Birth and Re-Death
Chapter 37: Rated M for Milf
I close my tome, trying not to look at the dead Captain Venir on the floor for longer than it takes to confirm he's not getting up. Even for someone as cowardly and detestable as this guy, I don't take any satisfaction from the corpse in front of me. Necessary, maybe, but definitely unpleasant.
"Let's make sure things are going alright outside. Llewelyn and Henry may need our help," I say. Before heading for the door, I stoop down to take the captain's sword off the ground. The others follow me back out of the room.
As we leave the command center that overlooks the town of Granite Hill, it's apparent that the battle is still raging. Red-clad Plegian soldiers find themselves usually outnumbered by the combination of Patriots and local townsfolk that have been inspired to join the fight. The only pockets of real competition are the places where Plegians have managed to band together and fight in small groups rather than by their lonesome. For such groups, Llewelyn, Henry, and the other mages act as disrupters, slinging spells and forcing the Plegians to either tank magical hits or dodge away from their comrades.
In short, the battle is definitely going our way. It's evident that Venir was never much of a commander.
From the top of the hill for which the town was named, I hold Venir's sword aloft, hoping it's at least somewhat visible in the rapidly waning sunlight. As loudly as I can manage, I shout over the din of the battle, "CAPTAIN VENIR IS DEAD! LET'S WRAP IT UP, PATRIOTS!"
While I'm sure a good number of the fighters didn't hear me, at least some of them did, as a cheer sounds out in response to my call. At the same time, Plegian soldiers start to do their best to disengage from the fight and flee for the outskirts of town. Once some of the soldiers start seeing their comrades bail, it creates a sort of chain reaction, and before long, all the remaining Plegians have either fled or surrendered. The day is won.
A roar of victory sounds out through the town as the last of the Plegians go down. Patriots and townsfolk alike start gathering around the command center at the top of the hill. I look for Vasto so he can give our next orders, but he's still flying around the perimeter of the town, harassing the fleeing soldiers to make sure they stay gone. I look to the others to see if anyone is willing to speak on his behalf, but they all shrug or shake their heads. I guess it's up to me to take things from here.
"Citizens of Granite Hill! The Plegian occupiers have been eliminated from your town!" I announce. The crowd cries in assent. "However! There is more work to be done, and it is on all of us. We who came to this town to start the battle are known as the Patriots. It's possible some of you are familiar with us. What you may not know is this: we are not liberators. We are here to show you that you can liberate yourselves, and tonight you proved it. Starting today, should you choose to keep that liberty in your hearts, you too will be Patriots. A Patriot is someone who stands up to tyranny in all forms, and protects their homes and families at all costs. There can be no doubt you are all worthy of this title. Now the only question remaining is, are you prepared to take up the mantle?" I shout my last question with the captain's sword raised above my head. "Are you Patriots?"
The crowd cheers in response. And just like that, we have another town supporting us. Aventine has been getting bold ever since I started going on these missions. In what feels like no time at all, we've moved from quiet assassinations to invasions and recruiting entire cities. Granted, they don't really know what the true goal of the Patriots is, or what it would involve, but we've certainly gained favor in their eyes after this.
I don't know how to feel as I stand before the cheering crowd. Was this victory won for the right side? I certainly feel like what we did was good, but I also know where this momentum is going, which has me a lot less sure of it all.
I suppose there's nothing for it. The job isn't done yet anyway. There will be more to do before we leave the town, like helping the townsfolk set up defenses and such. I can worry about the ethics of it later.
Donnel wipes his brow. Despite the chill in the air, he's worked himself into a sweat. For the young juggernaut, it's been a while since he's been this worn out. But an entire day of planting and cultivating will do that.
Not that he hasn't done an incredible amount of work. Even the humble farmer is forced to pat himself on the back when he surveys the amount that he got done today. Combined with the efforts of the local farmers and the other Feroxi that could be spared for the job, a promising amount of seeds are now in the ground. The question now is whether Robin and Miriel's experiment will work.
And here they come now, walking down the irrigation path that Kellam and his division of laborers have been hard at work getting ready to supply the crops with water from the lake. Because the ice has grown thick atop the lake's surface, it involved some magical effort to break through and obtain the water beneath it. Now, though, he can see the water traveling down the narrow irrigation canals, spreading out among the seeds. It's a strange sight for him when juxtaposed against the snow and frost all around him, but it's hardly the most outlandish thing he's seen since he left the farm.
"Looks like the planting is coming along as well," Robin says with satisfaction as she approaches. "Good work."
"Thanks for sayin' so, Robin. We just got the last of em in, as a matter o' fact. Long as the water in these here canals doesn't freeze up, I s'pose we might have a crop before too long," Donnel replies.
Robin nods. "Excellent. As for the water freezing, ideally we won't have that issue. Based on the tests Miriel and I have been running, we think that shouldn't be a problem thanks to the vulnerary. In addition to providing extra nutrients to the plants themselves through its healing factor, adding vulnerary to the irrigation supply should also have the effect of preventing the water from freezing, since vulneraries themselves can't be frozen. This was an excellent idea on Miriel and Kellam's part." Miriel looks quite pleased with herself standing next to her smiling giant of a fiancé, who Donnel just now notices was walking with the women.
"I'll say!" Donnel says. "I'd never have thought of somethin' like this, that's for sure."
"The only issue left is keeping our supply of vulnerary up. Anna has put the word out in hopes of getting in touch with her sisters on the roads, but it's likely the rest of the Anna clan has left the country or is otherwise laying low for now. We might be strapped for healing supplies quite soon." Robin looks more like she's talking to herself than to Donnel at this point. She shakes her head to clear her mind of distractions. "Anyway, I'm going back to the south side of the city to report our progress to Chrom and arrange to move the rest of our vulnerary stockpile here. I want you and Kellam here keeping a constant eye on the crops, alright?"
"You betcha!" Donnel exclaims, stopping just short of saluting to her as she walks away.
Donnel feels a hand on his shoulder. "Good job, Donnel. I'm impressed you got as much done as you did, even with all these folks helping. If these crops hold up, our food worries could be cut in half or better," Kellam says.
"Well good work yourself, Kellam. Punching through that ice couldn't've been easy, not to mention digging all these canals. We make a pretty good team when the Shepherds are counting on us, huh?" Donnel replies.
"Well, getting through the ice was mostly Miriel," Kellam says, placing an arm around his fiancée's shoulder and enveloping most of her in the process. Because he is currently wearing standard farming clothes as opposed to full armor, she wriggles snugly against the warm fabric, clearly pleased to be warmed up.
The sight prompts the young farmer to ask about the bride and groom-to-be. "So when are y'all lookin' to tie the knot, anyhow?" Donnel asks.
"We've been discussing it lately. To tell the truth, we have… differing opinions on the subject," Kellam replies. "Miriel is of the opinion that we should have the ceremony as soon as we've retaken the capital. In the midst of regrouping, just carve out an afternoon and have it done. I'm more of the mind that we should wait until the war is over completely, rather than having our wedding tinged with the knowledge that we have to go back to war as soon as the ceremony is over."
"To which I reply that we have no guarantee that both of us will survive the whole of the war, and I wish to secure my marriage to you as soon as I can to avoid any potential catastrophe between now and the ceremony that could preclude us ever being wed," Miriel interjects.
"And to which I reply that I don't even want to consider such a possibility. I want our wedding to be a day free of worry and stress about all the horrible fighting still ahead of us." Kellam sighs. "Anyway, that's where we are on this question now."
Donnel whistles a low, sympathetic whistle. "That's a toughie. Ya both have good points."
"Thankfully, Libra has agreed to perform the ceremony regardless of when we decide to do it," Kellam says, clearly eager to shift the subject. "One thing less to worry about, which gods know we could all use a lot more of lately."
Donnel laughs. "No kidding. That man is always so calm. He might not look it, but he's rock-steady. And he could even teach me a thing or two about hefting axes around, and I'm no stranger to chopping wood myself."
"I wonder what kind of guy he is behind the serene exterior. What's he like when he gets angry?"
"Shoot, I almost can't imagine it. Anyway, let's give everything one last look, make sure the seeds are in place and the water's gettin' to em."
"Right. Miriel, you don't need to hang around for this, it'll be tedious. I'm sure you've got things you'd rather be reading about right now," Kellam says.
"You're correct. I will see you later, Kellam," Miriel replies, then stands on her toes to give his cheek a peck before leaving to return to the eastern command.
As she walks away, Donnel remarks, "You're a lucky guy, Kellam."
Kellam smiles. "I sure am. I still can't quite believe it sometimes, to be honest. To go from just about no one being able to recognize when I'm right beside them to this, it's amazing. I think, or maybe it's just hope, that she's helping me to have more of a presence in general, not just to her."
"Well, I can see you standing there, if that means anythin'," Donnel replies.
"That's the key, I think. Find someone who doesn't just like you for who you are now, but who loves you enough to push you to be a better version of yourself than you were. Or something like that. Listen to me saying something so profound, like I know what I'm talking about." Kellam laughs guiltily.
"Nah, I think you got the right of it, Kellam. And I think you got as much right to give your thoughts on it as anyone, considerin' you're the only one of us who's actually engaged. Ya must've done somethin' right."
"Well, when you put it like that, I guess you've got a point." Kellam nudges Donnel with a smirk. "And what about you, Donnel? Got your eye on anyone?"
"What? Naw, that wouldn't be me. All these amazin' Shepherds, going on their savin' the country business. And I'm just here makin' sure they get fed." Donnel gazes at the freshly planted fields. "To tell it like it is, I felt more in my place today, spreadin' seeds and all, than I have in months. Bein' a hero is worthwhile stuff, sure, but even now, I don't know if it's… me. Certainly wouldn't be my place to go chasin' after one of the ladies that make for better heroes than I ever will."
"But I've heard you're getting incredible at combat. Surely you're becoming a hero in your own right," Kellam replies.
"Oh, maybe. I'm gettin' good at the actual doin' it, but I don't know if I… feel it. I just do what Cordelia tells me, and get better at fightin'. But folks like her, or Chrom, or Robin, they look like they're at home on a battlefield. I dunno if that'll ever be me."
Kellam considers for a moment before responding. "I think that might be a good thing, Donnel," he says at last, surveying the fields with his young friend.
I never thought I'd be saying this, even to myself, but life at Themis is starting to grow on me, in its way.
Firstly, and probably most importantly, the circle of people I actually trust here is starting to grow. The guys that I've come to think of as the founding members of the Patriots – Pike, Eileen, Trevor, and Llewelyn – have been spreading the name to the rest of the group, and the name has been catching on. I haven't heard any of what I've learned to call the Second Floor members using it, but that's fine for now.
That's one thing that kind of raised a few red flags for me, actually. Despite ostensibly being a republican movement designed to empower everyone from both countries, the leaders of the movement itself don't often make time to interact with the people that make up their revolution. Their orders come from on high, literally, with Vasto and more recently me being the ones who bring those orders down to the first floor members. On paper it makes sense; armies need their generals and revolutions need their organizers. But the way the folks down here talk about them, there's definitely a widespread sentiment that the Second Floor members aren't making enough effort to engage with their base.
And who could blame them? Vasto's a cactus of a human that prefers spending his time with Kinba alone if he can help it. Hadrian is a rich fop who doesn't know how to carry on a conversation with anyone below his paygrade for more than a minute or so. And finally, Aventine is so absorbed in his planning that he hardly ever emerges from that poorly-lit office of his. Come to think of it, he reminds me of another tactician I know with a similar problem, except I'm much less inclined to drag this one out of his shell.
Oh, and Octavia too, though I don't know if I'd even really count her as being a member of the Patriots in any case. She rarely comes out of her room except for mealtimes (at least I assume she's in her room; I don't see her anywhere else).
Anyway, the point is that these folks up top are having trouble keeping their finger on the pulse of their own movement. On the other hand, I'd say I have almost no problem hanging around the folks on the first floor. It's still a little discouraging to hear when they start trash talking the Shepherds or the Exalted family, but I try to keep in mind that their history with these groups is both longer and different from mine. They might be wrong about how badly the Shepherds are going to be needed in the near future, but there's no way to explain that to them believably, so I just have to let their words roll off my back. Other than that, though, they're a great group. They're the type of folks you'd get a few drinks with after a long day on the job, which is exactly what we do on a regular basis.
Most of the jobs I get sent on aren't as glamorous as the assassination in Etzelsfort or the invasion of Granite Hill, but I'm still seeing plenty of action, especially since I've been trusted with low level dark magic tomes recently. Usually it's just intercepting supply caravans or patrols moving between cities, pretty low-risk work, but it still makes me feel like I'm helping take the fight to Plegia. That goes double for when we take out higher profile targets. We've only had a few missions like that since Etzelsfort, but they have all gone fairly well overall. A lot of these battles have been concerningly close calls, but in the end they have always been decisive victories that rally the townsfolk to our side. Overall, we've taken a pretty big chunk of the west part of the country and have started to advance to the south. It'll be getting to the point soon where we'll need an official outpost out there, I expect.
And word of us is starting to spread. Talk of the Black Dragon Rider and his band of Patriots has started to precede us, no doubt spread in equal measure by the townsfolk who stand with us and the Plegian occupiers who have come to fear us. To be honest, it's making me a bit wary. I'm not by any means as notorious as Vasto and Kinba, but there's been at least one instance where I have been recognized as 'the dark mage in the eagle coat' by an Ylissean farmer with whom we spoke after a smaller raid on a farming village in the southwest. I don't know how I feel about the idea of my image being attached to the group just yet, especially if word of us is going to reach the Shepherds, which I have no reason to think it won't. For now I'm pretty sure the Patriots are staying clean and not pulling anything shady behind my back, but I don't know that for a fact. On the other hand, being part of a group fighting for freedom and the republic doesn't feel too bad. The conflict between the two has been keeping me up lately.
At least my defining physical trait is apparently the advertisement-coat, which none of the Shepherds should know I have. I wonder what Maribelle would say if she saw me reppin' her family's merchandise.
Our numbers are growing, too. Every time we go on a mission somewhere these days, it seems we pick up one or two or five people that want to join us. Sometimes we convince them to stay where they live and build the revolution there, but other times they can't be persuaded to leave. Since we're not about to kill them, nor are we going to tie them up or otherwise force them to stay, we eventually have no choice but to bring them along. The movement is growing.
The other reason life as a rebel is starting to grow on me is because I've reached the point where the others treat me like I'm one of them, as opposed to the former Shepherd who should be held at arm's length.
Like right now, for example, I'm at dinner with the rest of the Patriots, sitting near the middle of one of the incredibly long dining tables that line the grand hall, surrounded on all sides by the people I won't hesitate to call my friends. I'm laughing with everyone else as Pike struggles (or pretends to struggle) in an arm wrestle with Eileen. She's pretty blatantly cheating, her elbow having left the tabletop a couple minutes ago, and as of about thirty seconds ago, she's added her left arm to the effort as well, pulling his hand with both of hers. Basically on her side it no longer resembles an arm wrestle at all.
"You can do it! You've nearly got him! Come on Eileen!" I shout encouragingly.
She shoots a glare in my direction that quickly melts into a look of helplessness. "How can someone be this strong?"
Pike laughs his deep, bellowing laugh. "Being strong is basically my job."
"And why don't you just end it? You're just making fun of me at this point!" Eileen whines.
Pike puts on a nice, smug grin. "Maybe I was just looking for an excuse to hold your hand, Eileen," he says in his deep, smooth voice.
Eileen promptly tomatos up and makes a series of confused and adorable noises while Pike slowly but steadily drags her arms down to the table and wins the match.
"That's cheating!" Eileen protests.
Pike laughs again. "And what was this, then?" he asks, pantomiming the way she was hanging onto his hand with both of hers.
"That was the only way to even the contest! But then you say something like… that!"
"Alright, fine. We'll go one more round, and I'll use my left arm. And I won't say a thing." He puts his arm on the table.
Eileen stares at the hand for a moment before clasping it with both of hers. "Fine. You're on," she says with as much fiery determination as she can muster. "On three. One, two, three!"
The match is over in about two seconds.
The rest of us laugh along with Pike while Eileen turns her attention back to the plate in front of her, a grumpy and still reddened expression on her face. "Big, dumb meathead," she grumbles into her bread as she takes a bite.
Someone taps my shoulder. I look up and see Vasto frowning down at me.
"The old man wants to see us."
"Ugh. Fine." I stand to join him. "Don't have too much fun without me," I say to the group still in their seats, pointing a finger at them. "And someone keep score. I want to know if Eileen ever catches up."
"Will do. Go see what His Highness wants," Pike replies with a bemused chuckle.
I walk with Vasto down the hall and up the stairs to the second floor. Vasto has generally proven that his disability isn't getting the best of him, but stairs, especially long flights with no landings, are his greatest enemy, so by the time we reach the top, he's gotten good and tired and pissed. I've learned to neither ask about it nor offer any assistance, and instead opt to keep my mouth shut. He wipes sweat impatiently from his brow as we make our way over to Aventine's office.
We enter, and Aventine immediately greets us in his usual cheery way. "Ah, good evening, my friends. Thank you for joining me. I realize both of you have things you'd rather be doing than making conversation with me right now, so I'd like to get right to it, if you don't mind."
"That would be great," Vasto grumbles, still in a lingering bad mood from the stairs. We each take a seat across from his desk.
"As I'm sure both of you are aware, we have been making excellent progress lately with our campaign to drive out the Plegian military from Ylisse. Thanks to the efforts of you both, our transition from reconnaissance into concrete action is going better than I dared hope after the passing of General Mustafa. Vasto, your quick thinking and creative tactics, not to mention your strength, have never failed to win us the day, and Randall, ever since you joined us, we have managed to avoid the deaths of all members who conduct our operations. There is much we have to thank you for."
"You said you'd be getting to the point, Lord Aventine. We don't need anyone unduly inflating our sails," Vasto says.
Aventine nods hastily. "Of course. Randall, you spent a good deal of time traveling with the Shepherds. Did your travels ever take you to a modest location by the name of Southtown?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess. Haven't been there more than a day, and that was over six months ago, but yeah."
"Excellent. That's certainly more than I can say for myself. The reason I ask is this: the time has come for the next major operation for our organization. We are going to invade and occupy the town of Southtown, and set it up as our base of operations in the east. The southwest part of the country is quite within our grasp, or at least freed from Plegia's. While the Shepherds are occupied with the siege on Ylisstol, it is time for us to get a head start on expansion. To that end, I will need the help of both of you."
A thought that I don't like occurs to me. "Now when you say expand, do you mean setting up an outpost in the east, divvying up our forces and covering both territories?"
"Well, in a sense. We certainly won't be leaving Themis wholly undefended, what with this province's proximity to Plegia. However, outside of a small detachment of defenders to keep the land under our protection, the whole of our operation will be moving east, the three of us included," Aventine replies. His usual smile doesn't crack, but I know what he's up to.
If we move locations, then the information I gave Robin on where I'm being held is no longer accurate. The most important secret I hoped to convey will become a lie that will lead them to a dead end. Aventine is covering his bases, just in case I've been in touch with the Shepherds somehow. There's no doubt in my mind that he's doing this on purpose.
"Don't you think it's a bit premature to be uprooting the whole operation? We have a strong presence here. The villa is well-defended. We don't even know if Southtown will have a defensible place to set up a new stronghold," I say, trying to sound like I'm just being logical.
"We can't allow ourselves to grow too deeply rooted in any one place, I'm afraid. Mustafa and I made a habit of relocating our headquarters every few months over the years. If the Plegians get wise and start tracking our men back from our missions, our location may be discovered. And Themis is a vulnerable location, situated between both countries whose governments we wish to supplant. Even if we were to repel a single attack on headquarters, we would have to move regardless. I have found that it's better to move on our own terms rather than allowing the enemy to dictate the time and circumstances. If anything, we have probably been here for too long. As for the accommodations we may or may not have in Southtown, well, I suppose that's the price of progress," Aventine says.
"What kind of occupation are we talking about?" Vasto asks. "I assume you're hoping to keep the town itself intact if we can, and obviously we don't plan on killing any Ylissean townsfolk, but what if they don't like the idea of us staying?"
"That's why I'd like Randall's guidance on this as well," Aventine replies. "I think it's no secret that among the three of us, he's certainly the most amicable with the bulk of our personnel, and despite his status as a former Shepherd, he has quickly gained the trust of those who would otherwise distrust him on principle. Our organization needs a public relations correspondent, and I think Randall is our best bet there." He looks at me. "It will be your job to ingratiate us with the people of Southtown once we have driven the Plegians out, though of course just doing so will hopefully earn us some favor in the townsfolk's eyes."
Vasto gives a lopsided shrug with his good shoulder. "Makes sense to me. He's certainly more chummy with everyone than I am. He's not good for much, but making nice with the locals seems like his forte."
"You want me to essentially be the face of this movement?" I ask.
"Well, I certainly can't be seen to be the one doing it. Neither can a Plegian. We need someone with charisma who can give our movement a friendly face. Come to think of it, we really should adopt a name for the organization. Any ideas?" Aventine asks.
"Uh… well, that's actually come up before with some of the guys…" I say, suddenly a little embarrassed that I named his organization without his permission.
He laughs good-naturedly. "No need to look so skittish, I'm only kidding. I've heard the name 'Patriots' going around for a while now. It didn't take a genius to figure out who suggested the name. And I like it. You've started taking initiative to give legitimacy to our organization, without my having to tell you to. You may not want to admit it, but I can tell you're coming around to our ideas, our way of doing things. While the Shepherds continue their staring contest with whatever general is sitting on the Exalt's throne, we are out here making a real difference. I know you can see the distinction."
The thought that he considers me going behind his back like that to be a victory for him kind of pisses me off for some reason. "If you value my input so much, why are you insisting we move when I think it's a bad idea?" I ask.
"Because there are some things about which I know I am right. I respect you a great deal, but that isn't the same thing as entertaining every notion you conjure," he replies matter-of-factly.
"And what if you're wrong? You've been wrong before," I retort.
"I have been. But the system of moving the headquarters of our organization regularly hasn't been wrong yet. In fact, I know for certain that our last headquarters at Mustafa's former residence were sacked by the Plegian army not long after we left. We've made a lot of noise since we came here, which isn't bad, so long as we aren't here when the echo returns that noise to us. We are moving," Aventine says firmly.
God damnit, he's got a point. I hate it when he's got a point. Even so, I can't come out of this meeting without a win of my own. "Well I still don't like the idea of having my face associated with the Patriots yet. If you're going to make me interact with the Ylisseans on that direct a level, I want to wear a disguise."
"By all means! This is a risky undertaking, now that we've moved out of the realm of quiet assassinations and sabotages and into the territory of land acquisition and full-scale invasion. I can see why you might be reluctant to put your own reputation on the line for that," he replies immediately, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll have that looked into."
I realize in this moment what my problem with him is. He never lets anything I say feel like a blow against him. He either counters with something equally sharp, or sidesteps it, or just acquiesces without hesitation, as if it were his own idea, like he did just now. I've never once felt like I'm in control when I speak with him.
I stand up, feeling quite done with this conversation. When I reach the door, I pause with my hand resting on the knob. I turn my head back to Aventine. "You know, if you ever actually joined these people that are fighting your revolution for you, ever talked to them, they wouldn't have such a hard time trusting you. Then you might not need me to be your middle man." He doesn't meet my eye, so I turn back to the door.
As I walk through the doorway, I hear Aventine say behind me, "I'll take that under advisement."
The next few days are downright exhausting. Aventine has instructed me and Vasto to come up with the plan to invade Southtown rather than giving us a plan of his own like he usually does. Something seems to be up with the guy ever since the other day. I can't tell what the issue is, but he seems unfocused. His mind is clearly elsewhere.
Which has left me with the world's prickliest man to try and formulate a plan with. We've spent most of the past few days shut in our room trying to reach a concord about how we should attack the forces in Southtown. While he insists that going in guns blazing is a better idea so we can intimidate the townsfolk into cooperating once the Plegians are expelled, I maintain that going in quietly is a better idea. We want to show the citizens that we aren't to be feared, but cheered on. We want them to want to join us.
"Yes, but who wouldn't want to join a group that earns you the right to be feared?" was Vasto's response. "The people will join us when they learn that their oppressors will be the ones to be struck with fear."
"Ruling by fear, even the fear of the masses, isn't a good way to run your country, Vasto. It's not enough that the people should rule. They should rule justly," I reply.
"Rrgh, we're getting off-topic. Like we have been for days!" he shouts, slapping the table in our room impatiently. "We're getting too broad about this. We just need to decide on a plan." He's right. I'm coming to realize that we've both been turning this battle into a sort of metaphor for how we think the republic should be run in general. He wants it run like an iron fist held by the majority, where it's difficult to forget that they exist and they hold the power. I want it run like an invisible force, only emerging when there's a problem to be solved but otherwise staying out of people's hair.
On one hand, it seems silly that we're hashing this debate out in the form of a battle plan, but on the other, it sort of makes sense. This is, after all, our major debut on the eastern stage, and if word hasn't gotten to the Shepherds about us yet, it's sure to after this. These next few encounters will be critical to solidifying what the public thinks of us.
"Well, then let's decide. On a practical level, going in full throttle isn't smart. It risks greater collateral damage for the town and its people. If we take them by surprise, it's more likely that we can end the fight quickly, minimizing risk," I say.
"No, what would minimize risk is having a huge and overpowering force scare the shit out of the Plegians and force them to surrender," Vasto retorts.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "We're getting nowhere with this. Let's sleep on it. It's getting dark already." I gesture with a nod of my head toward the darkening sky out the window.
He looks like he wants to disagree with me on this as well, but sighs instead. "Fine. I'm going out to feed Kinba." He turns and limps out of the room, leaving me the bedroom to myself to meditate for a while.
I let some of the frustration about the ongoing debate with Vasto lift from my shoulders. I try to use some of the clarity that comes with focusing on my breath and my body to work through some of my bigger issues. Am I doing the right thing working with these people? The time when I'll have to make a substantive choice about them is getting closer every day. For now we might be fighting the Shepherds' enemies, but I know we won't be forever. Could an army formed by the Patriots' fledgling influence be counted on to ward off the Valmese a few years from now? Would the Shepherds be willing to work with them to fight Grima together? If this group is going to last, it's going to need the support of the Exalts. Would they ever step aside to cede authority to the ones who separated Emmeryn from the Shepherds, even if they weren't the ones who kidnapped her? A lot depends on the first impression they have of us, I expect.
My thoughts run in a circle for a while on that subject, but eventually I come to a conclusion, albeit a vague and fairly obvious one: I need to get in communication with the Shepherds soon, no matter what I decide about the Patriots.
I decide I've done enough ruminating for the day. What can I do to take my mind off things for a while? I realize it's been a while since I paid a visit to Octavia. Maybe she'll have some insight.
I walk down the hall to her door and knock. She opens the door a few seconds later, dressed in a flattering low-cut navy dress. Her hair is pulled up into a neat twisted bun, accentuating her slender neck. One thing I have to give her credit for is that no matter how much she might be grieving, she still takes good care of herself rather than letting herself fall into a slump. She's the picture of keeping it together, and a pretty picture at that.
"Oh, Randall. I was just thinking it's been a while since I've seen you. That old codger has you and Vasto hard at work lately, I hear," Octavia says. "Did you need me for something?"
I shrug. "Maybe? I think I just need to unwind for a bit. It's been difficult to get anywhere with the planning for the next operation."
"Vasto being a little difficult, hm?"
"You could say that."
She steps aside to open the doorway. "Well, I'm no military expert, but maybe I can try to help, if you like. I'll make us some tea."
"I think that's exactly what I need," I say gratefully as I enter her room.
Over cups of nice, warming tea, I explain the situation, including Aventine's order to invade the city, his intention to move headquarters to Southtown, and the difficulty I've had with Vasto in forming a plan to take the town. Finally, I also elaborate on what the issue underlying the conflict in planning this attack is: how we think this new republic should be run. As I explain everything, she nods in understanding, clearly listening attentively.
After I finish, she leans back in her seat. "Well, you've certainly had a lot dropped on your plate, Randall. I can see why it might be getting to you, especially considering the other… I'll call them strong personalities among the leadership here. Well, except for Duke Hadrian, I suppose, but he has never really had much to say when it came to operations. He's more of a…"
"Bankroller?" I offer.
"Yes, I suppose that's a fair characterization. He's financing the group as much as he can without drawing suspicion, in the hopes that he'll be treated with deference when the new government comes to power. But when it comes to actually getting it done, he stays out of the way. Lord Aventine and Vasto, on the other hand, seem like they care more intensely about the minutiae of this new government they want to bring about."
"That about sums it up."
"You look like it's worn you out."
"More than I'd like to admit. I've done nothing but fight in wars since I came to this country, but at least when I was a Shepherd I had the option of letting others lead the way. Chrom was our leader, and Robin our tactician, and even though she came to count on me a lot more as time went on, I never had any illusions about being any kind of 'leader' among them. But here, it feels like more and more responsibility is being thrust on me, when I never even asked to be here. Even if I do agree with a lot of the Patriots' principles, I certainly never thought I'd be handed the reins."
"Normally for someone in your situation, I'd suggest getting more sleep, but I've spent enough time talking with you that I know that rarely helps in your case. Luckily, I have another recourse for times like this." She smiles mischievously as she stands and crosses to the chest of drawers by her bedside. She opens the bottom drawer, digs around in it for a moment, and emerges with a tall, darkly colored glass bottle and two glasses.
"Oh sweet Jesus you have liquor," I almost whisper with reverence.
"The last of the bottles I was able to take from home before we had to flee Plegia, as a matter of fact. So you'd better be appreciative of it; it's some of the finest Plegian whiskey available anywhere, especially here in Ylisse." She sits back down and sets a glass in front of me. I watch in awe as she fills both of our glasses, not of insubstantial size, nearly to the brim.
Octavia laughs at my expression as I stare at my glass. "What's the matter? Never had the privilege of drinking with a true woman of Plegia before?"
I laugh a bit nervously. "No I have not. I'll have to do my best to keep up, I guess."
"Yes you will. Now, what are we drinking to?" she asks as she picks up her glass.
I do the same. "Hm… Is drinking to freedom too tacky?"
She laughs. "Maybe back in whatever mystery land you came from, where the republic is already centuries old and freedom is commonplace, but certainly not here. To freedom!"
"To freedom, then." I take a sip of what I'd call respectable size, but it's nothing compared to the mighty swig Octavia slams down her throat across the table.
She was right. This is damn good stuff. Smooth and even bordering on spicy, it tastes… desert-y. But in a good way. Like the heat and power of the desert have been tamed and confined to a bottle.
She yowls almost like a cat as she sets her glass roughly on the table. "My parents used to tell me whiskey was such an 'unladylike' drink. Made me all the more determined to make it my drink of choice."
"You were the rebellious teen type?" I ask with a chuckle.
"Well, if you count an 11-year-old as a teenager," she replies with a smirk.
If I'd had anything in my mouth in that moment I'd have choked on it. "Eleven? I think I might be with your parents on that one, actually."
She laughs outright. "And if Mikkel were to start today, I'd want to stop him too. But that's part of being young, I suppose. Nothing tantalizes like a 'do not touch' sign, right?"
"You've got a point."
She eyes the glass in my hand. "Come on, you're already falling behind. Drink up!"
I take another sip, feeling the burn slowly clear my sinuses and open my throat. Warmth spreads out from my chest.
Overall, not a bad way to close out a formerly stressful day. A damn good drink, a comfy chair, a warm room, and I can hardly complain about the company.
"So I tell him, 'Look, I know it's impressive, but you're aiming at the wrong head, friend!'"
Octavia almost shrieks with laughter. "Did he shoot?"
"I think if he had, I'd be talking more like this right now," I say, putting my voice in an exaggerated falsetto.
Octavia slaps the table helplessly, almost spilling her drink. "I don't believe you. I just can't believe you."
I allow myself a self-satisfied smile at earning such a laughing fit from her. Over the course of the evening, I've learned that her sense of humor is a lot more crude than she lets on. It took about a third of the bottle before we got there, but now that we've nearly doubled that amount, all bets are off.
We're silent for a little while, maybe a minute or so, but then Octavia says something I didn't expect.
"You know how he's using you, right?"
Whatever my alcohol-addled train of thought was before, it stops in its tracks. "Uh, who? And what? And also no?"
"Aventine. I can tell he's using you."
"Well, how? Like the fall guy? He wants to put me up front and center so if things fall apart he has someone to blame?" I slur urgently.
She shakes her head. "No, not like that. Well, maybe that too I guess. I mean, he's using you as a replacement for Mustafa."
"Huh?"
"Aventine isn't good enough to lead this group alone. You know him by now. He's always off in his corner, scheming away about something or other. He has no… social grace. Mustafa was the one who could actually talk to people. He was the leader with a capital L. That's not Aventine. He needed someone with the charisma to rally these people to a common cause. He needed you."
"Me, huh? What makes you think he thinks that about me? He's never even seen me in the field."
"No, but he's seen the change in energy here. We were at our lowest point when you came to us. We were more desperate than we showed. But you brought us back from that."
Oh boy, this is getting kinda heavy. "But I mean, that doesn't mean I'm the new Mustafa or anything like that."
She's silent for a long moment. "...I've been using you that way too."
"You… Huh?"
"You're just… like him. Maybe I was just reaching for something, anything familiar in my grief. But you do remind me of him. In the little things more than anything. The way you laugh with your whole chest. The way you listen to a whole story and can boil it down to a pithy one-liner afterward. The way you stroke your beard when you're thinking hard about something. You're just… similar."
My face is already hot from the whiskey, but embarrassment heats it up all the more. "O-oh. Okay."
She looks at me intently. "But I know you're not him. It was a mistake to think of you that way. My husband is gone. That rat Gangrel killed him. But he didn't kill me. I refuse to roll over and die because Mustafa was taken from me." She speaks with what I'd call drunken bravado, but in my own inebriated state, it's still properly intimidating. "I want to prove I'm alive!"
I have no idea what to say to that. "I mean… I think you're plenty alive. Especially right now."
I won't lie. She was already attractive, but right now, it's on another level entirely. I'm sure the alcohol in my own system is helping, but seeing her like this, her chest puffed out defiantly and her face aglow with the warm red of the blood flowing beneath, is more than striking to me.
I could've sworn we were sitting in the chairs a second ago. But now that I'm paying attention, I see we must have moved and are now sitting next to each other on her bedside.
I notice this because her hand is on top of mine now, grasping it tightly. What the hell is going on here? My head feels fuzzy.
"Randall… I'm not just Mustafa's widow. There's more left of me than my husband. I'm still alive."
"I know you are," I whisper.
"Please… help me."
I don't have time to respond before she leans over and gives me an exceedingly sloppy kiss. She tastes like whiskey, but then again, so do I. My brain sluggishly catches up to my body and realizes it has acted without the brain's permission, wrapping its arms around her torso and feeling the sleekness of the fabric of her dress. Octavia has grabbed a fistful of my hair and is almost pushing my head closer to her, not letting an inch of space free up between us. I hear her shoes clatter to the floor as the kiss continues. Are we lying down now? I guess we are. I don't remember moving again.
The world melts into a sort of warm blur of senses. Taste and smell and sound and sight and touch all interplay and mix together as this woman takes up my entire perception. Being drunk is already pretty euphoric, but this is more than just the warm fuzzies and pleasant lightheadedness. I look down and notice my shirt must have evaporated at some point.
At this point, my more human brain catches up and starts asking questions. Why are we doing this? Is this a good idea? What kind of fallout could something like this have? Do we even like each other?
However, that's not the brain calling the shots at the moment. That would be the ancient brain. The reptile brain. The 'if you aren't progenating then what's the point of you?' brain. And right now that brain is quite convincing.
It helps that her hands are so warm on my back. And her grip on me is tight. And her lips are soft.
Things continue like that for I-have-no-idea-how-long, but then she releases me and gently pushes me up and off her so she can scoot against the headboard and sit up. She lifts her arms behind her head and starts fiddling with something. Holy shit, is she…? She shrugs off one side of the wide-necked dress. Despite myself, I get a little bashful and look up at her face. That gives me pause.
That's not the expression I was expecting. She doesn't exactly look miserable, but she's clearly a damn sight far from happy. I guess the word I'd pick for it is 'desperate.' She's not even really looking at me. She's looking past me.
I find I can't meet her eye either after seeing her look like that. I avert my eyes off to the side toward the door and try to think about something else.
I remember standing over there before. I was with someone else. I was with—
My gut lurches as I recall the name. Melinda. Mindy. I was standing right there when we promised to wait for the end of the not-yet-war to be together.
And then she died. And I let that happen.
A wave of filth and shame descends on me like a sodden blanket. I back up frantically, nearly falling off the foot of the bed in my haste.
Octavia jumps in surprise, stopping in the middle of disrobing, the neckline of her dress awkwardly paused at the bottom of her ribcage. "Randall?"
I close my eyes and shake my head. "This isn't right," I slur. "We can't."
"Why?"
"It's not right. We just… You just…" I struggle to form sentences. "We're not in the right mind. We're grieving, and lost, and stressed. But this isn't right." My mind latches onto that notion.
"I don't understand," she says with a harshly quizzical tone. I open my eyes, and thankfully she's at least pulled her dress up to cover herself and is holding it up with her hand.
"I gotta go." I stumble off the bed and start looking for my shirt and boots.
"Randall, what's wrong?" she asks, not moving from her place against the headboard.
I eventually find my clothes, and I waste no time scooping them up and heading for the door. "Night," I say, then leave without waiting for a response.
I don't remember the walk down the hallway. I only loosely remember flinging my clothes into a corner in my room, briefly noting that the sun is starting to come up out the window, and then hitting the couch-bed like a sack of bricks.
"Let me see if I have this right, Gangrel. You have a sizable number of soldiers ready to be deployed from the castle. You know where the Shepherds are at this moment. You know they will be stuck there for some time. You know there is another sizable number of soldiers waiting inside Ylisstol for the first opportunity to break the siege. And yet, you haven't ordered the standing army to sortie. You're keeping them here. Why?" Mustafa asks, his eyebrows furrowed with concern.
"I have my reasons!" Gangrel barks back.
"What are they?" Mustafa asks patiently, not allowing his tone to rise with his captor's.
"If the report is false or forged, it could mean we would be lured into a trap. I won't underestimate them again."
"But if you do nothing, they may very well take their capital back. Are you alright with that?"
"Campari is a good soldier. He will do his duty," Gangrel replies, already starting to lose steam.
"Gangrel, I know why you won't send your army, and so do you. You're starting to see, aren't you? It would be a waste of human life. It would gain nothing for anyone. You could end this now. Send a message east with orders to vacate the city in exchange for peace negotiations. It's not too late to stop some of the damage," Mustafa says.
Gangrel's eyes flash with newfound anger. "Do you purport to order me, Mustafa? You forget yourself and your situation."
Mustafa sighs. "Fine. I will apologize for speaking so boldly if it makes my message easier to stomach, but I will not apologize for the content of my plea. Peace is still within your grasp, and no other's. It's too late for either of us to be heroes, but you could show yourself not to be the demon the Ylisseans fear you are. The demon you thought you wanted to be."
Gangrel almost physically grapples with the opposing forces in his mind. Mustafa can see them doing battle for his soul in the king's eyes.
"If I give in now," Gangrel murmurs at the floor, "I will show myself to be spineless, unable to follow through or carry out my promises. I will lose all credibility as a leader to my people."
"Whom would you rather follow? A man who is confidently, belligerently wrong yet never gains awareness of his shortcomings, or a man who starts down the wrong path, but realizes his mistake and works to correct it?" Mustafa replies.
Gangrel grits his teeth. "You know full well it's not that simple. There is greater context to this conflict. Even if we gain nothing materially by fighting, we will finally have our justice for what the armies of Exalt Gideon did to our people. You can't deny that there is merit in dispensing justice."
"Who yet lives on either side that was responsible for the war? Almost every soldier on both sides was killed during the fighting, and those who lived came home to starving villages and angry countrymen. In my estimation, they served their sentences in the years of misery that followed. As for Gideon himself, he faced a most brutal death at the hands of one he trusted. What more penance would you demand of Ylisse?" Mustafa asks.
The king is silent for a long moment. Without another word, he swiftly strides back through the doorway and slams the door shut behind him.
Now, almost without exception, in my years of drinking so far, I have proven to be more or less hangover-proof. Just ask anyone I knew back in America, and they'll tell you the same thing, no doubt in hushed, awed whispers. Neither light nor noise nor lack of sleep can best me, and I come down from my heightened state of inebriation as gracefully as a figure skater.
Not this time. This time I feel like someone has taken a ball peen hammer and is relentlessly beating my temples with it while someone else has lit off a Roman candle in my stomach. Every step I take is a gamble against my own nausea.
To make matters worse, Vasto seems to find this all very amusing.
"Not very talkative today, huh Randall?" he says with a mean-spirited laugh when I'm only a few paces from my bed.
"Oh, blow me," I growl.
"Hoho, this is a shift in roles. How do you like being pestered by someone who just can't seem to take a hint?" He limps over and lightly shoves my shoulder, sending me staggering back a pace and a half. Even that amount of sudden motion proves too much for me. I retch a little as I steady myself.
"Do you like getting spewed on?" I ask weakly.
"If you 'spew' on me, I'll feed you to Kinba," he replies, taking a step back himself.
"You really think she'd want to eat me when I'm like this?"
"...Fair. In any case, let's get to it. We've wasted too much time deliberating on how to approach this already. We need a solution. Are we going loud, or are we going soft?"
The mere suggestion that I have to think about this again makes my head hurt more. "Can't we shelve this for like, an hour?"
"If we put this off any longer, Aventine will have a fit. And if I have to listen to that old Ylissean windbag lay into me today, I'm gonna make that your problem."
I slowly ease myself into a nearby chair. "Fine. You're really testing my love today, Vasto."
"Well, I wasn't the one who came stumbling into the room in the wee hours of the morning, shirtless and piss drunk. I'd ask which of the recruits you were poking, but I truly don't care," he replies irritably.
My gut tightens as the events of last night flash through my head. My expression must be something to behold, because Vasto's brow cocks questioningly. "Or maybe you don't remember," he says.
I shake my head. "No, I remember. Best not to get into it."
He gives his patented one-shoulder shrug. "Well, whatever. Just don't make a habit of it. Though I guess if we're leaving this place for good soon, it'll stop mattering before long anyway."
Now I actually am eager to get onto the topic of the invasion plan, just to have a reason not to think about last night. "Alright, let's get on task. I think it's clear that we have some troops better suited for a straightforward invasion, and some who would fare better in a subterfuge operation. Is there any reason beyond the underlying philosophical bullshit that we couldn't just, like… do both?"
Seeing that I really do mean to get a plan hammered out, Vasto pulls up a nearby chair and sits down as well. "Divide our forces in half? We've never had the advantage of numbers before, and there's no reason to think we will now."
"Maybe not in half. A smaller force masquerading as a Plegian supply caravan moves into the town quietly and gets familiar with the ins and outs of the town and the force occupying it. Give em like a day's headstart or so. Most importantly, they find out who's in charge and prepare to take them out. In the meantime, the main force is getting ready outside of town, and at the appointed time, they move in to invade while the smaller force takes out the head honchos and leaves the Plegian host in disarray. That way we have the overwhelming show of strength that a standard invasion allows while also giving ourselves the precision of an assassination."
Vasto considers my proposition for a moment. "You know, that doesn't sound so bad, the way you put it. Can I trust you to find an elite team that can serve as our infiltrators? I'm going to have my hands full with organizing the main force." He looks at my smirking expression with disdain. "Randall, if you even think about making a joke about hands with me, I will use my one good hand to punch you in the throat."
I sigh lovingly. "You just get me, you know that?"
His eyes flash murderously. "Can you handle it or not?"
I raise my hands in a gesture of compliance. "Yes, yes. I can do it."
He groans as he stands up. "Let's see what the old man thinks of it."
Aventine gives his seal of approval to the idea, and preparations to leave Themis begin immediately. Pretty much everyone is excited at the idea of running an entire town by our own rules, and one so close to the capital at that. It's pretty much an open declaration of rebellion if it goes the way I expect it will, and if it weren't for the fact that both the Ylisseans and the Plegians are too busy dealing with each other, I'd call it stupid. But with the momentum we've already cultivated in the last few weeks, it would no longer be accurate to call this revolution of ours just a pipe dream.
Weapons are frantically packed into wagons, along with enough food to last us the march across the frosty plains to Southtown. As part of the effort to make sure no supplies are left behind, small teams are dispatched to clear out every room of anything that might be useful to the campaign. Concerningly, that includes my black staff. I should have been more protective of it, but it seems it's been swept into one of the arms wagons. No one knows where it was packed away, but I'm hopeful it'll turn up eventually. It had better, anyway. To say that it's sentimentally valuable would at this point be an understatement.
The villa basically turns upside down with everyone's frantic efforts to get everything ready for the exodus. Hadrian will be staying behind, of course, as will about a dozen and a half of our people, but the rest of us are leaving. The mood is high, to say the least. For the first time since the founding of this group, its members feel as though we are no longer hiding, but fighting openly for freedom.
Of course, while all this excitement is undeniably fun to be part of, I don't really know what my role in all this is supposed to be. I know what Aventine and Octavia expect me to be, and it's becoming clear that the rest of the movement is moving in that direction as well. The others look to me to be their intermediary with the Second Floor folks, but more than that, they've largely stopped asking what Aventine or Vasto or Hadrian wants. They ask specifically for my opinion. I know that if I were to ever turn on the Patriots now, it would be a betrayal in their eyes. In everyone's minds, I'm no longer the kidnapped Shepherd that heals up the infected wounds against his will. I'm a foundational member of what the group has become.
I know this because I've started seeing myself that way too. Whatever happens with the Patriots, I'm at least partly responsible for it, and that responsibility is growing by the day. The day where I'll have to either shit or get off the pot is coming, and I have no idea what I'll actually do when that day comes. Not that I have much time to think about it actively, since I'm constantly being consulted with questions about organization or travel plans or any other myriad questions that I would love to dump off on Robin if she were here.
For that matter, I'd love to dump it on Aventine, but he's been very little help lately. I don't know what's got him in this slump lately, but it's made him a lot less helpful. He just tells Vasto and me that he trusts us to handle it, then goes back to pretending to read something. Vasto tells me he thinks Aventine is just afraid of all this success, that he's not used to it and doesn't know what to do with it now that he's got it, but I don't know. There's something up with him, but whenever I hint at asking about it, Aventine is quick to kill the conversation. I guess it'll come up when it does.
In a matter of days, we're packed up and ready to go. I haven't seen Octavia since the other night, but frankly that's a relief. I know she's coming with us, but the longer I can put off actually having to talk to her, the better. Other than that, though, I've seen a whole lot of just about everybody, including the normally absent Duke Hadrian. He's even deigned to join us for the last dinner we'll have as a group here in Themis.
"I must say, I expect it will grow quite lonely around here. I've grown accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the day to day operations of the, what's the name now? The Patriots. Playing host to you fine rebels has been an honor," Hadrian says, looking a little goofy in his fancy outfit sitting next to folks in rough and tumble traveler's gear. Like a kid wearing his Halloween costume to family dinner on the first of November.
"Well, we may not've seen much of you, but you did provide us a safehouse and help fund the movement, so even if you're one of those nobles we aim to take down a peg, you're still good in my book," Pike says next to him.
"What a lovely thing to say. Thank you good sir," Hadrian says graciously. "I'm terribly sorry, but I never learned your name."
"It's Pike."
"Ah, a fine name. A pleasure to meet you at last, Pike." I recognize that he's making an effort to be a good host, but it feels a little insincere when it's this little, this late. To be honest, he seems just a little too happy to me.
"You'll probably be relieved to see us go, won't you Lord Hadrian?" I say.
He looks more than a bit flustered at the suggestion. "Well, I don't know that 'relieved' is the right word per se, but if I'm being frank, the center of the operation was never the place I felt most comfortable. I'm happy to contribute funds and whatever funds can buy, but I will admit it was a bit of a surprise when General Mustafa sent the request to me that I open my home to the members of the revolution themselves. I'm not too proud to admit that I prefer to stay on the periphery of conflict whenever possible."
The Patriots around him collectively roll their eyes. So it's basically like we all figured. He'll give the movement money from his surplus, but that's mainly as a means of buying favor with the new government, rather than being motivated by actual fervor for the cause.
"Still, you didn't turn us away when we showed up at your door, so I suppose you're not all bad," Trevor says from the other side of Hadrian.
"Or maybe he was just too scared to say no," Pike replies with a bellowing laugh.
"Surely you wouldn't begrudge a man seeking to secure a future for his daughter and his family line, would you?" Hadrian protests.
Trevor shrugs. "Hard to argue when you put it like that."
"I didn't know you have a daughter, Lord Hadrian," Eileen says from next to me. "What's she like?"
Hadrian laughs. "A great deal like her late mother. Ever since she could walk and talk, she was unafraid to make her thoughts frankly known, no matter who her audience may have been. Had it not been for our noble station, I've little doubt she would have gotten into a spot of trouble on more than a few occasions. But when it comes down to it, you would never find a kinder soul walking the earth. I have often thought to myself that she is like the sun; sometimes she burns hot, sometimes she shines warmly, but it is always hard to miss her when she is around."
Eileen smiles sweetly. "She sounds lovely."
"Is she a looker?" Pike asks.
"Pike!" Eileen snaps from across the table.
"I'm just asking!"
Hadrian coughs into his hand rather than replying.
"Where is she now, if you don't mind saying?" Eileen asks, turning back to Hadrian.
"Ah, well, I gather this won't be a very… popular answer with this crowd, but right now I expect she is aiding the Shepherds with their siege to retake Ylisstol," Hadrian says. "She's a healer, you see. One of the finest healers in the country, if I may boast on my daughter's behalf."
I jump into the conversation. "I can attest to that. She's the one who taught me, after all."
"She is? I didn't know you and the duke knew each other before you came here," Eileen says.
"Well, we didn't. I didn't meet him until I was brought here. He was 'away on business,' I was told. But Maribelle is a good friend of mine."
"Is she a looker?" Pike asks me.
"Pike," Eileen warns. She's normally polite and timid, but she's taken on quite the motherly role among our little circle as time has gone on. I guess I'm to blame for there being a 'circle' at all. Until I started consistently assigning the same people to work with me on missions, it was a little more helter skelter when it came to organizing groups. But since we've been working together so often lately, Pike, Eileen, Trevor, and Llewelyn have become my core group of friends on and off the battlefield. And among the five of us, Eileen is definitely the one who keeps us on good behavior. Well, she tries, anyway.
I grin evilly at Eileen for a moment before looking back at Pike. "Yes," I say.
Eileen gasps at me while Pike sits back and nods sagely. "I thought so."
Hadrian looks very slightly scandalized by my comment. I decide not to mention that we briefly dated.
"Well," Hadrian says after everyone calms down a bit, "in any case, I'm aware of your commitment to keep the Shepherds from coming to harm, which I'm sure I don't have to tell you I appreciate. If, however, your continued efforts have you crossing paths with Maribelle before I do, please tell her that I am thinking of her every day, and that I miss her terribly. I expect I will be remaining here for some time, as it's a dangerous time to be traveling on the roads. I do hope she's staying safe too…"
"Well, if it puts you at ease any, she's with Chrom and Robin, two of the scariest warriors I've ever met. Not to mention the rest of the Shepherds, each of whom are formidable in their own right. No Shepherd has ever fallen in battle before, at least not since I've known them. There's no safer place in the world than wherever they are," I say.
Hadrian sighs with relief. "That does put me at ease, Randall. Thank you."
I wonder how they're doing. While it's true we've kept all the Shepherds alive until now, that hasn't always been the case on the first try. Still, I have no choice but to have faith in Robin's tactics and Chrom's leadership.
I have responsibilities of my own now, after all.
"It's morning, we're about to leave, and I still can't find my goddamn staff. If it really is gone, I'm gonna have a fit," I snap at our quartermaster, who frankly probably doesn't deserve it.
"I'll ask again if anyone's seen it!" she squeaks before running off. I think she's even a new recruit. So much for being the personable one among the Second Floor folks.
"Ugh." I flop-sit onto one of the ornate benches in the foyer.
"Still no luck?" Llewelyn asks as he comes out of the west hallway with a small stack of his personal tomes in hand.
I sigh. "Nope. Maybe I'll just have to come back after the war or something."
Llewelyn laughs as he walks out the front door. "That's pretty optimistic of you." I've learned he's got a bit of a morbid sense of humor. Nothing like Henry, but it still surprised me the first time the normally mellow guy made a joke about how he only joined the revolution because he was looking for an interesting way to die. Least I think it was a joke.
I decide to give myself another minute or two to mourn my lost staff before joining the others and getting on the road. I also want to savor this bench while I can. I think it'll be a long while before I'm able to sit on anything this cushiony again.
"Oh good, you're still here."
I look up the stairs and see Octavia descending the staircase. Unlike her usual elegant dresses, today she's wearing something not unlike what Maribelle wears into battle, only black. Still pretty fancy, but with pants and a blouse, better suited for riding. She holds her arms awkwardly behind her back as she comes down.
I've managed to avoid her the past few days, which I hoped would be enough time for things to cool off, but I still have no idea what to say.
Thankfully, she speaks first. "I don't want to think about it any more than it looks like you do, based on that face you're making. But I have to apologize. Things went too far the other night, and that was my doing. I shouldn't have put you in that position."
I almost stand, but then decide to sit, but then decide I should stand again, so eventually I just kind of stumble to my feet. "Look, it's not like it was… unpleasant, or anything. But I've got a lot of… stuff that I haven't put behind me just yet. And I know for a fact that you do too. I can't–"
"Stop. You don't have to say anything. I was wrong, and I want to put it behind us. And as a sign of good faith, I've been working on this." She brings out her hands from behind her, holding my staff.
"Oh thank Christ, you found it," I sigh with relief as I take it from her.
"Found it? Not exactly. I've had it all along. Like I said, I've been working on it," she says.
"Working on it? How so?"
"Well, the word is that you all are riding out to an open declaration of war, the way some of the people around here talk about it. I know you have skill with a tome, but I also know how chaotic the battlefield can be. If you're out there healing someone, you need to be able to defend yourself right away. Here, let me see that." She takes the staff back from me and holds it in front of her. "Maybe take a step back?" I do so. She raises the staff up, then flicks it quickly downward. I hear a sharp shing sound from the bottom of the staff, and when I look down, I see there's a blade about a foot long sticking out of it.
"Holy shit. What is that?" I take the staff from her again and turn it over to inspect the blade. The metal of the blade is more silvery than the dark metal of the rest of the staff, but it's got a sort of fluid quality to the pattern. It almost looks like it's made of solid quicksilver. The blade is designed a lot like a musket-era bayonet, with a triangular shape that sort of curves in on two sides. I remember my dad telling me when I was a kid that such curves were put into bayonets to prevent them getting suctioned into a guy's chest and making them difficult to remove. This blade was made to mean business. I look back at Octavia, feeling pretty dumbstruck. "You said you did this?"
She smiles coyly. "You didn't think I only hang around for my looks, did you? I'm the best blacksmith in the revolution, and I'd bet my life on that claim. Who do you think performs upkeep on all these swords and axes? I've been out at the forge nearly every day doing maintenance work or crafting new weapons for recruits."
I now feel kind of ashamed for assuming she just spent all day every day in her room moping. She's been working for the Patriots all this time, and I didn't know.
"This is incredible, Octavia," I say, admiring the blade some more. "How did you do this?"
She crosses her arms. "It was difficult, to be sure. Staves are a tricky business to play with, and I had to be careful when carving out the blade's cavity that I wasn't damaging the functionality of the staff itself. I guess you can tell me if it still works."
The familiar hum of the magic in the staff still courses along its length. I briefly let a small flash of healing magic out of the orb. "Yeah, it works alright."
"Excellent. From there, it was merely a matter of forging the blade and fitting it into its catch mechanism. Well, I make it sound easy, but it was actually quite tricky. A few all-nighters went into this piece." I look at her eyes and notice the dark circles underneath. She really did want to make up for the other night, huh?
"So how do I, uh, put it away?"
"Hold it upside-down, and do what I did, give it a good, hard snap."
I do as she says, and it does take a real firm ka-snap kind of motion to get it back in, which is encouraging because it suggests it won't accidentally pop in or out. As it retreats into the shaft of the staff, the dull pommel on the bottom also swings back into place. To make sure I have it down, I flip the staff around and snap the blade out, then flip it again and sheathe the blade. There's a satisfying noise to all of it, like you can just hear how much damage this weapon could do. It all feels very Bloodborne-y, if I'm being honest.
"This is… wow," I say. "Thank you."
"Well, I won't let myself be deadweight to the revolution my husband started," she says, but without the usual tinge of pain that any mention of Mustafa brings about. Instead, she says the word with pride, like she's saying it for the first time.
"Then I guess I'd better work hard to make sure I don't end up holding us back either," I reply, lowering the staff to my side.
She smiles. "I don't think that will be a problem for you."
"Come on, we should join the others. They'll be waiting on us," I say, starting to head for the door.
"Hold on, now. That staff isn't just a staff anymore. It's a weapon too. Don't you think the weapon that will lead the revolution needs a proper name?" Octavia says.
Oh Jesus. I've never named a weapon before, I don't think, unless you count naming the swords I enchanted in Skyrim. What's a good name for a weapon like this?
"I don't know about 'the weapon that will lead the revolution,' Octavia. Do I have to? Can't it just be my staff?"
She crosses her arms again. "Only if you're fine with insulting my work by suggesting it's beneath being named, like some common pitchfork."
"Fine, fine. Hmm…" A tool that heals as well as kills. That binds up what it opens. A weapon of holy magic. In a sense, I guess you could call it a holy lance, if you wanted to be melodramatic about it.
I think I have something.
"Back where I came from, the lance that was used to pierce the side of the Messiah was called the Holy Lance by his disciples. According to legend, it was held by a soldier named Longinus, a man who was later saved by the same Messiah he had helped execute. If I'm going to use this weapon to kill people, I want to remind myself that I'm doing it to save others. I never want to forget the cost of taking a life." I hold up the staff. "This weapon will be called Longinus as well. To remind me of that."
She raises a brow. "I've never heard a story like that before. Where did you say you're from, again?"
I shrug. "Nowhere we can get from here. Come on, the others are waiting."
She looks at me, scrutinizing my face as if searching for the answer in my eyes, but eventually she relents. "Fine. Henry ran off ahead with Mikkel, so I should catch up with them."
We leave out the front doors and join the others, who have already started the train of wagons heading east toward Southtown. When we're a good fifty yards or so away from the villa, I turn around to give Themis one more look. The last time I left this place, I left as an unconscious prisoner, a man who failed to save the girl he loved or anyone else. Now I leave again, this time as someone different.
I wonder who that man will turn out to be.
A/N: I'll tell you what, sometimes writing is as smooth as a water slide, and other times it's like wading in waist-deep molasses. This chapter was more like the latter than the former, for a bunch of reasons. Hence the wait. But here we are! The next big chapter for our hero awaits, and is already underway! Will Randall lead the revolution to still greater heights? Will he ever reunite with the Shepherds? Will he ever score? All these questions and more will be answered! Eventually! Maybe!
As always, I need to thank Mixed Valence and NotTheArchitect for beta-reading for me. In particular, I shopped a lot of ideas with MV this time, and I feel much better about where the story is heading in the short term thanks to him. I've been helping with Earthborne chapter 50 as well, so expect that in fairly short order. And here is your Mixed Valence out of context quote of the week: "I remember they had everyone wear hairnets, but one dude in front of us had a beard so he had to wear a beard net. If you're 9, that's hysterical."
I will be picking up Three Houses after work today, so the hype is real. If it's as amazing as I've heard, I may even be tempted to poke it with the fiction stick. We'll see!
Join the Discord: discord. gg/ 3mdunvc
As always, comments and critiques are welcome. See you next time!