TWO | Disregard
"Kumiko, I want you to marry me."
"W-What?"
"Are you deaf? I said I wanted you to marry me."
"What are you-N-No! What madness is this, Your Majesty? That's not a nice joke..."
"No jokes. Marry me. You will be Queen of Bern and I will leave you with nothing more to ask of. Nothing to worry about, no unsecure tomorrow. You will have security, protection, wealth, power, prestige-"
"-No queen is ever secure, majesty."
"You have my word, you will be every bit secure. You have no enemies. No rivals. You are the only woman I will ever take a second look at."
"A-Are you forcing me? Are you even really serious? I can't—I'm just a commoner, an ordinary tactician—"
"You are the Queen of Strategy. I think that is royal enough."
"...No!"
"...I am the King of Bern, Kumiko. I do not take 'no' for an answer. And think. Would it not be great if you became Queen? Think of all the people that you could help, Kumiko. Think."
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
An auburn Bernese autumn changed everything, two years ago.
The Tactician Guild, hidden in a forest in the capital, was home to the students of Bern's greatest tactician, Alecto. His students were few but every bit special, lethally skilled in where they chose to excel. Kumiko was a member of this small group, as well as Anko, Bern's Master of Spies, and Alecto's daughter.
An autumn two years ago, Kumiko travelled back to the Guild, to visit for the winter as she always did, but little did she know that that autumn, Anko had plans for her. Plans she never would unfold by herself. There was no room for resistance—Anko, being Alecto's daughter, was facilitator of their group, deciding which tactician took what contract and when. How in the world would she know back then that she was going to be put forward to distract a king, turned into a pawn in a game? That was how she felt. Though a crown rests on her head and she was called Queen by every man, she was still a pawn, put forward by a spy to lure a king.
And why in the world, of all the beautiful women that roamed Elibe, would Zephiel ever desire her? Of all the princesses of better lineage, of the women of better grace and finery, of all the maids that would give an arm or leg to be his wife—why in the world?
Politics, she thought. She blamed it all on politics. That was what she made herself believe. She would hate to brag about it, but she was the Strategy Queen, trying to be won over by all countries to work for them. Bern was one of those countries, and as all countries, she had refused. Only Anko had locked her into a contract with Bern—and eventually, into a marriage contract with its sovereign. Why she was chosen, she blamed on the prestige and title that everyone almost seemed to associate with her. Queen of Strategy. It would always be an intelligent choice for a country thriving in military power to have sovereigns who are adept at the trade.
...Politics? Ridiculous, Kumiko thought once. If Zephiel wanted power, he should have married an Etrurian princess, like most kings of Bern did, like his father did. His mother—if she had been alive then, gods bless her soul—would have seen to that. She would have never let him marry a commoner. His father would have allowed it—if only to show everyone that Zephiel was only good enough for a nobleman's bastard child. Or maybe—just maybe—he would understand that almost whimsical, illogical desire of Zephiel to marry a commoner, because he too, had loved one, the mother of Guinevere.
But you're the Queen of Strategy. You are royal enough. And that is all that Zephiel ever said.
But Bern, since having enthroned her, has never seen the Strategy Queen at work. If anything else, Kumiko hated anything that had to do with the nobles-only once working under Lords Hector and Eliwood, and Lady Lyndis of Lycia. It was set in her mind that she would not—never—use her skill for a noble if not for those that were her friends. And if Zephiel's goal in marrying her was for warmaking, then that made her vow all the more to stop her practice of tactics.
Everything is just... ridiculous. Whenever I think back on all that happened, I still don't understand what brought me here and why I even let this happen.
Oh, yes. Now I remember. Zephiel's offer. And Lord Athos' prophecy.
Think of all the people you could help, Zephiel had said. Think of all the people whose lives would be better because of you. Isn't that what you want, Kumiko? That's why you try to help anyone you can. If you were queen, you could do much more than what you do normally. I swear to support you in all endeavors of this kind that you may have.
But all that was playing on her mind as he said those words was Lord Athos' dying words. A dark star rises from the East. From Bern... She married and accepted the role of queen thinking that she can have a closer watch on her country and prevent anything horrible from happening. But what if that dark star was the man that was supposed to be by his side, watching over their nation?
Was he that dark one?
She had never watched him. Certainly, and she regretted it, she had ruled him out. He was a good man, a wonderful king, and Bern had never been more prosperous than it had been. He was stern in giving justice and he stood by his words, but at the same time he was a merciful king that his people loved. So where did this war come from? She regretted not watching him carefully enough. She has been married to him for two years now, and although their marriage had no major problems, she had never felt anything strongly for him, and they argue over little things frequently. For one, she says that she works too hard, and says that he never has time for her. On the other hand, he says that he has given her everything she asks for, and says that she shuns him whenever he tries to show his concern. She never lets him hold her unless there was a public gathering where it was necessary they show their relationship. Oh, they always made up after, and she gave him all due respect, but she knew in her heart that she did not love him, and she only married because she had to. And so she disregarded him.
And now he was doing it to her.
LYCIA | Ostia
He looked dimmer than the night, and she had no memory of him looking like that, ever. She walked over to his figure, slipping a bowl of food onto the table before him, impassive even if he was clearly depressed.
He lifted his thoughts from where they were, and briefly turned his head towards her as she walked towards the windows and leaned against them. She pulled her long dark brown hair from her neck and over her shoulder, and he just said, "No."
He pushed the food aside, and instead gave his attention to the bottle of wine before him, swinging it over to his mouth. She glared at him—that wine was unwatered, pure, and of very good quality, the kind served to kings. Not the kind a drunkard in some inn should be drinking. "Stop it," she said. "You're going to have an awful hangover in the morning, I swear. Stop it, Matthew."
Matthew—Ostia's Master of Spies. He would never seem like it at first glance. He never had the most necessary trait a spy needed, which was normalcy—the ability to be forgettable. He was feather-light in movement, swift as lightning in battle, with hands and fingers that could handle any lock or dismantle any mechanism, traits that would make him a top-class spy—but he was not forgettable. Over the years he had grown tall—not absurdly so, but tall enough to stand out from the ordinary men—and that does not help his forgettability. Then there was his appearance—sandy brown hair that seemed gold when hit by the light was on his head, spilling onto a tail down the nape of his neck up to his back. He had a nice smile that always curled into a smirk—he tended to smirk even while he talked. Lean and tall with sun-kissed complexion and a boyish charm… Even in his mid-thirties, he never failed to take the attention of men and women alike. Anyone can tell that he is no plain man from his looks. Though his appearance had hindered much of his career as a field spy, he proved that he was too good to be just that—he became the Master of Spies, the one who oversaw everything, the one pulling the reins.
It was a different Matthew in that room that night, though. He was a mess—his white, long sleeved undershirt soiled brown from mud and red from blood, his fancy black-and-gold coat tossed recklessly onto the bed. His skin and face was scratched up, purple bruises still all over his body and at the corner of his lips. His eyes were bagged from lack of sleep. He smelled like sweat and like he just drowned in wine. He was not the sweet, the smart, the clever Master of Spies. He was not the accomplished man with great responsibilities. He was a boy drowning in his fears.
Matthew smiled glumly as he set down the wine after a long gulp. He has had too much, but when he spoke, he did not slur. Good spies had high tolerance for liquor. "Why should I stop?" he asked her, pointedly. "What do you expect me to do, woman? Put Ostia back together, when I'm not even a noble or royalty?"
"You're Master of Spies," she pointed out, while shaking her head to herself. Why in the gods' names am I tolerating this man again?
"Master of losers. I botched it all. It was all my fault—silly, useless me…" He lifted his left hand to touch his right shoulder, bandaged tightly, and he flinched when it suddenly hurt. This alerted the woman, and she said, "Don't touch it too much. It's not going to be in any condition to even move yet, unless we get a healer."
"It's going to stay this way forever," he said. "The chances of finding a healer in the coming days are slim. The remaining soldiers in the perimeter are looking for us, Xarin. The distance from the next town is too much. By then, this would have become permanent. Serra could handle this, but I'm not even sure I'd see her again…"
The woman, Xarin, a field spy of Ostia, didn't know how to feel for a while. She had never bothered to sympathize with other people. The profession dictated being colder than most men. Understand—yes, she understood perfectly—but never knew how to sympathize. And it bothered her that maybe that was what her superior needed.
Xarin, four years younger than Matthew, was much his opposite. She did not strike people the same way he did—she was never the charmer. People tended to avoid her, to not even pay notice her, as if their subconscious were telling them that she was dangerous. Only those who take a second look ever notice her—her long, dark brown hair, her even-toned, unblemished skin, her deep, steely auburn eyes—and then come to the conclusion that she is, in her own way, a beauty. Too cold, though, Matthew used to say. Got this sort of aura creeping out of her telling people to get out of her way. Only the brave, stubborn ones pit themselves in her path—and they're not rewarded well. She rarely smiled, expression mostly blank. Only when she was acting out a role did she smile. Without a role to play, she's blank, Matthew used to say, just a product of long years in the field, but that sure as hell does make her the deadliest field spy out there.
Not the best companion, though. She was awkward at conversations that involved much emotion—like now. Matthew was clearly brooding from his failure at Ostia, and she could read that his every small move and gesture and sigh was asking for comfort and encouraging words. None of which she could or knew how to give.
"...It's going to be alright," she said, trying to sound reassuring. But if anything else her words just made Matthew give a snort—he did not believe her at all. Frankly, with the way Matthew was acting, Xarin doubted her own words as well. There was no way to pull together Ostia's spies when the very head was acting like a boy. No way at all. She glared at him and raised a brow—and he saw it.
"You can act like that, you know, because you're not me," he said, tone dismissive and arrogant. "You didn't see what I saw, dear, didn't go through what I got through. A surprise attack from Bern, with some people from inside the castle working with them—I didn't see that. I was supposed to see that, me being Master of Spies and all. But I didn't. I was supposed to save Lilina. But they took her away from my very arms. I was supposed to look after Lady Lyn—but they killed her in front of me. I lost everything, everyone. I don't have anything left."
And silence filled the room, letting Matthew's words hang in the air. His smirk left his face and slowly turned to a downcast frown, as he repeated the words. "...I don't have anything left. I'm with nothing, no one."
Another silence. But then Xarin spoke, in something short of a whisper, eyes downcast on the floor:
"...What about me?"
Matthew lifted his head, turning to her, because he did not hear her words. He was about to ask her to repeat what she said, but then all of a sudden, she came to him an a flash, holding him by the neck and pulling him to the ground. His wine toppled over, red liquid spilling to the floor.
"I dare you to say that again!" she said, fist tight on his collar, the other hand pressing him down hard on the ground, on his bad shoulder. He swore he was going to finish that swordsman's job of ridding him of an arm. "I dare you to say that! You say you've lost all your spies, that you're with nothing, no one. Then what do you call me? I'm better—if not the best—among your field spies. I can do better than a hundred men! I've followed you up to now without complaining! Gods know how much I'm already fed up with your whining! But I say nothing! Not until now. You're my superior, and that's all I think of. But you call me nothing. No one. And don't you dare think you're the only one in pain! I saw the attack on Araphen! I saw it! I had to fight through it! I had to escape on my own to see if you, or Lady Lyndis, or Lilina was safe—and you disregard me! You selfish fool. I refuse to follow such a stupid man!"
He was stunned, if only because it was Xarin screaming at his face then and there—Xarin, who kept her mask on all this time, who didn't say much, who never ever lost her cool. Her eyes were filled with anger—and then they turned glossy. And her body jerked slightly, as if she were stifling tears that were to come.
Oh no, my god, Xarin—cry? I must be such a horrible man. So selfish indeed. She's been as much as I have been. She feels as much responsibility as I do. When I should have been the stronger one, here she is, pushing me to my senses. Oh, Xarin. I'm so sorry, Xarin. "Xarin… I'm… I'll…"
"If you refuse to pick yourself up, I'll leave you and find my own way! I'll-"
She stopped when he suddenly pulled a hand up to her own—to the one clutching him on his bad shoulder. He stroked her hand with his fingers, held it in his, and then said, "…I'm sorry."
Her glossy eyes stirred, as if the words were the ones that would cause the tears to pour. "I'm sorry. I was wrong. And you're right. I'm a pathetic man. And I degrade you by being one. I'm sorry. I'll do better. I promise."
She gasped, as if she couldn't believe what she were hearing. He said everything so smoothly; it must be a lie. But then at the same time, why did everything sound so true? A tear came down her cheek. "I… I don't believe you. What are your promises worth? What…" The words trailed off, and were lost.
He smiled, put a hand up to her cheek to wipe the tear away, and said, "Worth every fiber of my being. I'll promise—I'll swear. I swear I'll be stronger. And if I have you, what do I need all my other spies for? You're even better than me."
She—much to Matthew's surprise—blushed at his praise. He gave a little giggle at that reaction, but then—
The door burst open, and the innkeep's daughter was there. Matthew and Xarin sharply turned their heads towards her—and she gasped, mumbling an incorrigible apology, then quickly shutting the door. "I'm sorry!" she called. "I didn't mean to interrupt!"
Matthew and Xarin stayed still, staring at the door, as if waiting for the girl to go away. When her footsteps were well and gone, Xarin sighed, but then Matthew burst out laughing.
"What?" Xarin asked, the flush on her face vanishing.
"She thought she was interrupting!" Matthew answered, with a laugh.
"Inter—" Xarin began, but she recalled her position—on her knees and hands, holding a very amused Matthew against the floor, underneath her. And when she realized this, she quickly scrambled away from Matthew like he had the plague.
Matthew wouldn't stop laughing, though.
BERN KEEP | Office of the Master of Spies
The morning air was cold, and Anko could almost see a drizzle coming in from her office around the topmost part of Bern Keep, where one had through climb an obscurely long, winding staircase to reach. But that difficulty came with a prize, Anko always told others and herself. Being in such a hard to reach location, intruders were unlikely to come and find her office, and then there was exclusivity as well—there were no nosy courtiers or unwanted servants ambling about as she worked. For all she knew, she was entirely alone in that floor of Bern Keep.
And then there was the view—always spectacular. The mountain ranges of Bern can be seen, the fields, the towns—everything. The wyvern riders would be seen in their rounds around the Keep, and sometimes, a wyvern knight would pass her office window and bid her good day.
And such a good day it is today, Anko thought, as she looked out her window. The early morning was quiet in the quaint way, but then Anko knew that that silence would not last long. Pretty soon, messages would come in though hawk or wyvern knight through her window, and she would have to decode messages, background check certain people, write down reports, and piece everything together for His Majesty, Zephiel. He would be expecting her report in no more than an hour.
Anko took a little sip of wine, set the goblet by her window, and then turned back to her office to get to work. Her office had already been drowning in enough papers on ordinary days, but these days, in this war, there were more papers to deal with.
Unfortunately, most of them were trash and hardly to be considered. A stack of them was made up entirely of letters of appeal to the Queen of Bern—questioning why and how this war started, begging to please plead with king, telling of tales of villages taken, husbands and children killed, sons forcibly taken into the military to draft a resistance force against Bern. And Kumiko was not to be bothered with such things, the king had made clear. The stack of letters was going to end up in her fireplace. But everyday she sifted through them, reading the letters for relevant information that some might contain. And she did that then—she ripped off the seal of a letter from the stack, and read.
There was nothing new to the letter, though. Someone from Etruria questioning what was going on with the war. Nothing new at all. Countless messages have been given—publicly and in secret—from Etruria to Bern and its courtiers, questioning the war—carefully, lest they risk the king's temper. The letters and polite inquiries, Anko thought, were all useless. Truth be told, she herself did not know what the war was all about. And she was the kingdom's Master of Spies.
I'm sorry, father. I have not seen this coming at all. I thought I knew everything that was going on. I thought I controlled everything. I cannot say Zephiel is now an awful man, but he is not the boy we used to know, father. And Kumiko—she suffers for this. I'm sorry, father. I miscalculated everything. You were right. I should have listened. I should not have fueled the anger in Zephiel's heart. I should have not changed a man because of my filthy revenge.
But there's no turning back now, Anko thought, as she continued to sift through Kumiko's letters. Kumiko—much relied on her now. She would need guiding. Knowing Kumiko, she would act rashly, only later out finding the consequences. She has to put herself in Zephiel's way in manners she wouldn't imagine—subtle ways, never her outright, frank ways. Knowing Kumiko, she would be rash, she would break herself out of Bern Keep and side with Lycia or Etruria as quickly as possible. But that is not the way to go, Anko thought. Zephiel is angry enough with Guinevere missing. You are the only one he has now, Kumi. Leaving is the last thing we want you to do.
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
The next morning was damp, cold, and almost unbearable on her part. The queen hated cold mornings for the fact that she couldn't bring herself to get out of bed when it was cool, to the point that she thought the cool weather a barrier that kept her sleeping in her bed. But at the same time, she relished sleeping when the weather was cold, so on days like this the maidservants and her ladies left her alone until much later in the day, knowing she would want to sleep longer.
Yet she pulled herself and sat up, and blinked her eyes open to see Zephiel right there in the room, seated on her couch, sipping on something in a gold cup. Ah, Zephiel. He always slept so late and always woke up so early.
She groaned, rolling her eyes. "What are you doing here?"
"Ah, good morning," he turned to her and nodded. "Something to drink?"
She repeated her question solidly, trying to sound threatening. "What are you doing here?"
"You don't think I can go wherever I please?"
She groaned again, but she pushed the bedcovers away from herself. She took the seat across him, looking at the tray of bread and jam and pastry set out on her low dining table, and taking a bite for herself. It was so early in the morning to feel bad and argue. That would have to wait until later.
He asked, "Did you sleep well?"
She shook her head.
"Same here."
"You never really get enough sleep, Zephiel," she pointed out in a tone that was tinged with slight concern. "You always slept later than me, but you always wake up before I do."
He was relieved to hear this light conversation from her—no confrontations about the war yet. "Ah, it's just that you sleep too much," he said with a smile.
A silence passed, wherein she would look up to him and then look away again, with hesitation in her face. He preoccupied himself trying to figure what that expression meant—there was a hint of coyness, hesitation, and a bit of a blush of embarassment there—but then she spoke.
"...May I know why?"
Aha. So it was time for questions. "Why what?" he asked.
"Why this war?" she asked, her eyes cast down on the carpeted floor. She spoke with a feminine softness that bordered on pleading—it was a tone he was foreign to because he had never heard her speak in it before.
Yet all he gave her was an immediate, "You may not know."
"And why not?" she asked, her tone consistent. He was beginning to think she trained her voice to sound just like that—soft and innocent, pleading but not, sweet but a little disappointed. It was, he thought, some sort of weapon that was devised to make him surrender.
Well, it was not going to make him.
"Because I do not think you have the right to know," he answered.
"I am your wife. I have every right."
"I am king," he said. "I have every right over you."
She muttered something under her breath—she might have cursed or she might have swore-and then groaned in defeat. The sweet charade was gone now. Her eyebrows were furrowed as she sipped on her warm ale.
He groaned as well. "I know what you're thinking," he said, and he meant it. "I know that you're thinking, 'there he goes again, telling me what to do and acting superior over me, treating me as if I'm a slave bound to obey all his orders'. God! Kumiko, will you ever grow up?"
"But it's true!" she insisted. "You always tell me what to do and what I should not do! You don't know how sick I am of all the formalities and subtleties of the castle!"
He groaned again, cursing this repetitive argument with her. They always argue about this, and he understood that she was just longing for her former lifestyle, but it was unbearable to have to argue about it with her time and again.
He wondered on how to stop this argument as she gazed at him expectantly, waiting for his response. The silver cup of ale was resting on her lap, still half full, and for a second he feared that she would spill it onto her pristine white nightgown.
"Kumiko," he said, his voice stern with authority, "I'm sorry to refute your words yet again. I do not manipulate you, period. If I remind you of how you should manner in my castle, it's for your sake, not mine. Do you want me to tell you that I don't care that the courtiers think that you're an ill-mannered commoner who but charmed your way into this castle with your looks?"
"No," she whispered in reply.
"There," he said. "And my words are not orders, they are reminders. And you also know full well that you have but to ask something of me and I will surely see to it that you shall get it. In fact, you ask for quite a lot of things."
She rolled her eyes. She knew what he was talking about. In these two years, he's been nothing but kind, giving her what she wanted within good reason, be it fancy nightgowns, jobs to her friends, an excuse from formalities... he gave her everything. She didn't really ask for much, in contrary to his words, but when she asked for something, he made sure she got it.
"But you never loved me."
She said that in less than a whisper, but he still heard it clearly, every single word. "Excuse me?" he said, his tone slightly raised. "And you dare tell me that I never loved you?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes. Because if you do, you would trust me and just tell me why!"
"Why would never satisfy you!" he exclaimed, getting up from his seat in frustration. "You would not stop pestering me until I die hearing you insist I stop the war. Just telling you why is prelude to all that!"
"You don't love me!" She stood up as well, the cup of ale in her lap spilling onto the floor out of the abrupt action.
"No, you don't love me!" he corrected her. "You wouldn't trust me with yourself, either! You wouldn't even let me touch the tips of your fingers!"
"It's because men all just want one thing from women!"
"No, they do not!"
She groaned, and then turned her back on him. He groaned as well and then slunk back to his seat.
"You are just so childish," he muttered to himself.
She stood there in silence, her back facing him, and for a second he wondered if she was crying.
And then she spoke, and her tone was calm, "You've always listened to me and gave me what I wanted. So why not this time?"
"Because I don't think you deserve it," he said.
She sighed, and went back to her seat. Why was he doing this? He was always a reasonable man... Or at least that's how she knew him to be...
He stared at her, as if expecting her to argue some more, but she said nothing.
"Well," he stood up, "I have early morning paperwork. I will see you later."
It was his escape, but she held on to his wrist, stopping him from leaving. He turned to her.
"Don't leave."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"I feel lonely, and depressed, and all that... because of you and this war... This is all your fault, Zephiel. Please, just stop this. Take this pain away. Please, just listen to me. It hurts. This hurts. Please... Just... Stop."
In response to this, he knelt down on the carpeted floor, and he held her cheek, "Kumi, I know you're troubled, but it's not like I'm forcing you to partake in this war..."
"Zephiel... I feel bad merely knowing that there is a war. I want you to stop it. All of it. Please..."
He put a hand to her chin and help her face up, to look her in the eye. Her sapphire eyes were glossy with tears, and to see that caused something in his heart to ache—but his resolve was made. There was no changing it. "Look at you, Kumiko. You're a beautiful woman. Crying suits you ill. Don't cry anymore. But please don't make this difficult for us anymore. I have my decision and you cannot change it. Someday you will understand why I do this. I'm sorry."
And he held her face closer to his, and kissed her. She let him do so, but she did not kiss him back. She never would. She never returned any of the advances he made on her.
He only sighed, and left.
End of Chapter.
Notes: Wow... Kind Zephiel is alarming to write... That felt... unnatural. But I deduce Zephiel couldn't have just completely turned evil all of a sudden. He must retain some sort of softness, the one he had before. We see it in FE6 when he interacts with Guinevere—we see that he has a soft spot for her, but at the same time we also see that he has his mind set on what he wants.
My boyfriend left me. And that's how he is. That's what he told me. That I'm beautiful and crying doesn't suit me. That please, I should understand his decision. That... hurts. If I didn't already have a draft of this written down, this chapter would be absolutely delayed. The Journey readers, your wait will have to be longer. The next chapter I would have to write from scratch (unlike this one which I just have to edit and finalize) and I'm in no mood to write yet. Not something like The Journey at least. If it's not too much to ask, please pray for my healing. It's been a month or so and it still... hurts. So much. Especially that all our communication is lost. I'm only holding on to one promise—that he'll see me before he leaves the country sometime soon—but I don't know when. In three months? Two? Four? And I don't even know if he'll keep or remember that promise. It hurts to have all these doubts swirling in your mind. There's still an ache in my heart. Please pray for me if you can.
Wow... I'm writing Matthew-Xarin... Wow. What a surprise.
Kumi and Zephiel have an odd relationship... but I understand them. Does anyone else understand? XDD
