Chapter four: Houston, we have a Problem . . .
Shutting the cabin hatch gently behind her, Freya walked aft, towards the small staircase leading to the Aquilae's open bridge. Before she reached the staircase, however, she spotted the giant sitting in the 20-foot launch that hung out over the ship's stern. His head was turned aft, and Freya guessed that he'd probably sit like that all night if she left him alone.
Before she approached him, she considered her words. What can I say to a man that, only two or so years ago, woke up to find himself a hated demon 400 years after his last memory? What a terrible shock it must have been! All of his friends, his family, even his enemy, long dead. And he has had, from then 'till now, no one to talk to. No one to trust, to confide in. And only hours earlier he and I held blades to each others' throats. Yet here I am, after a long, hard day, leaving the warm, cozy cabin to comfort him.
Freya shook her head at herself as she again thought about what she was doing, murmuring wryly to herself, "My heart will be the end of me." Freya did not think that Crimson could have heard her gentle whisper, but apparently his hearing was more acute than she had guessed. He lifted his horned head from his clawed hand and turned to look at her, an almost comic expression of surprise on his face.
"Oh! Hello, Lady Freya. What is it that brings you out at such an hour, and on such a chill night? Do you, too, gaze at the stars?"
"On occasion. But that is not what brings me out tonight." With her left hand, she indicated a seat across from Crimson. "May I join you?"
He nodded in response, and looked up at the sky. "If you wish. Though I fear I may be poor company tonight."
She took the seat across from him to which he had gestured, and examined his face once more. Though the person beneath the terrible face was still a near-complete stranger to her, she was sure that he was not at all what his form would suggest. She looked away so as not to be caught staring, and as she did so, he spoke again.
"So. . . you still have not told me why you are here."
"You looked as though you could use some company."
Crimson grunted. "Indeed I could. But out of curiosity, how did you know? I thought my expression was guarded."
"Not well enough. You'd be a terrible poker player – your eyes give you away."
"So I was told, even as a human. But I doubt you came to talk about my eyes; they are not what troubles me." Still he watched the sky intently, avoiding looking at her.
"Then tell me. . . what does?"
"I do not believe it to be anything that anyone here can help me with. . . but if you truly wish to hear it, you shall hear it." Shifting his position slightly, he turned to look at Freya. "You understand, of course, the effect that this form has on humans. Everywhere I go, I am plagued by demon hunters, exorcists, and young fools out to make a name for themselves by killing the infamous Demon Knight. And the mystics are no better. Most of them don't trust demihumans, fearing an uprising. And those that do trust me do so only because they worship me as a Demonlord." He laughed bitterly. "Ridiculous! But they believe it nonetheless. And then there are the demihumans. Their reactions are little different than those of humans. The only difference is that their hatred of Mystics lead them to hail me as a sort of savior. Which I am not. So you see, I have some difficulty finding friends."
"What about Aeron and Lucca?" Freya suggested. "They seem to like you well enough."
Crimson nodded. "They do, but they are already being chased. I'll not make their already tragic lives more difficult by adding my pursuers to theirs." Crimson sighed softly, and his head sank further into his hands. "All of which lays the foundation for my other problem: what to do with the rest of my life. Magus told me that I would live at least a millennium in this form, and I've no reason to doubt him; after more than 400 years of life I see no sign of age. I ought to be middle-aged, but I feel as young as my twenty-five years of memory. I do not wish to spend six centuries being hunted as I now am, yet see no alternative. My life will become meaningless as soon as the particular mess in which we now find ourselves is over. I will have no one to live for, and nothing to die for; I shall merely exist, and I fear that more than death." Crimson pulled his head out of his hands, and lifted it to gaze at the stars again. "And that, Lady Freya, is my true problem: though I would give my centuries to this world, it will not take them. It has nothing left for me."
"Which is why you look at the stars," Freya explained.
Crimson gave her a wry grin. "Actually, I look at the stars to admire their beauty. But perhaps there is a little of that, as well."
The sadness in his eyes, the longing for purpose and meaning, touched Freya. We have both lived our lives full of purpose: as youths, to learn how to be knights; and as knights, to defend our respective kingdoms. Now, I have the killing of Kuja, and the reconstruction of Burmecia. Crimson has the killing of Kuja, and nothing else.
He had said that there was nothing left for him on this world; so Freya reasoned that maybe another world was in order for him. Her heart was driving her again, the same that had led her to fight alongside General Beatrix, the leader of the forces that had destroyed her homeland, to cover Dagger's escape. Though she couldn't speak for Alexandria, Lindblum, or Cleyra, there was still one thing she could do. With the king dead and the prince missing, the dual tasks of rebuilding Burmecia and restoring order fell to the Dragoons, at least until a new ruler was chosen. And part of these tasks included enlisting whatever help was deemed necessary for their completion.
"Crimson," she began. Her formal tone caught the demon-knight off-guard, and he involuntarily raised an eyebrow as he whirled to regard her.
"Yes?"
"Our king is dead, our soldiers have fallen, and our kingdom has been all but destroyed. On behalf of what is left of the kingdom of Burmecia, I humbly request your assistance, and offer you such rank as I can provide. Will you accept the title of man-at-arms until such time as your proper rank and title can be determined by one in a position of greater authority?"
Despite the seriousness of what they were doing, Freya had to stifle a smile as the expression on Crimson's face changed; that still-raised eyebrow was raised further still as the eye beneath it widened.
"'Twould be the utmost honor."
Royal Guardia was in an uproar over the disappearance of the prince and princess. Sure, their location was known - but the Akula was faster than most of the GRN's ships, and they had too much of a head start. There was little hope of a Royal Navy ship catching up with them before they reached Aeron in his Aquilae. With both the prince and princess gone, and the King ill, it fell to the chancellor to deal with the matter. He was suddenly glad he didn't have to deal with anything resembling democracy; enough people believed in Aeron and Lucca's guilt that were the matter left to them, the entire Navy would be mobilized to chase the two inventors.
And so it was that the chancellor of Guardia held his quill over a document, drafted by - who else - the provisional commander of the Guardian Navy. If he signed it, lethal force would be authorized in the apprehension of Aeron and Lucca. The paranoia that made him so good for his job now worked against him; his paranoia made him want to bring the quill to paper, but his mind told him otherwise. He had heard of the framing of Crono and the King by the beast that had locked him, the chancellor, away: Yakkra VIII. In spite of his occasional tendencies to the contrary, the chancellor was a kind and just man at heart. He wanted for justice to be done, and that couldn't happen if the people who deserved punishment were dead.
Besides, he didn't quite believe the evidence that had been presented. Or more correctly, he didn't quite believe that the evidence pointed to Aeron and Lucca. Those two were odd, he'd admit, but they had been Crono & Marle's friends for years, and had no motivation to do what they were supposedly doing.
Nonetheless, he couldn't ignore the possibility that maybe, just maybe, they really were guilty. But if they weren't, and he signed this document, and they died as a result. . . he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. And neither would the Prince and Princess.
"I won't sign it," he firmly stated to the scribe that had presented it to him. "Not like this. Please rewrite it. No lethal force without provocation. If they're to die, it will only be after they either shoot at our forces or after a fair trial and conviction."
"Yes, sir." The scribe took the rejected document from the chancellor's hands and left the room.
"So, Crimson, what rank were you while in Choras?"
"Ranks were undoubtedly somewhat different than those that you are used to. The answer to your question is Knight Commander, and I had under my command twelve lieutenants of various specialties; a unit of organization called a 'pod.' The only larger unit of organization was the hexapod, consisting of six pods and commanded by the Knight Captain."
"You commanded knights?" asked Freya, incredulous at the tremendous reduction in rank he had accepted just moments earlier.
"Yes. But then, the Choran Army was always unorthodox. Virtually the entire army was composed of knights. And a much wider variety of weaponry was used than broadswords and longbows."
"I'm sorry I can't give you a rank that suits your level of experience and ability."
"It's quite alright; I understand your reasons." Without waiting for Freya to ask him to, he continued, "First, simply because you haven't the authority to enlist me as anything other than your attendant. Second, being your own man-at-arms gives me an excellent excuse to stay near you, the better to enable you to make right any misunderstandings my appearance may cause. And third, perhaps when your fellow soldiers and Dragoons see that you trust me enough to guard your flanks and accompany you into battle, they may be less likely to christen me a messenger of Hades to be purged from the world of the living. Or at least less likely to distrust me. Am I close?"
Freya had to think about this for a moment. He is truly willing to be little more than my bodyguard and weapons-bearer? Even so, that is not what I have in mind. . . "You led knights into battle; that speaks of skill. You survived in the wild, being hunted, for 400 years on nothing but your subconscious fighting instincts, which speaks volumes for them. I'm not going to insult you by treating you like a common man-at-arms. Instead, I'll treat you according to your abilities and intentions: as a fellow knight sworn to defend the kingdom with his life."
Crimson's wings fluttered in surprise as he tried to think of something eloquent to say, but nothing came to mind. "I am honored," he simply replied. They sat for awhile in silence, until Crimson grunted amusedly and spoke again. "Had someone told me this morning what the day would bring, I'd have dismissed them as utterly mad. Who could have imagined that I would pledge my allegiance to a kingdom that I have seen only in visions?"
"Do you already regret your decision?" asked Freya with a note of worry.
"I do not in any way regret my decision. It's merely that I am amazed at how much things have changed in such a short span of time."
"I've just hired a man that I first met and fought only a few hours ago. I, too, would have considered it madness."
For nearly a quarter hour after that, they sat in a slightly awkward silence. After that, Freya became restless and gazed at Crimson to see if he looked like he had anything to say. He didn't, but he noticed her staring at him and stared back with a questioning expression. The dragoon suddenly felt compelled to say something to explain the fact that she had been looking at him, so she said the first thing that popped into her head.
"Do your wings work?" Crimson cocked his head to one side, and his face took on a thoughtful expression.
"Would you believe that I have never tried? I've no idea, but now you have made me curious." He stretched his wings experimentally, flapping them several times. Then he crouched and leapt as high into the air as he could, which was only a few feet, and flapped his wings furiously. The demon knight actually managed to hover for nearly a full second before crashing back into the launch.
Upon his landing, three things happened in rapid succession: first, the davit - a small, crane-like arm - that had been damaged in a recent battle, which held the bow of the launch (where Freya sat) snapped. Crimson and Freya both lost their balance and tumbled into the bow, ending up in a heap as the launch's bow finished its three-foot fall to the sea. Suspended only by the davit holding its stern over the back of the corvette, the twenty-foot launch's bow swung sharply around, dragged behind the ship. This stressed the other davit in a way that it wasn't intended to cope with, and it broke off as well. The twenty-foot boat rocked in the privateer corvette's wake as the larger vessel pulled rapidly away, fading into the night. By the time the two knights disentangled themselves, they could scarcely even see it, but they could tell that it was much too far a jump for even Freya to attempt. For about two pregnant seconds they stared in shock at the fading shape of the Aquilae, knowing they could never catch it in their little unpowered launch. Crimson broke their stunned silence with a glaring understatement.
"Well. That can't have been good."
Robshi: You might want to go back and read the end of Chapter 3 again. I added some history for you; thanks for pointing it (or the lack of it, I should say) out.