something that kept her from seeking either heart or throat's full blood, even though she had both in her grasp. The remnants of some other shape, trying to linger in her brain. It all conspires against her, and makes it so she doesn't wish drench her fangs in red tonight… Even with a rage and a hunger churning through her guts, and trying to sink its own teeth into her.
Every night, it gets harder to ignore the bloodlust burning in her brain.
But she's found one way around it. One thing that keeps her half-tame, even when her shape grows savage.
She might be compelled into this shape by the light of the moon… But she refuses to act on it, no matter how savage it might be, or how it tries to twist her thoughts. So instead she raises her head to the stars, closes her eyes, and opens her jaws. She can feel her long fangs almost bite at the night air… But instead of sinking them into flesh, she calls.
She can only howl, all her words stolen from her; but even with that loss, it's better to sing, let her voice carry to the walls.
And perhaps it will reach the intruder from before. The same one who drove her off with the blade.
'But isn't he your enemy?' Her thoughts growl at her. There's still a rage lurking in her heart… But now that the humans have retreated, the worst of it has faded away.
When she first saw them, it had been in a different shape; something close to their own forms. Maybe that's why she'd only waited and watched, wondering at why they fought so wildly against the forest. They seemed almost… Afraid of this place. Of her home.
Maybe that was also why she hid; because she had her own fears, that they'd lash out at her.
'And if they had,' a calmer voice in her head provided. 'You wouldn't have been able to hold back. You'd have laid into them with tooth and claw. They offer no mercy, so why should you provide the same?'
She flexes long claws at the ends of her paws, her tail flicking back and forth with a restless energy. If she doesn't want to make war on the humans, then she should at least be hunting. Slaking her bloodlust elsewhere… And yet even that thought can't drive her from her place on the hill, or from her song.
A swarm of crows clouds the skies, wings flickering like a thousand black leaves. One of them alights near her, fearless of her claws or her teeth, or even the way she breaks off her howls to growl at it.
"I can fly faster than you can snap, you know." The crow quorks at her. The crow-speech is odd to her ears, and it's only thanks to the wild magic of the forest that she can understand. "Besides, why'd you want to eat a little bird like me?"
She has to agree with that; more than anything she'd prefer rich, red meat, or…
"So why didn't you eat those humans, anyway? You had plenty of chances." The crow continued, tilting its head and regarding her with one bright eye. She can only shake her head at that, her ears snapping back and forth. There were plenty of reasons; their numbers, the bright fang their leader had wielded…
…And then, there was the fact that watching him stirred something strange in her head. Something that has been half forgotten. And she knows that if she devoured him, her chances of remembering would be gone as well.
But she doubts the crow would understand any of that. For all that they know how to laugh and cultivate a strange sense of humor, there's some concepts that crows don't grasp. She can barely grasp them herself.
Instead, she's only filled with one thought; wondering when she might meet the human again. And hoping that she can again keep her fangs from finding his throat.
-o-o-o-
Chrom dreams of a singer in the woods, and a shining city at her back, growing up from the trees and looking like it's been carved from moonlight. There's something oddly alluring about that cry, even though the singer seems blind to him. Her eyes stare through him… But if her gaze doesn't reach him, then her voice certainly does.
It's a strange song; fair as the young woman looks, there's something of a howl to her song. Something neither fully human nor beast… And yet he can't close his ears to it, or turn from the singer.
Her hand is blindly reaching out, searching the same way her voice is. She's blinded and lost, looking for something, or someone. Chrom catches her hand in his own… And feels claws brush against his skin.
And something else rests on his shoulder, with a far harsher grip than the girl's long talons. The hand on his shoulder shakes him back and forth-
Until at last he wakes up.
His father stands over him, and Chrom is abruptly aware of how his skin writhes and itches under the man's gaze. He's ready to blame any leftover dirt and leaves sticking to his skin, only to see that his flesh is clean. And yet still, he feels ready to squirm out of it.
The harsh look of his father doesn't help either, and his hand still grips Chrom by the shoulder.
"The forest has its claws in you. Worse than I thought." His father says, voice carefully drained of pity, sympathy, or even hate. Chrom can only stare at him in confusion.
"Father, I don't think falling asleep at the window is cause for alarm," and he hopes his father doesn't know the rest of the story, how he still feels drawn to the call of the forest. He holds up his arms as proof; the wounds have already healed up, the strange glow banished from his skin-
A bolt of pain travels along his chest, as he moves his arms. It radiates out from his heart. Right where the white and shadow beast had torn a wound into his skin… And it still hasn't healed. His father looks at the cut with such a snarl of disapproval, before turning his back on Chrom and stalking back to the doors. Before Chrom can even speak, the doors slam shut, and he can hear the click of a lock.
He's kept confined in his rooms until sundown… And if Chrom thought he knew madness before, this sorely tests that belief. Watching the sun crawl its way across the sky, seeing the forest sway in the wind but being unable to act against it is all taxing… And especially when the sky grows crimson and the shadows turn long. That's the worst part for Chrom. Knowing that by all rights, he should be facing down the wilds with his sword right now, not left confined to his rooms.
The blade still rests at his side; his father hasn't deprived Chrom of the sword yet. That in turn gives him a wane bit of hope; maybe his father is consulting with Emm, or Lissa, or any number of the priests and healers in the castle. Perhaps they're busy with a counter spell, and a way for him to heal-
…And his heart only sinks when the door opens, and Frederick stands on the other side. No one else accompanies the knight.
"So it's true; the forest left its mark on you." Frederick says, grief shadowing his eyes; like he's already lost Chrom. And Chrom wonders if he's about to become like his sister, a prisoner in the palace. The sorrowful look from Frederick doesn't help with that… And the knight also doesn't budge from his spot in the doorway, barring Chrom's path when he tries to step past.
"Frederick… Let me go." His words don't move the knight either.
"I have my orders, your grace." Frederick says, and those orders seem to weigh down on him more than his own armor. "You're to remain in your quarters until your father decides otherwise."
He gets no room to argue; no chance to even force his way out. Frederick puts a hand on his chest when Chrom tries to bull his way through… Dangerously close to where the monster bit into him. He winces from the contact… And even feels a snarl build across his face.
Frederick doesn't shy from his reaction, only glowering at Chrom in a way that matches his father… And Chrom knows he hasn't done much to convince the knight that he can be trusted. Frederick pushes back on Chrom, sending him stumbling backwards.
"The king will see you this evening, to relieve you of both your post, and Falchion."
And Chrom can't bring himself to pound or test the door, after that rejection.
His quarters have never felt like a prison before; or like he's going to suffocate inside the walls. By the time the sun dips low, he's about ready to climb the walls or claw his way out of his skin… And when the forest begins its nightly call, he throws the window open and lets it wash over him.
This time, the howl takes its time to work up, and sounds more like a wolf's cry than before. But however much it has changed, it still gives him a strange, mad strength. The ache of wound in his chest fades away from the long notes and mournful call.
And some of his own panic fades away, when he picks out a hurt quality to the voice. It echoes the ache in his own heart. Chrom leans forward, trying to better hear the voice and figure out why it carries such sorrow-
But that concern vanishes, as the window vanishes beneath him, and he leans too far from the wall. He overbalances, and the wind whistles past his head, taking the place of the howl. He plunges like a stone, heavy limbed one second… And the next second, his muscles snap into action. He curls, hitting the palace roof in a crouch. The impact rocks through him as tiles crackle and crunch beneath his weight, but the sensations only spur him on.
He finds himself scrabbling his way across the roof tiles, straining towards the forest, intent on the calls… And heedless of the shouts beneath him, as eyes pick him out and realize what the once-prince is doing. He can barely make out figures in the courtyard, pointing at him, screaming at him to stop.
And ordering he goes back to being a prisoner. He's not about to comply, not even when they loose arrows to try and stop him. The points nick his boots and hands, but he manages to weave past the shots, and keep running for the wall.
"MILORD!" That voice belongs to Frederick, making one last desperate attempt to stop him… But then, he's over the palace wall, running swift as a horse through the streets and towards the woods.
Whatever is waiting for him the forest, he doesn't know… But it's better than going mad in a stone prison. That pained note of the call drives him onward; he might be a fool for thinking so, but maybe he can help the caller.
It's better than doing nothing, even if he risks losing himself to the forest.
And every heartbeat, he feels himself grow a little more wild.