Grima cast his scarlet eyes over the maggots gathered in the throne room. He stood at the prince's side, Chrom donning the wooden expression of a man that had long since stopped listening and devoted their attention to pretending they still were. Grima was ready to join him in the land of empty-headedness. Tucked away in the far corner, Laurent's head bobbed as he constantly caught himself on the verge of dozing off.
Yes, having an active hand in the prince's work gave Grima the information he needed to control the nation by proxy. Yes, it was an opportunity to pry for any possible Grimleal hiding in the crowd of worms. Yes, it entailed hours and hours of listening to humans squabbling over anything from murder to a duke having too many windmills for his neighbours to feel comfortable.
And yes, Grima wanted to find the nearest pair of knives and stab his ears out.
"Further taxes cannot be justified at this time," said one noble with dark red hair. "The war on Plegia ended just last year. This is a time of peace, sire."
Chrom twitched. "Robin, your thoughts?"
"This is a time of peace between nations, yes," conceded Grima. "No peace will be made with Risen. Funds needn't be raised for waging war against the fellow living." The two of them knew that was only literally correct. They needed funding for the war with Valm. "There will be no fear of an imminent war."
"Of course," said the maggot. "Yet the people would fear the need for any greater armament of our military, living foe or otherwise. Are the Shepherds not competent to defend the realm as they are?"
The prince raised an eyebrow.
"I apologize, but I may have misheard you," said the fell dragon softly. "Please repeat that."
"I merely mean the reaction to such an event," said the insect whose teeth Grima so desperately longed to kick down his throat. He turned his appeal to the prince. "Your Grace, I implore you to consider your family's legacy. What of Regna Ferox? What of Plegia?"
Chrom pursed his lips. He shouldn't have bothered paying attention at all.
Grima held back a low growl. It would've been nice if they had ambassadors from Plegia to tell them how they felt about Ylisse gearing up a real army, but not a single ambassador had visited in ages. That Chrom was so reluctant to interact with Plegia didn't help. Validar took the throne and simply refused to initiate, only yielding the most generic letters when contacted in an official capacity. What in his god's name was he doing twiddling his thumbs?
"Robin." Chrom motioned for him to come closer and whispered, "How much do we need this?"
"…Preferable but not absolute given our timeframe," he said quietly.
"I'll keep it in mind. Thank you."
They parted and more worms surged to have their voice heard. The fell dragon didn't have the slightest patience for human politicking, but not even his studious daughter had the attention span to focus in court and he had to be thorough. Grima would be beside himself with rage if he glossed over an asset as useful as a pipeline to his servants amidst the royal court. The issue was that they weren't revealing themselves! In the war Chrom's father waged on Plegia, they infiltrated deep enough to place one of their own as the head of church! Where the hell were his Grimleal?!
Grima exhaled. Of course. He had Plegia's insiders outed and killed to cover his tracks in the war against Gangrel. This was why he preferred the battlefield. Murder was simple. And having wartime emergency powers didn't hurt.
His eyes flitted to the duke. What was his name, Grima could never be bothered to memorize them for irrelevant meatbags… Mimas? The duke's defense changed constantly. A true reason lay buried beneath them. Perhaps he simply didn't want to pay more when he owned so much land. Perhaps he was Grimleal. Grima felt a headache coming on again. Battlefield tactics never did this to him…
More Grimleal could potentially slither into the castle at some point. Grima had to keep an eye out for them. He merely had to withstand this living hell on a regular basis. His only saving grace was that this torture had nobody shoving Plegian ceremonial offering cakes down his throat. No, they were only offered by ignorant nobles as a token of goodwill, pretending they held no hate for his heritage while failing to notice they were not getting remotely within the fell dragon's good graces.
What were the insects prattling on about now? The fell dragon willed himself not to roll his eyes and regathered his focus. Appearances. Grima had to keep up appearances. He was Robin. He was Robin. He was Robin…
"O child of lightning born of… What did this mean again?" Laurent sighed and checked his notes for the exact pronunciation. "I see. Too much emphasis on the first half… O child of lightning born of the black thunder god, roar down upon the earth." The pages of Thoron turned. Electricity sparked between his fingertips.
"It's working!" said Ricken, peering over his shoulder.
"So it is. However, the incantation is difficult. More rigorous practice is necessary before I would feel any degree of confidence attempting this in the heat of battle."
"Casting it at all is really impressive." Ricken picked up his own Elwind tome and turned it over a few times. "I just wish we had more than El-tomes to work with."
"You'll have to give me time," said Grima. "Higher grade tomes are much harder to acquire than steel blades." He rested his head in one hand, fighting off the dull pain in the back of his skull as he read. The castle study was supposed to be a place of focus and quiet, yet here he was surrounded by buzzing cicadas. It was par for the course for maintaining connections as Robin, but Grima would never enjoy it. Laurent, Ricken, and Miriel gathered at one round table while Maribelle and the fell dragon shared another.
"If we could get an Arcwind, or Rexcalibur, that'd be perfect," said Ricken. "Laurent, you use wind tomes too, right?"
"That is the case," said Laurent. "It used to be my worst element, but now it's my best. It was useful for its high accuracy and eliminating airborne enemies in the future. That I was only able to recover a Thoron tome prior to entering this time was rather unfortunate."
"And Robin—you like thunder?"
"You could say I like thunder," chuckled Grima. It happened to be the type of spell Robin had on hand to murder the prince with.
"Miriel is fire, of course." Ricken leaned closer to her. "What's that you're reading?"
"A text regarding parenthood," said Miriel. "I believe it to be of paramount import in light of recent events." She lifted her left hand, gathering their attention to the ring now present on it.
"Wow, congrats!" said Ricken. "Who is it?"
"Stahl proposed to me not long ago."
Laurent locked eyes with Miriel for a moment. They shared a tiny nod before she continued their conversation. He wasn't surprised—from the moment Miriel entered the room, he had immediately recognized the ring as the same one he carried. But he couldn't show any of the immense relief he felt in the presence of the fell dragon.
…How did he do it? How could Grima spend day after day living like this? As Maribelle bounded over to congratulate Miriel too, Laurent could barely keep his grin from breaking free. Laurent had to wonder—did Grima really know as much as they did about the threat their past selves posed to them? One pairing after another lined up correctly. Did Grima try and fail to keep them apart? Did the fell dragon have an even more insidious plan in store—one they couldn't predict? But on the off chance that Grima hadn't considered it, Laurent was careful not to give away any of his joy.
"Curious," muttered Grima. "I suppose this is a result of knowledge of the impending war? Humans rush through the protracted courting rituals to generate offspring before their possible deaths."
A quick burst of laughter slipped from Maribelle as she returned to their table. "That's far too morbid! The war against Plegia has ended and the royal wedding is a scant month away. Love is simply in the air."
"I take it you have someone in mind?"
"Robin, you are much too forward for your own good," said Maribelle. Her eyes flitted to Ricken for an instant before snapping back to the tactician.
"You have my apologies," he said flatly. Grima inched his seat to the side, placing himself squarely under the sun shining through the window. A soft breath passed his lips—basking was always a small relief, regardless of which body he used. "Have you found anything regarding the Goddess Staff?"
"Right here," said Maribelle, holding up the book in question. "It was in the section you recommended. Really, I'd say you've memorized half the layout if I didn't know better."
"It was a straightforward deduction. For such an old artifact, information would be more likely to be found under history than in the conventional books on healing. What does it say?"
"Precious little more than conjecture." She traced a finger along the pages and swiftly skimmed the relevant section again. "And not a single mention of repair. There's nothing but a description of it having been used in Tellius, which might as well be some folk tale for all we know!"
"That suggests the staff has been used at least once before. We can have more confidence that a way of restoring it exists." Grima bookmarked his page for later and set his text face-down on the table. "With that, I believe it's been two hours since we started. If memory serves correctly, you preferred elderberry tea?"
"Quite! A nice break with a refreshing cup is just what we need."
Laurent sidled a little closer to Ricken and murmured, "Pardon me. Would you happen to have recently purchased tea, by any chance?"
That jolted him into action. Ricken hastily got up before Robin could finish standing. "Allow me! I found a new blend in the city the other day—let's try it together!"
Grima froze as the young mage ran off. His unblinking gaze slid towards Laurent and dumped a bucket of ice water over him, chilling him from head to toe. Laurent held his gaze and did everything in his power not to wince. His robes felt hot and stifling. Each level breath he took felt absolutely suffocating. Was that enough for the fell dragon to come to a new realization?
"Miriel," said Grima, calm and even. "I'd like to borrow some of those books."
Maribelle watched him return to his seat with new reading material in hand. "I must say, you've integrated well into higher society… with only a few failings."
Grima raised an eyebrow at her. "Mind telling?"
"Your shoulders have the tension of a drawn bowstring! You engage in your studies and your brow is fit to turn into a pretzel! Look, your fingers seem ready to tear your book asunder!"
"You exaggerate." He corrected everything she mentioned anyway.
Maribelle folded her arms and assessed him a moment longer. "But without them, your bearing is remarkable. There are times I'm on the verge of forgetting you're a lowborn at all."
Grima narrowly stopped himself from ripping his book in half. Lowborn? Lowborn?! If the exalted bloodline was revered for sharing in the blood of Naga, the vessel alone was royalty, and the soul it housed was divinity! This human dared refer to the fell dragon as lowborn?!
"Ah!" said Maribelle. "You're doing it again!"
He cleared his throat and said placidly, "That's high praise from your mouth. It's a daily struggle to keep up appearances."
"Mm, yes, I'd imagine so for a Plegian reject."
Laurent looked up from his tome. The fell dragon set down his book in painstakingly slow motion and clasped his hands on the table, fingers twitching as he stared at the cover. There was zero emotion and total deliberation. Grima fantasized about uprooting each bookshelf from the floor in sequence and dumping their contents on Maribelle until she was a little red puddle under a castle's worth of reading material.
"Worry not, I will teach you to correct those little misdemeanours!" declared Maribelle.
"I respectfully decline," said Grima. "There is one thing I would like your help with, but tell me what I can do in return before that."
"There's no exchange to be made here. But, hmm… perhaps you could tell me more of your life in Plegia? I imagine the commoners there must live a life a world apart from ours."
Grima took a deep breath and let his tension leave him with the exhalation. "I spent only the first years of… my childhood… under the wing of the Grimleal and the rest in hiding across the country. I know of their lifestyle, but it's difficult to describe." He searched for the words until he said, "Can you describe life in Ylisse to me?"
"Well, it's simply…" Maribelle frowned and let her gaze wander in thought. "Across the nation? The land is rich and green and the air lively. The people are… goodness, where would one begin with such a question? Life in Ylisse is all I've known. But Robin, I believe that isn't so for you?"
"Ylisse is more of a homeland to me than Plegia." If nothing else, it was true for Robin. "I think you'll find that humans are the same no matter where you look. But give me some time to think about it."
"So what is it you needed, dear?" asked Maribelle.
Grima showed her one of the books before him—ballroom dancing. "Will you dance with me?"
Laurent's heart plunged into his stomach. They didn't anticipate this. If events happened to diverge, and the wrong members of the first generation grew too close, they could likely find some way to subtly nudge them towards the correct partners. It would be in poor taste, but a necessary and certainly possible step. But what if the fell dragon himself participated in one of those relationships? Could Grima be plotting to cut out the middleman by simply romancing the mother of a future child and wiping out an enemy with the ensuing paradox? Yet that would only kill one of them.
Unless he planned to repeat the process with every single one of the Shepherds…?
"Quite the eager student, aren't we?" said Maribelle. "Very well! We needn't waste another second!"
"Pardon me," said Laurent, as calmly as he possibly could. Both turned their attention to him. Laurent forced himself not to back down from the fell dragon's baleful gaze. "What might be the impetus for this inquiry?"
Grima stalled for one single second. It was the longest second of Laurent's life. "The royal wedding is soon," said the fell dragon. "I won't stand to be taken for a fool on that day of all days."
It was the perfect deflection. Laurent couldn't pry a single secret from behind that neutral expression that hid everything—but he did have another card to play. He looked around and said lightly, "Ricken should be back with the tea soon. How is his dancing?"
"He has a ways to go," said Maribelle. "I would also like to ask the same of you!"
"Me? I'm afraid I hadn't the time to participate in such activites. My capabilities can only be abysmal."
"All the more important you learn now!" Maribelle stood and declared, "Any chance to educate my social inferiors is a chance I will take! We begin at once!"
"Tea's ready!" Ricken returned with the tea set in hand.
"Well, a spot of tea first won't hurt anyone."
"We're fortunate to have you, Maribelle." Grima accepted his cup from Ricken with a quiet word of thanks. He locked eyes with Laurent and grinned. "We only need to worry about embarrassing ourselves in front of each other."
Robin was no master dancer, but he knew enough to survive a social gathering. He blended easily into crowds and made connections during the parties that nobles hosted—including the basic fundamentals of ballroom dancing. But that was over fifteen years ago. Grima had to brush up. Every skill with a concrete promise of utility, no matter how slim, deserved to be exercised. Everything had to be ready for use at a moment's notice.
That he got to see one of his mortal enemies flailing inelegantly certainly didn't hurt.
"You needn't speak a word!" said Owain as they walked. "Your brilliant blade and the sword hand that carries it speaketh a thousand tales! Within them, I bear witness to your myriad trials to stand before me! Ah, your tribulations, your hardships, your burning will shining through it all—though we cross blades but once, I throw mine down now!"
"Hahaha!" Morgan accepted the campaign script from him, cleared her throat, and read aloud in a pompous voice, "Raise your head, new ally of mine. I will not see your life taken so pointlessly. Though you may forfeit your ways, you must stand up and fight once more to lay low the evil you have wrought upon this world!"
"Careful!" Owain pulled her aside, narrowly dodging a trolley on its way from the kitchen. "You need to keep an eye out while you're walking."
"That's not in the script," said Morgan. "Ooh, but the enemy general is on our side now? What happens next?!"
"Not yet, not yet!" He reached over and closed the book before she could finish flipping to the next page. "That's where that chapter ends! You'll have to beat the next map before we can read it."
"Aw, pleeease? Just the opening scene? It took me twenty tries to get past Father last map… Maybe you guys should've done something about the lose condition. Even losing one unit is way too big a loss, so I just throw Chrom to his death and reset instead of continuing without anyone!"
Owain would never get used to the idea of Morgan so casually executing his uncle. He knew it was because she was reluctant to let the game carry on with any little wooden Shepherd left behind, but that only did so much. "'Tis the toil and the effort that are the sweetness of victory," he said aloud. "There's no fun if you read it all in one sitting!"
"There's even less than no fun when I don't get to read it at all," she pouted. But she shrugged and added with a cheery grin, "Guess I'll just have to figure out how to get one over on him tonight!" Morgan turned and waved to the third member of their group as they walked down the halls of the castle. "Kjelle! Why don't you join in?"
"Leave me out of your childish games," snapped Kjelle, lagging behind the two. "Are you going to the training grounds or not?"
"Well, it's nice to have at least one person who appreciates the effort behind childish games," said Owain. He stuck his hand out and got a quick high-five from Morgan. "I'd expect no less from my fated ally!"
"Oh yeah, we are that, aren't we?" Morgan puffed out her cheeks, set her hands on her hips, and took on mock-indignation. "But I don't see that super ultra amazing dish anywhere yet! I'm going to start thinking my fated ally was reincarnated somewhere else if you don't make good on it soon." But Owain didn't get to so much as apologize before she dropped the act with a cheery, "Just kidding! There's no timer on it, so no big deal."
What, really, would Morgan like? Owain had thought about it for some time, but couldn't quite pin it down. Morgan loved sweets and turned her nose up at the spicy dishes her father relished in, but she also devoured the gamiest meats they could get their hands on with all the ferocity of a dragon trapped in the body of a human. Even Nah didn't get as messy as her. And it didn't help that when he had to spend so much time tagging along with one or the other, Owain didn't have that much time for cooking in between comparing notes with his friends, scrounging up whatever information they could on where Lucina might be, and especially the unrelenting training they all needed to keep up with the fell dragon's regimen.
"I'm not that great at cooking, so anything would impress me!" laughed Morgan. "Kjelle, what about you?"
"I'll be found dead before I'm caught in the kitchen!"
"You can't be nothing but training all day, every day! C'mon, there's gotta be something. I'll bet you're one of those super strong girls but with the most adorable secret they'd only show to their special someone."
"Spar with me!" Kjelle declared loudly. "I don't give one damn what you say otherwise."
Morgan quieted down and thought about it. Grima never seemed happy to spar with them and avoided it where he could, but that made sense. He was worried about them accidentally killing him or the like. But Morgan didn't think Kjelle would try for something like that. Honestly, only her father (okay, and herself) would think like that. "…Oh, what the heck! Why not? But this makes us friends, okay?"
As they hit the training grounds and Morgan got into her armour with Owain's help, her gaze wandered over the now-scorched sunset field. Her mind wandered with it. Grima was a bottomless font of knowledge when it came to killing humans and made a point of supplementing Morgan with everything he could. No wonder Kjelle insisted on constantly training. If they slacked off, Grima would race so far ahead they'd have no chance of catching up. It didn't matter that Grima and Morgan never deployed to the field despite regularly sending the other Shepherds, or that the future children by extension also stayed in Ylisstol to monitor them. Grima simply brought the battlefield home, ordering the construction of sprawling obstacle courses, melding the ranged units' training with the others' dodging training—and he was always right there with them, braving the same hell while still shouting criticisms and points to improve. At the very least, Grima stopped at blunted arrows and low-power spells without resorting to the hammer of the gods.
"Thanks, Owain!" Morgan hopped and bounced on the spot a few times. Yup, her breastplate and leggings felt right. "I'll handle things from here. You should take a look at getting that meal together!"
Owain looked between them. Morgan was bright and bubbly as ever. Kjelle looked ready to kill a man. "Are you sure?"
"Positive!"
"Go name some weapons in the arms storage," said Kjelle.
Owain drew himself up with indignance. "You know what? I will! And I'll give them the most epic-est names you've ever heard!"
"Looking forward to it!" Morgan waved him off till he was gone. She drew her Levin Sword and chirped, "'Kay, so how's this gonna go? That's a real lance you've got."
"Until your weapon falls from your hands," said Kjelle. "But I expect you to fight as if your life is on the line! I'll be doing the same. En garde!"
"Whoa!" Morgan's shirt tore as she twisted away from the stab. They were getting right into it?! Hardly any preamble!
The next strike was deflected, but Morgan couldn't get anywhere close. Her jagged blade struck the shield and Kjelle immediately turned it against her by throwing her balance on impact. Her lance traced a cut across Morgan's arm, and then she was back on steady footing, but also on the back foot as she tried to fend off Kjelle.
Big problem. Morgan couldn't take Kjelle in a straight fight. Well, she could, but she didn't like her odds. Going at it pure melee, the matchup was probably something like three-seven. Kjelle had way more time to spend training her lance when Morgan was pulled in every direction (okay, maybe her father was onto something about stretching herself too thin, but so did he). To make matters worse, Kjelle knew how to make full use of her shield and lance, locking Morgan out of her effective range. With her dragonstone available, Morgan would've loved the odds if she had the insane power of flight on her side. She could bombard her from afar, maneuver far out of her range and rain down spells, roll over and flop on her, whatever she wanted. Too bad that was out for obvious reasons.
Then, it had to be spells! Except Morgan didn't have those either. She didn't really get the details of what her father did to her (oh geez, Morgan felt her face heat up at the memory even while she was in the middle of backing away from Kjelle), but the bottom line was that every spell Morgan casted would be gambling with her life. Maybe it was worth it? That stab just now would've definitely messed up her stomach something fierce if it landed. Grima loved his calculated risks.
Morgan regretted her decision already. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to jump into a duel with a mortal enemy after all. But that just meant she had to win! Using any means necessary!
Like running away as fast as her legs could carry her!
"Hold!" Kjelle yelled as her opponent fled. "Get back here, you coward!"
"Come get me!" Morgan shouted over her shoulder. She had to get off the training grounds. All she could get were fistfuls of dirt, and something told her that wasn't going to win her a fight. She needed real options!
Gods, Kjelle listened. Her armour clanked loudly with every step, and those steps came fast. Kjelle wasn't bulky by any stretch. For all her bluster about strength, Morgan was always surprised by the exceedingly rare glimpse of the knight with her armour removed for cleaning. Kjelle wasn't a mountain of muscle, but everything she had was packed and dense. If anything, it reminded Morgan of her father's build—
Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank. Morgan pumped her legs as hard as she could. Was Kjelle gaining on her? Intellectually, Morgan was no more afraid of Kjelle than any other opponent, but the mere act of running put the fear of the gods in her on an instinctual level.
"What use do we have for tacticians that can only run?!" shouted Kjelle. Her lance was its own length away from reaching Morgan as they crossed the threshold into the palace.
"I'm fighting like my life's on the line! It's a tactics thing!" Rather than stand her ground, the realization of just how close Kjelle was spurred Morgan to sprint harder to the closest place she could think to use.
Morgan barged into the dining hall, past the shrieking maids to throw herself onto one of the large tables. Her hand caught the edge and momentum did the rest of the work tipping the round table on its side. As soon as she felt its balance shift past the tipping point, Morgan rolled away and back onto her feet—and not a second too soon. Kjelle's lance pierced right through the table, but that wasted precious time tugging it out and going around to chase Morgan into the kitchen.
Kjelle took one step through the doorway and instantly retracted it as a cleaver flew past to skitter across the tiles.
"Dang! Half a second earlier and I would've got you!" Morgan's next knife bounced off the shield as the knight ran in ready this time. Ping! Why did Kjelle have to wear all that armour? Showing some skin would've been nice. Morgan dodged away from the next stab, circling swiftly around the large table in the middle of the kitchen that separated them. Numerous bowls of sauce, large plates, and a big hunk of meat sat on it… pork, or maybe beef?
Kjelle made to circle one way and Morgan matched it. Kjelle tried the other way and the same happened. "You call this fighting?!" said the knight. "Stand your ground and face me, craven!"
"You make me sound so underhanded!" Morgan stuck her tongue out. "I call it making good use of environmental advantages."
"Whatever you call it won't help you! Don't make a mockery of combat!" Kjelle leapt onto the table—a large piece with sheer walls instead of legs, embedded in the floor. Morgan couldn't flip it, and definitely not with Kjelle's weight on it. But then why did she have to flip the table? The plates were way easier to shove under her approaching feet!
Morgan wasn't expecting a swing as she crashed down, and it cost her a great opening with a nasty gash to the cheek. Pans and pots clattered loudly off the counter and rolled about. Adrenaline and sheer rage thrust Kjelle to her feet, but they were still standing right beside each other in a cramped kitchen. Morgan was inside her range with the shorter weapon!
The first thrust, Morgan sidestepped. A rush went through her as she earned blood from Kjelle's shoulder, but it wasn't enough to stop her from slamming her shield into Morgan hard enough to blow all the wind out of her on the counter she was flung against. Thank gods for her breastplate or her ribs would be out of business! Morgan dived aside as the lance pursued her to the counter, one more deflected strike, and then the chase was back on. A tiny part of Morgan was grateful that Kjelle was, in fact, aiming to disarm. She'd take getting her shoulder stabbed over her neck.
"Craven! Disgrace to the name of Ylisse!" Gods damn it, the things Kjelle had to put up with to get a single duel!
"Say that to my face!" Morgan called back.
"I would, if you'd stop running!"
Morgan laughed and ran faster down the halls of the castle, past shocked cleaners and up the stairs. She knew it'd work Kjelle up, and not in a helpful way. That meant more room for mistakes to take advantage of! But more important than that was shaking Kjelle off her tail for just a few more seconds at a time.
She ran to one of the castle's many large lobbies. They were always spacious, with lots of large windows letting the light stream in from outside, tons of floors exposed to show off the grandiose scale of the castle, and tapestries with that Brand her father was always sick of seeing. Morgan flipped over the railing, grabbing and stabbing one of those huge tapestries and tearing it open on the way down. If looks could kill, the one she got from Kjelle definitely would've made Morgan explode into a little pile of ash. But they couldn't, and Kjelle had to go the long way down using boring old stairs!
And then the tapestry ended a dozen feet off the ground, leaving Morgan to stick a landing she was too busy making smug faces at Kjelle to notice until the last second.
"Nngh!" Hot pain seared a long line from her foot, through her leg and all the way up her side. Morgan got up and ran anyway, shooting a dirty look at each oversized statue and armour stand she passed on her way back out of the castle. An Ignis-boosted Elthunder could unbalance them enough to topple off their pedestals and squish whoever she had to squish. Maybe that'd be a little overkill, but Kjelle was a tough girl! She could take it. Probably.
Morgan had a pretty solid grasp of the castle layout. She needed to in order to know her getaway routes for escaping the scene of hilarious pranks and after killing the Shepherds. That meant she also knew which stairs Kjelle would take to get to the lobby quickly, so Morgan got the drop on her while she was rounding the bend down the stairs! Though in their case, it was more like a reverse-drop. She got the climb on her?
Her Levin Sword struck Kjelle's greaves, and Morgan groaned. Armour was no fair! Never mind that she wore it too.
With the element of surprise gone, it turned into a tight stairway battle. They had about a metre of clearance on either side—far enough for the railings to not completely inhibit them. Morgan's attacks were met with sturdy shield, and she was quickly on the defensive again. Fighting from below should've been a plus for her, but there was just nowhere to put her blade! On the flip side, Kjelle had more than enough range to strike below her feet at Morgan's head and shoulders.
Pain spiked the back of her shoulder as she pushed the prying lance over and away. Morgan's sword flipped in her hands, and then Kjelle let out a surprised grunt as the blunt, heavier cross of the Levin Sword slammed against her ankle. Morgan took that split second to leap back, rolling across the landing and away from a less than ideal battlefield. The skin of her hand didn't feel quite right—not torn like the glove above it, but probably a thin layer opened up after gripping the jagged blade for her hammer blow.
Morgan burst back out of the castle, sprinting across the grounds to the storehouse with Kjelle not far behind. Why couldn't her father teach her anything like half-swording or the fancy throw he used on Kjelle during their first fight? No, baby Morgan had to level up her swords to master rank before he would show her those! And also because Morgan never needed to poke at an armored opponent when she could fry them with magic, and she really didn't need those skills when she only had so much time for honing every skill she wanted, and she really wasn't a stickler for dropping her weapon and getting ripped open against an enemy with blades, but Morgan was just miffed that she didn't have those options under her belt at this particular moment. Valid reasons be damned.
The storehouse was dark, its windows barely cracked open to let in thin rays of sunlight. Surrounded by wooden training dummies, neatly lined up in rows and rows, Morgan turned to her opponent, readied her blade, and promptly dodged the first strike to let it impale a dummy behind her. Her Levin Sword scored a deeper gash, and then shield and lance repelled Morgan again.
Kjelle scowled. The dummies were packed too close! She barely had space to walk between them in full armour, never mind swing her lance without one wooden target or another getting in the way. Morgan was grating on her nerves harder than ever. The girl was annoying—slippery, never fighting head-on like she should. "What point is there in a duel you refuse to fight?!"
She glimpsed her opponent, bright highlights of coattails and armour standing out against the blended dark of coat and surrounding shadows. Kjelle swore as her lance bumped against a dummy, a hasty twist put her large shoulder guard in the way to narrowly deflect a slash, and then the little tactician was gone again.
A patter of footsteps, a clatter of a disturbed object. Kjelle turned her eyes to the dummy rocking back and forth on its stand—and then blocked the blow to her back. It'd take a little more than a distraction to pull the wool over Kjelle's eyes.
"It's extra useful when we're throwing everything we got at each other," chirped Morgan. "Realism!"
"Aargh!" Kjelle had enough! She backed out of the wooden crowd, lance raised and ready to fly the second Morgan emerged. "No more games! Face me!"
Her voice echoed away into the storehouse. Cast under a thin ray of light, snowy white hair popped up three rows back from the front, followed by just the top half of Morgan's head from behind her impromptu shield of a wooden dummy.
Morgan could whittle her away, bit by bit, but definitely not if Kjelle refused to engage on Morgan's terms. Darn. She was riding on the knight being too riled up to think of anything but chasing. But those were her thoughts, for herself! Kjelle got to see the mirth in her dark gray eyes, even if she couldn't quite see the wide grin.
"Draw?" offered Morgan.
"When all you can do is run? Hah!" Kjelle's single burst of laughter was sharp and derisive. "If this is all you can do, I don't see why I should expect any better from your father!"
Morgan stopped smiling.
She was out of the dummies in an instant. The Levin Sword rang as it crashed against the shield. A small wince was her only reaction to the lance tearing along her arm as she forced her way into Kjelle's range, flanking the shield bashes and constantly jostling to stay right up in her business where Kjelle only had the shaft of her lance to use while Morgan's sword flashed again and again.
But fury only went so far. It certainly wasn't about to make her sword pierce solid steel. Shield caught blade, a hard blunt strike to the side stayed Morgan, and then a much heavier tackle with the shield sent her careening away. Kjelle was caught by surprise by just how fast Morgan dived in, but it wasn't about to work a second time.
Morgan found her footing and deflected the stabbing lance to one side with a quick retreating step. Getting back in would be difficult at best, and much more likely a nasty wound to the arm. She could only pick up so many of those before she couldn't hold a sword. But she wasn't about to take an insult like that lying down!
She and Kjelle traded blows, Morgan backing out of the storehouse. A blocked hit, several paces of retreat, and then Kjelle was back on her. Morgan's lively grin was gone, replaced with intense focus and quiet determination only broken by a fierce yell whenever she saw a chance to sneak closer and turn the tables. Kjelle never let her get more than a few shots before repelling her back out of range, Morgan constantly on the back foot.
Just as planned. Morgan couldn't look behind her, but she knew where she was based on what she saw in front of her. The storehouse was right beside the training grounds, not far from the stables. All she had to do was keep Kjelle busy until Morgan could get her to follow her in, because Morgan knew one very unruly pegasus that was all too happy to trample her at the slightest provocation—and, for that matter, anyone not named Sumia. Morgan didn't have the power or technique to break through knight armour on her own, but then why did she have to? A war animal weighing a literal ton could do it for her, and right when Kjelle was getting confident that "angry" Morgan still couldn't take her!
Granted, Morgan genuinely could not take her without risking a trade that would sink herself… but that was the hallmark of an even matchup, not stacked. So long as she played the defensive and didn't get too aggressive, Kjelle couldn't open her up either.
Until, of course, Kjelle did. The tip of her lance grated against the jagged edge of the Levin Sword. Morgan deflected it aside with a hard shove as Kjelle pulled back, the blade catching against the back of the spearhead. Morgan was dragged forward with a surprised yelp. Okay, so trying to play defensive while faking offensive might've left her with lots of gaps and Morgan drew out the fight too long. The lance quickly reversed direction, Kjelle's shield ready to block if Morgan recovered in time to swing as Kjelle's weapon struck for her arm—
Another knight's shield struck both their weapons, shoving them away and sending their wielders stumbling back.
"Y-you?" spluttered Kjelle.
Morgan squeaked as her fingers were pried open around her sword, followed immediately by a pair of arms looping around hers and lifting her right off the ground. "Father?!"
A stray kick collided with his shin before she calmed down. Grima bared his teeth, not that she could see it. Kellam was firmly rooted between the two opponents to keep them from getting at each other. Laurent rushed to Kjelle to confirm that she wasn't badly hurt.
"Half the palace went into such a panic!" said Maribelle hotly. "What were you two trashing the castle for?"
"Sparring," chirped Morgan.
"Morgan," said Grima.
There were a lot of ways he said her name. Sometimes, he simply called for her attention. Other times, they were terse warnings, or all the exasperation he could be bothered to reveal. Morgan learned she could pick up what he was thinking just from the way he said her name, and this time it sounded absolutely furious. "Um," she said. "Kjelle wanted a match like we really meant it. So I just did what I always do."
Grima dropped her with a deep snarl. "Was it necessary? Bringing the fight inside."
"Yeah!"
A hard jerk on the chin forced her to look into the eyes of the fell dragon. "Consider your answer carefully. Was it necessary?"
"…No," she admitted quietly. Not in terms of total life-threatening necessity. "I had too much fun. Sorry?"
"An apology does not cover the cost of the damages you incur!" Grima spun away, hand over his face. He didn't look up as he called, "Maribelle, stop."
Maribelle's Heal staff froze, freshly turned away from Kjelle and ready to treat Morgan. "What's the matter?"
"Don't treat her wounds." This was another danger point of Morgan's condition. Grima didn't know the healer's searching spell for analyzing the state of a patient, so he had to assume healing magic was also out of the question until Morgan was ready to cast magic again. He also couldn't allow Maribelle or any healer to scan her either. He was able to reasonably excuse Morgan from harsh training by feigning favoritism, but he pulled the opposite now. "She brought them on herself. She will address them herself."
After a clipped round of thanks and apologies, the fell dragon seized his daughter and dragged her away to dress her wounds. Kjelle stormed off, leaving Laurent to quietly monitor them in the infirmary.
"Ow!" Morgan winced as her father roughly pulled her coat off and shoved an armful of bandages at her. "Father, be gentle!"
"Clean your cuts before I do it for you," snarled Grima. Morgan wouldn't have minded normally, but he did not look happy. As she seated herself and obeyed, he continued pacing irritably in a tight circle. "You forget your station. My daughter has no place ransacking the royal palace."
"What's the problem with it?" said Morgan. "You never cared about it before."
"The situation changes. In a time of war, the tacticians receive increased power and leeway. These leniences have expired." Grima muttered aside, "And those actions are still catching up to me."
"Oh, what? No pranks? You prank people!"
"A calculated maneuver, rarely directed beyond the Shepherds whose reactions I best gauge. Ransacking a kitchen affects too many humans and is not a practical joke! That is the problem—too many are affected!" Grima rounded on her and hissed, "Everything must have purpose. Do what you will when it carries no consequence, but do not bring ill tides upon yourself for no material gain!" Morgan shrank away as he stormed up to her, his face stopping inches short of hers. "There are others in this castle besides us and the Shepherds. You are my daughter. Your reputation is mine. Your gaffes become my responsibility! Do not create pointless work for me! Do not hinder me!"
He furrowed his brow, no longer purely out of anger. Morgan had pulled her legs off the ground and curled up into a little ball on the chair. She didn't even notice she was doing it until the pause. Grima whirled back around and left her space, hands stuffed in his pockets where they were less likely to strike a table on their own.
"I-I tried to make friends with Kjelle," offered Morgan, coming back out of the ball. "She wouldn't let it unless I fought her."
"And have you considered there is a reason I have yet to allow it?" Grima's deathly glare shot at Laurent before returning to his daughter. "So what of your friendship? Where are your priorities? In the moment I arrived, YOU LOST!"
She flinched as if physically struck by his raised voice. Grima set his gaze on the ceiling and tried to vent his anger with a low growl before switching to deeper breaths. What went unspoken was that it was even more impulsive of Morgan to accept such a challenge in her current state. Grima already took immense effort not to fly at Kjelle and rip her limb from limb when he set eyes on the battle. Now he had to reconsider the danger of their situation and be more wary than ever of a move if they tasted weakness. To avoid injury, Morgan's training wasn't as intense as he needed it and she'd be working from a deficit. She could make up the gap in the long run, but the gap existed now. More stress was exactly what he needed.
"Damn the council," seethed Grima under his breath. This affected his standing. Even more than that, resorting to begging the prince to cover his daughter's mess would rip the fell dragon to pieces. "Morgan, your pay is forfeit until repairs are done."
For an instant, indignance overrode all better thought in Morgan's head. "No allowance?! That's gonna be forever!"
"Maybe next time, think before you upend any part of a palace!" Grima ran his hands through his hair. In the span of one second, he debated the merits of ripping out chunks of it and narrowly concluded against doing so. He forced out through clenched teeth, "This is infinite generosity, Morgan. I must find every person affected by this, speak to them, and make amends. You have forced me to bow my head to humans."
Morgan sucked in a sharp breath. The venom dripping from his voice was everything she needed to know about how much the fell dragon utterly despised the act. She didn't just obstruct Grima. She cost him his pride. An obstruction was an annoyance to be brushed aside, but the tiniest slight against his pride was personal. Part of Morgan expected to be struck at any second for her disobedience, no matter how much the rest of her insisted it wouldn't happen.
"War cannot come soon enough," muttered Grima. He was at home surrounded by death, not buried in the trappings of human society. Scarlet eyes cast their fury upon Morgan, withering away in her chair and looking smaller than ever. Red stains marred her arms, some bright and fresh while others rested dark and drying. She was too ashamed to meet his eyes, only allowing her hands in her lap to fill her vision.
The fell dragon chewed on his tongue until he tasted blood. Inflicting pain on something, anything, cooled the flame just a little. Morgan had a limited capacity for receiving his anger before it had a negative impact on her utility. He had to keep her happy and make swift reparations when complications arose.
"Your actions and their fallout are of consequence to me," said Grima. He drained the rage from his voice and returned to neutrality. "That is all. Do you understand?"
He was still blazing under the mask. Morgan nodded as quickly as she could.
"Good. I will help you remove your armour. Dress your wounds on your own." Without anger powering his movements, Grima aided Morgan in undoing and setting aside her breastplate, followed by her leggings.
She mumbled a word of thanks, washing out her injuries and bandaging them. No longer in the heat of battle, the pain set in hot and fresh. Morgan knew her cuts couldn't be magicked away and they'd hurt whether her father got mad or not, but she couldn't help the feeling they were part of her punishment too.
"You may speak," said Grima.
"I'm sorry, Father."
"Do not speak for me. Speak for yourself."
"What does that mean?"
"Don't repeat your mistakes. But I have no need for you to wallow in them either."
"…You mean you want me to cheer up?" Morgan winced as she finished wrapping bandages around the cuts on her arms. "That's kinda tough right after getting chewed out."
"You never minded lectures from others."
"Yeah, because they're not…" Morgan finished that thought as a meaningless mumble. "I don't like it from you. This is the first time you've got really mad over something small."
Something small? Grima bit his lip and swallowed the blood that oozed forth. "I see. Continue speaking."
"Then… This sucks." She looked up. Grima stood before her—gaze cast down upon her, some unknowable purpose burning hidden inside, but not brandishing his anger. Did Morgan dare say it? She readied with a thousand apologies with her next breath. "You suck."
"I see." Zero reaction on that one.
"I hate you?"
"I see."
"I could totally take Kjelle and I wanna go shopping and your punishments are dumb. Our room is all bland and boring and yeah you like it that way but I want more decorations in it. You stink! …Father, it's no fun if you don't react!" Morgan frowned at him for a moment. She puffed up and took on the haughtiest look she could, tilting her head way back so she could look down on him.
"What are you doing?" asked Grima.
"My impression of you. Good, isn't it?"
He scowled. Hey, there was one of the reactions Morgan was looking for! "That expression doesn't fit your face," he said. "Don't make it again."
"It's not that weird. You're just used to always looking at me from above. Actually, what if I looked at you from above?" Morgan grabbed his head and tilted it down. She figured she was good at making pleading faces and puppy eyes that her vantage point helped with. Maybe her father could—
Tilting Grima made his expression go from calm to one of his numerous death glares. Morgan immediately let his head snap back to normal position. "Whoa, that's all it takes?" she said. "You're not moving your face muscles at all!" She grabbed his head again. "Hee hee! Murder mode, normal mode, murder mode, normal mode—ow!"
With an involuntary trace of a growl, Grima smacked her arms away. Despite it, the glimmer in her eye was back, plus a new smile to go with it. "Your pain tolerance needs improvement if that's enough to distress you. But that's for another day." Rage gnawed at the inside of his skin. Grima kept it down. Letting himself run wild would only strain their connection, and he didn't know what to do if she couldn't rebound on her own. "We were practising ballroom dancing with Maribelle before we were interrupted."
"Maribelle?" said Morgan. "I didn't know she was your taste. Maybe this mother won't mind being called Mother!"
His scoff passed for a laugh after running it through her Understated Father Reactions filter. Grima pressed a roll of bandages into her hands and said, "Your wounds are clotting. Finish dressing them." His gaze slid to Laurent, quietly watching from the corner of the room. Laurent narrowed his eyes in return, and Grima continued, "You may not be able to participate in dancing today, but there will be good entertainment." It would serve to take the edge off his anger as well. Watching graceless insects squirm was always a favourite pastime of the fell dragon.
It was a small concession for having the brat watch as the fell dragon went around apologizing to all the inconvenienced servants for the trouble his daughter made. Grima would remember this.
Kjelle picked up a silver sword and tested its weight in her hands. "These are new."
"Freshly delivered for the Shepherds," said Frederick. "I hear Robin jumped through many hoops to have them shipped."
"They're just swords," she scoffed. But she also took care to sheathe the valuable blade and return it to its proper place in the cart. She didn't mean that there was nothing special about weapons. High-end equipment like silver swords were expensive and difficult for the average Ylissean to acquire, both for the value of the material and the enchantments upon them. There weren't even enough blades to put one in the hands of every single Shepherd who knew how to swing a sword, but the cart in front of her was worth a small fortune nonetheless. "Find a good armory, pay to have it made, and get the delivery. It's simple."
"Unless your funds come from the royal treasury of a nation known as much for the brutality of one Exalt as the peace of the one that followed," said Frederick.
"He has the prince's ear. Who could stop him?"
"You'd be surprised." But Frederick left the topic there. "As a matter of fact, Robin spoke to me on my way here. He claims you and Morgan were involved in an altercation?"
"You could call it that," she grumbled. As one of the pillars of the Shepherds' strength and the perfect image of a knight, Frederick was among the few Kjelle felt comfortable speaking to. "The girl is a double-dealing underhanded trickster and a sorry excuse for a soldier."
"Truly?" Frederick gave her a hard look. "The slack in your right grip on that sword suggested she has joined the ranks of those who can push you to give the battle your utmost."
Kjelle grimaced. It was barely the slightest left-leaning favour to relieve a lingering ache in her right shoulder. "Only through her dishonorable ways. Never in a fair fight!" Even as she said it, she remembered that Morgan staunchly refused to resort to tomes. For all the runarounds and slips she gave her, Morgan didn't use her trump card. It angered Kjelle more than anything—it wasn't a matter of honour for all of the tricks Morgan pulled, so that left an attempt at humiliating Kjelle that blew up in Morgan's face. "Yet I couldn't overcome it as easily as I expected. My strikes feel sluggish."
"Have you spoken to the healers of it?"
"They found nothing amiss."
Frederick exchanged quick words with the men handling the cart, directing them to where the swords were to be deposited and then dismissing them. He and Kjelle began making their way to the barracks. "It may be an ailment of another nature," he said. "An affliction of the mind."
"I've been hexed?!" Kjelle recalled her bizarre interaction with Tharja. "That witch…!"
"I hope you don't mean Tharja. Her track record doesn't extend to inhibiting the Shepherds in combat, mock or real… yet." Frederick coughed and continued, "I speak of a mental barrier—a deep-rooted perception that colours your world and alters the course of your weapon."
"I see nothing deep about it," said Kjelle. "We hit what's in front of us."
"And why do we, ahem, hit what's in front of us?"
"To protect those who cannot protect themselves. It is the honour of us knights… but I will consider your words, sir. Thank you for your advice."
Frederick nodded, arms folded behind his back. They arrived in front of the barracks and came to a stop. In three, two…
"However, I wish to spar with you!" declared Kjelle.
There it was. Frederick set off to get his own lance from storage and found Owain shouting fantasy names at it.
The rebels north of Rosanne were loud, boisterous, and a little too eager for a scrap for Lucina's tastes. Their leader was a paladin who went by Gram, with a rough face framed by faded brown hair, attended to by a dozen cavaliers. The first meeting took place on wide, spacious fields—ideal for the cavalry that Valm was so well known for. If negotiations went south, their would-be allies would have a menacing home field advantage.
Lucina wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or concerned that the first order of business was duelling. Gram turned out to be a few steps below them, silver sword thrown from his hand by Say'ri's Killing Edge. Lucina didn't like the intense stares boring into her as she faced him next and eked out her victory, pinpoint thrusts at the gaps in his gauntlet eventually whittling away his ability to carry his blade. It was a chance for Lucina and her allies to establish themselves in the pecking order. Lucina also noted that the paladin only opted to ride his steed to match Gerome in the narrowest of the battles in addition facing down every last one of them in succession with minimal rest… except Yarne, who vanished into the brush at the first mention of weapons.
"A convoy?" asked Gram during the meeting that followed.
He laughed aloud and turned to his men. "You hear that, boys? We got better to do than beat around in the sticks!" Still chuckling as they cheered, the paladin returned his focus to the swordmaster and said, "Throwing weight around gets boring when all there is to fight is the boys who got kicked off the frontlines. Let's give that lobster a reason to turn his greasy behind around and come deal with us himself!"
The lines of Say'ri's face deepened ever so slightly, but she remained elegant and composed. "And regarding your contacts?"
"Eh? Right, right. We've been trading letters with Leonard over near the Great Gate, way in the north. Bet he'd love to join in on this, but his group's been eyeing the harbour. Lotta materials been rolling in there as of late. Says we could see Valm setting sail in four years—that is, if we weren't around to do something about it."
"You have my gratitude," said Say'ri. "I would wish to meet with them soon." She pointed at the map on the large table and said, "This lake just ahead of us extends well to the east. Likely the convoy will traverse this road…"
Lucina and Severa sat with Say'ri, feeling distinctly out of place in the rebel camp. Say'ri handled the bulk of the discussion. The meeting covered more potential contacts across the northern continent and a rudimentary plan of attack for when they struck, but mostly revolved around the exchange of information—their new host's knowledge of the local dissidents for Say'ri's intel on where to strike. Were the topic of combat more heavily involved, Lucina could provide her input, but diplomacy was best left in the hands of a native royal. A small glance at Severa and the sound of her impatient foot tapping on the dirt suggested she felt much the same.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Severa after the meeting, the two of them returning to their tents by the edge of their camp. Yarne escaped the meeting by very aggressively volunteering himself to prepare it away from the strangers.
Lucina nodded. "They're very eager to battle."
"Shallow, more like. A hundred is great and all, but it's a drop in the bucket when we have to count the enemy in hundreds of thousands."
"We ourselves are only twelve against a world of Risen," Lucina reminded her.
"Pfft. You see the other twelve around? I sure don't." Severa lifted the flap of their tent and exclaimed, "See?! Zilch! Nada! Bet Yarne's got himself tangled up in a bush after getting spooked by a horse on the other side of camp. Gods know what the other two are doing."
"Gerome is on patrol." Lucina cocked her head. Vague shouts of an excitable pegasus knight espousing the heroics of fighting in the name of justice reached her from the distance. Cynthia was making fast friends with their new comrades.
"Oh, sure, for that cracked-out hyper-Risen we haven't seen since we hit the mainland," grumbled Severa. She waved Lucina into the tent before following her in. "Can't wait for him to come sweeping in, read the situation in two seconds, and throw all our plans out the window to do whatever he wants us to do. I can't stand him! I don't get how you can look at him and make a straight face."
"I'm afraid I don't see the issue. We could benefit from his calm, measured opinions. He have a keen mind for combat as well. I'm glad you were at my side at the meeting for the same reasons."
"Me?" Severa shot a scowl at the corner of the tent and muttered, "It's not like I contributed anything. I just sat there and looked pretty."
"Having you at my side lends me strength," said Lucina. She set aside her mask and sorted through their bags of supplies. "In truth, I was quite nervous to receive a question I couldn't answer for the entire meeting."
"Huh. You too." Severa sighed. "Bet you'd say the same for any of us…"
"Is there a problem with that?" asked Lucina. It was the truth, after all.
"Damn right there's a problem with that!" She slammed a whetstone on the table and got to furiously sharpening her blade, muttering under her breath. "…don't deserve to…"
"All of you are my comrades-in-arms," said Lucina evenly. "I can't possibly ask more of you than to risk your lives for my cause."
Severa huffed and puffed and rolled her eyes. "You should ask more. At least, you shouldn't be taking sass, especially not from some wyvern rider with his head so far up Minerva's—"
"Do you dislike Gerome?"
"I don't dislike him," muttered Severa. "I don't like how he doesn't care. You're our leader, Lucina—you, not him! Sometimes you need to show people who's in charge or they'll walk all over you." Her blade screeched like nails on a chalkboard against the whetstone.
"Hold on." Lucina joined her side, guiding her hands. "That's too much force. Apply it at an angle like this, in smooth motions…"
Severa scowled and brushed her off. "I'm not a kid!" She corrected herself as directed and muttered, "Gawds, do I look like I've never sharpened a sword before?"
Lucina recalled her foisting the job on someone else on a regular basis. She probably wouldn't appreciate the reminder. But if this was truly her first attempt, her intuition was astounding.
"He never has these problems," grumbled Severa. "Mister Perfect. And so long as he's useful, he gets to stick around. Never mind what else he does… Ooh, look at me, I'm good with an axe! That makes me the big guy calling all the shots! Ugh!"
"I don't know what I'm doing."
Severa stopped sharpening her blade. "…Huh?"
Lucina sat on the edge of the bed with a quiet breath. Her face, so often set with understated determination and resolve, became weary and lost. "Should we be here? Though we must recover the gemstones, the fell dragon lurks in my homeland with his dagger ever pressed to my father's back. He likely means to bide his time and use the Shepherds until the course of history arrives at its original destination, but I can never feel for certain I have predicted the actions of Grima. Should we have helped Say'ri? She may well have survived without our intervention. Should I have killed Morgan? Not evil, yet one misled life in exchange for the death of Grima and world peace… Not a day goes by that I dread the answer finding me before I find it." She shook her head. "I claimed I would stop for nothing, yet I struggle to turn my back on another in the name of my ideals. Doubt plagues me at every step. I will do what I must—if only I knew for certain what it is that I must do."
"Don't tell me!" snapped Severa. "What, you expect me to figure it out? Wave my magic stick and show you the right way to go?"
"I'm sorry. I don't mean for you to give me the answers only I can find for myself." Lucina lifted her head and offered her friend a small smile. "I only wanted to tell you and you alone. That's all."
Lucina looked the tiniest bit happier—relieved to let someone know the worries that brewed in her head. It was a responsibility, a burden on the mind, and something she entrusted exclusively to Severa. She was more than just a soldier for Lucina's cause, to be measured by her usefulness.
"You're… sure you want to tell me that? Even if I can't do anything but listen?" she asked, already knowing the firm nod Lucina would give her. "O-okay. I get it." As she resumed sharpening her blade, Severa added, "Tell me these things more, will you? Least I could do for mouthing off at you all the time…"
"I'm grateful you feel comfortable enough to speak freely with me," said Lucina. "The same goes for him."
"It's like he thinks you need to be harder on yourself," grumbled Severa. "Shouldn't go off and bog you down."
"Indeed, and I don't resent his words—because they aren't a burden to me. They are an honour in the same way as these words between you and I. You don't need to take offense in my stead… but I'm grateful for your consideration. Thank you."
"Don't thank—I'm not even right that you were upset he…" Severa mumbled to herself a moment longer before sighing. "Okay, sure, whatever. You can sit there and listen to me, then. I've got enough complaints for the both of us!"
Lucina blinked. "I believe you claimed you didn't dislike him?"
"Doesn't mean I can't find something to complain about." Severa lifted her sword and sized up the thickness. She wiped and wetted the stone before continuing, "Why does he have that stupid mask on all the time? You've got a reason—so pretty with it, by the way—and he doesn't! Gawds, there had better be a massive scar under it. And that 'cool and aloof ice king' shtick he's trying for? Gag me with a shovel. And—!"
Severa went on while Lucina listened intently to all of her gripes. It didn't take long for her to begin roasting the other absent two. In minutes, not even their missing members were spared. Severa's words remained sharp, but the tone lightened with expressions and gestures exaggerated. Thankfully, she was already out of jabs for Cynthia and Yarne by the time they returned.
But Gerome still refused to interact with them since the discussion in Rosanne.
Author's note: Mmm. I have this big doc of super messy notes and rough synopses and scrapped sections in front of me, but it's not all that granular. Feels like every chapter I'm trying to tweak my writing style a bit too. 10K words on a weekly schedule is going to get rough when obligations catch up to me. Ah, well. It's rather belated, but Morgan does indeed play the Bongcloud in chapter 2 (of course she does). I was wondering if people would notice, and people did! I wonder how many little more nods will get picked up. So! How are we feeling so far? Characters okay? Morgan flatter than I intended? Grima too evil, too soft? Contradictory points? Little details you could go for seeing explored? A few words of support never hurt either.
