I neglected to mention in the last chapter that what Tharja did to Robin (the boob snap, haha) feels like a tit punch. My fellow ladies…you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
Aylatha: I hope you're excited for this update too ;) Twice in one month feels good for me to achieve and I hope I can keep a similar pace in later chapters.
FallenRaindrops: it's because Chrom/orange is the game's only canon pairing, clearly. I simply couldn't not include it! As for Chrom's fashion sense, let's just put it at atrocious, haha. He's lucky to have help in that area!
Caver Floyd: Tharja is the closest thing Fire Emblem has to a cynical emo, Intsys playing up the fanservice angle notwithstanding. I love that you compared this to Aladdin, and now I can't get 'Prince Ali' or 'Friend Like Me' out of my head. Here's to hoping the upcoming movie will be a good one!
Spring Break is coming up soon! I won't stop writing during it, just mentioning that I might travel to Colorado to visit some family members up there. It's a lovely state and I love the fresh mountain air, all the outdoorsy things there are to do there with my in-law's wiggly dog, and this amazing diner in Denver that has the most delicious pancakes and beef hash. I can't wait…
Olivia was never much for parties; the crush of people, the heady din of laughter and merrymaking, the stench of wine-soaked garments often proved too much for her sensibilities. Staying in with a good book and curled up next to a roaring fire was more to her liking. So when a great hue and cry was raised at the most ungodly hour, with everyone rushing out of the guesthouse to gawp at the new arrivals and coming back running with news of a grand feast planned for later, Olivia decided that barricading herself in her room was in order. Not the least because Chrom was obviously going to be attending and she had no desire to run into him or even let him catch a glimpse of her.
(He had sent her more love letters and gifts via Basilio, traitorous uncle that he was. The presents were regifted whilst the letters were consigned to the fireplace)
But these newcomers were Plegians…Prince Daraen's people. Meaning he was, presumably, to preside over the event.
Should I go? she asked herself, hand paused over the doorknob. Is it worth the risk?
Olivia's curiosity over Daraen had not waned in the slightest—the latest news only stoked it further, burning hotter and brighter. What would it be like, to see him amongst his own kind? Would he come dressed in Plegian finery? Was he to give a speech? What were Plegians outside of battle like, anyways?
Her eagerness to avoid Chrom's presence warred with her fascination over the young prince. It was a difficult, nerve-wracking thought process, but the latter won out in the end, and Olivia found herself coaxing a skeptical Sully into dressing her for the feast.
Just a quick peek won't hurt…
She was wearing an Ylissean gown in an attempt to blend in and hide from Chrom's gaze. She even had Sully hide her long pink hair under a white coif as though she was an old-fashioned married woman. Sweat dampened her nape as she wove between the people, nervously shrinking away from making eye contact with anyone, and pushed herself into a space that would allow her a good enough view of the proceedings while keeping her inconspicuous.
What a marvelous sight it was! Richly coloured banners were hung all over the place, and a delicious smoky incense burned in burnished censers laid out in strategically placed intervals along the audience hall. Servants fanned the scent further, as well as the people, with enormous ostrich feather fans. But Daraen—
Her eyes widened when a loud fanfare of trumpets announced his presence.
Gone were the ill-fitting trousers, the baggy hose, the weirdly tight vests and doublets; in their place was a gorgeous ensemble of purple cotton and gold jewellery that favoured the prince's pale complexion. His boyishly messy hair was now carefully combed into place beneath a golden thorned circlet. Every inch of him looked appropriately princely…and the biggest surprise of all was the muscular, toned physique exposed by a deeply plunging neckline in his tunic. Olivia's mind dispelled the previously held image of youthful softness and replaced it with a mental picture of manly sturdiness and strength.
Her mouth suddenly went dry.
She stared at him for the entirety of the feast. Olivia cared little for the exhibition of the menagerie, the presentation of expensive gifts, or the entertainment put on by Plegian dancers and magicians; she only had eyes for Daraen, and the relaxed, confident way he held himself as he directed the event. As risky as it was to position herself so close to where Daraen sat—which was right next to Chrom—, Olivia could not bear losing sight of him even for a second.
The two princes, thick as thieves, laughed and ate and talked easily throughout the night. Olivia slunk away before Basilio got back to the guest house to avoid running into him.
She replied half-heartedly to her maids' chit-chat as they disrobed her. She responded to Sully's questions with soft grunts as she soaked in a hot bath before bed. Basilio's soused 'good night' was only barely acknowledge before the Feroxi delegation turned in for the night.
Despite her tired body, Olivia's mind raced frantically through the memories of the feast. Her heart pounded over the images of Daraen walking down the staircase, his face serene and composed, his muscles well-defined under his tunic. He looked so different from the youth she remembered.
How strange I'm feeling! She thought as she tossed and turned for the hundredth time. The next few nights were spent in a similarly sleepless fashion.
Duke Virion paid a visit one morning. He paid her compliments as flowery and fine as his costly silken clothes over their fruit and oatmeal—Basilio talked her into sharing a private breakfast with the Rosannois noble. At the very least, he made for interesting conversation, and shared her interests in music and the arts.
Even so, she was too distracted to pay much attention.
"I say!" He wiped his mouth after a delicate spoonful of food. The action had Sully snorting in derision, but he seemed to not have noticed. "Is something amiss, my dear?"
Olivia started. She blinked, confused. "I-I'm sorry…did you say something?"
"You seem to be quite preoccupied over your thoughts. Is something wrong? Anything I can do to help?"
She set down her cup with a sigh. She grimaced once she realised she had accidentally spilled some of her drink on the skirt of her dress. "N-no, thank you. It's just…" she sighed again. "I was wondering about yesterday…"
"The Plegian banquet?"
"Yes. I…I hope I'm not too much of a bother, asking this…but how much do you know about Plegia?"
Virion set his spoon down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well…it's the smallest of this continent's countries, but quite rich in terms of resources. Most know it due to the vast desert in its centre, but it has grasslands and mountains bordering Ylisse, then more mountains to the west, jungles and forests, and a rather large lake separating it from Regna Ferox and Ylisse. Then there are its island territories. It has quite a different number of peoples as well: nomads that travel between the mountains and the desert, the Telmak Gush, headhunters in the jungles—"
"Goodness, Duke Virion! You know so much. H-have you ever been there?"
"Heavens no! It hasn't been the most welcoming to foreigners, really. I simply read what I can. Though I suppose that, with its change in rulership, a trip is in order. Young Prince Daraen looks like a capable enough man and I believe he's got what it takes to restore a measure of peace in his country."
Now was Olivia's chance to get to the real meat of her question. Since Virion brought him up, and not her, she could broach the subject without seeming too obvious about it.
"And…w-what do you think about Da—the prince of Plegia?"
Virion, raising a questioning brow, reaching for his drink. "Well. Not to seem rude, my dear Olivia, but surely you've heard something from your lord uncle? He is far more active than I am in the summit, after all. Or is his testimony not enough to satisfy?"
"No, i-it's not t-that," Olivia protested lightly, a blush spreading out across her face. "I just want to hear y-your thoughts on the m-matter."
Pensive silence befell them as Virion carefully considered his words. "He seems like a fine young man. I do admit that my exposure to Plegians was restricted to books or anecdotes of Ylisseans facing enemy soldiers on the battlefield—not the best way to make acquaintances, so my views were rather skewed, at first. But meeting him has certainly been quite the eye-opener. He has a ways to go in terms of grooming and etiquette, but his mind is quite sharp, and his tongue equally so. I had heard of the exploits of Plegia's master tactician, so seeing him in the flesh was rather intriguing. I do wonder if he'd be up for a quick game of chess one day…"
"Thank you, Your Grace," Olivia said, and she lapsed into quietude as Virion droned on and on about chess and other board games. She was quite relieved to see him go, despite vastly preferring his company to Chrom's.
"I shan't believe a word anyone says about that arrogant little peascod," Excellus vowed, fuming, as Olivia's maids reapplied her makeup after breakfast. He kept a certain distance from the vanity, as he disliked cosmetics and claimed them to be a display of pridefulness that marred one's natural beauty (the scents also made him feel ill). "Intelligence is not mutually exclusive to having manners."
"Why, because you're such an expert?" Sully sneered at the toadlike eunuch, and the room soon devolved into noisy bickering that Olivia tuned out with thoughts of Daraen.
She snuck into the kitchen well after dark and when Basilio's snores were loudest. Taking up the broom from its usual position, she poked a sleeping Gaius in the foot to wake him up.
"Babe, you've gotta stop doing that," he grumbled sleepily as he jumped down from the rafters. "You want me to fall and hit my head or somethin'?"
Olivia rolled her eyes slightly at the jester's dramatic tone. "You'd never fall. You always land on your feet—like a cat."
"I prefer being called 'foxy,'" Gaius said with a grin, in spite of himself.
"A-anyways…what have you found out?"
Tapping his foot in a quickfire rhythm, the rogue hummed exaggeratedly and rubbed the back of his head, mussing his already tousled hair. Olivia noticed distastefully that he had a lozenge stuck close to his ear. "Well. Bubble's a slippery little eel, I'm give him that. He's done something weird to his room with whatever enchantment or hex 'cause I can't pick the locks. The window's a no-go since it's so high up and Chrom's got it pretty heavily guarded."
"He's not a criminal, Gaius. You don't need to break into his room."
"Babe, let me remind you that you're paying me to stalk him—"
"I-I-I'm doing no such thing—!"
"—and rooms are where you put your important stuff, but I digress. I've been able to kinda follow him around—"
"What do you mean, 'kinda?'"
The jester scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Means half-done, sweetheart. You gotta stop interrupting and let me finish! Didn't they teach you manners at whatever fancy school you nobles go to?"
Olivia, spluttering and red-faced, felt the immediate urge to retort, but kept her mouth shut lest she prove him right.
"As I was saying. I don't have access to where he and all the rest of the bigwigs are having their meetings either, but I've been able to keep an eye on him when he's eating, working in the library, or out for a stroll in the gardens. It's been pretty boring."
"But what have you seen?"
"He's a right little bookworm, he is. Got his nose half-buried in a book and taking notes for a good part of the day. Bubbles should really get glasses or something, 'cause he sticks his face so far in to the page," Gaius laughed. "It's kinda cute! Maybe that's why his handwriting is so shitty. I mean, I'm not super literate, but his writing basically amounts to squiggles."
Olivia smiled to herself as she imagined Daraen scribbling inanities with his face in a book at the library. It was a very sweet image.
"He's also really paranoid. Granted, I know they called him 'Six-Eyes,' but damn if he wasn't turning around constantly. Caught me a few times, too."
Olivia groaned exasperatedly. "Aren't you supposed to be stealthy?"
"Babe, I am, but you try stalking a war strategist. Guys like that don't survive without being paranoid."
"It's not stalking," Olivia mumbled, still red-faced.
"Yes it is," Gaius retorted. "Lessee, what else…he likes kids. Princess, Stumbles, and Twinkles bring their brats over to him and he tires 'em out. Lets them whack him all over with their toys and crap. Don't get me wrong, they're cute, but I wouldn't be able to handle more than one at a time, and this guy just takes it all in stride. But he's always got an audience during playtime—the castle ladies lose their damn marbles over it. You'd think he was some sort of angel, the way they look at him."
Something unpleasant and hot rose, rather like bile, at the back of Olivia's throat. This was old news to her—she remembered her disastrous tea-time with the noblewomen—, but hearing Gaius describe it was…offensive, somehow. "Go on," she said, trying hard to swallow.
"He also has a really, really weird taste in food. No, scratch that; I'd call it disgusting. Bubbles said he was feeling peckish once, and Sunshine personally made him this absolutely abominable eel and liver pie—"
"Who's 'Sunshine?'" Olivia interrupted once more.
"Babe!" Gaius growled and rolled his eyes. "Stop interrupting! And Sunshine is that Plegian lady with the huge boo—"
"I'd rather not hear those particular details," Olivia muttered, rubbing her temples. "Is that all so far?"
"Well, I can dig up more, per our contract, but I'd like to be paid for it first."
The khatun handed him a fat, sticky honey roll she had hidden in a satchel in her room, and thanked him before retreating back upstairs.
That night, she was too energised up to even toss in bed. She spent her time pacing madly around the four poster bed as her heart and mind raced in a thousand directions.
To her horror, Olivia recognised the awful feeling caging her heart as jealousy. But what on earth was there to be jealous about? She already knew that Prince Daraen had his fair share of admirers. It was to be expected that his retinue would include attractive men and women. So why now, after the recent arrival of the rest of the Plegians, would she feel this way? Was she really so desperate for companionship that the sight of bare flesh was enough to send her in a tizzy?
Calm down. You barely know him. And yet, that just makes you want to know more about him, doesn't it? If only Chrom were like him…even if the others say he's coarse and rude, Daraen was thoughtful, and witty, and understanding when we first met. Another meeting with him wouldn't be so bad, even if he's doing it for Chrom. Will he wear that tunic again? Ah, no, calm down, calm down.
"Excellus," Olivia called out to the steward the next morning as her toilette was being prepared.
"Yes, mistress?" he simpered at her summons.
She withdrew a beautiful filigree bracelet with the Ylissean iris etched in gold from her drawer. "It seems that Prince Daraen forgot one of Chrom's gifts on his last visit. Would you be so kind as to inform him and give it back?"
"Well, that I can, but isn't this part of the jewellery Prince Chrom sent yesterday? Shouldn't I simply regift this?"
"No, I remember every single thing Chrom sends, and he sends quite a lot of stuff. I just don't think it'd be very polite of me to throw Daraen's gesture back in his face. It's not his fault Chrom's that way, is it?"
"No, milady," Excellus said, clearly displeased with having to interact with the Plegian again.
Olivia had long given in to her burning curiosity and desire to see Daraen again. However, she wanted it to be on her own terms, instead of hoping that Chrom would send the prince to her in another one of his ill-thought matchmaking attempts. Whether it worked, however, was completely out of her hands…but at this point, Olivia was willing to make that gamble.
Elsewhere in the castle, another member of the nobility also had his thoughts constantly turning to the prince of Plegia.
Chrom was currently dealing with a mass outbreak of hysteria in his court. The very sight of Plegians in Ylisstol—inside the castle!—was apparently enough to send some of his people into a panicked frenzy.
"If only their prince is allowed in the summit, then why have the rest here at all?"
"Their heathen ways are going to corrupt my children!"
"Our countries were at war a year ago; what makes Prince Chrom think they come in peace now?"
So on and so forth. Some of the most vociferous complaints came from his own cabinet, and having to constantly meet with them was enough to make him want to rip his hair out.
"Lord Oswynn, if Prince Daraen has been snoring soundly but a few doors down from me, then I can assure you that it's highly unlikely that a random Plegian will come to slit your throat in your sleep." Chrom rubbed his temples tiredly.
Tobias Falstaff had called an impromptu meeting after the feast; though he was clearly within his rights as a Minister, it was highly irritating to be pulled out of merrymaking. Chrom thought back to the delicious food and wonderful entertainment at the feast sourly, unhappy that he was now stuck at work.
He remembered Daraen's disappointed look as he left the party.
"If I may speak, sire," Anton Kospa spoke up timidly. "I was told they came armed."
"A clear violation of the terms set in the agreement," Falstaff pointed out.
Chrom was feeling the onset of a headache beginning to creep up on him. "Bandits are everywhere these days. With the cargo they were carrying, they needed to have weapons."
"Be as it may, it would be wise of us to confiscate them. No bandits are to be found within these walls, Your Highness."
O'Fearghial hacked and coughed drily, spitting a thick glob of phlegm to the side, and adjusted his robes around him as though he was chilled. "What of his attendants? What are we to do with them?" he rasped.
"They stay with their prince, of course," Chrom said.
"Unacceptable. They're most likely spies!" Oswynn panted, wringing his hands anxiously. "They might be reporting on our every move as we speak!"
"Lord Oswynn, that's absurd—"
Falstaff interrupted; though with the expertise with which he handled his words, he often made it seem as though he was incapable of such a thing. Chrom knew better. "I wouldn't call it an absurdity, I'm afraid. Perhaps their activities might not be as nefarious as some think…but I still believe it would be prudent of us to exercise caution."
The room echoed with agreements. Falstaff was an expert debater who had an uncanny ability to express points that made it almost impossible to disagree with him. Chrom respected that Maribelle had a good relationship with her uncle, especially considering her strained bonds with her parents, but Falstaff still gave him pause.
Not helping matters was that he used to be a close friend of his father.
Chrom steepled his fingers, regarding his cabinet carefully. "What do you suggest I do about it, then?"
Falstaff gave him a little smile. Something about it always felt…off to Chrom. He could not quite pinpoint the exact reason why. "We keep them under close watch. Though they come in peace…well. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,' I've heard some say."
"They're not here as enemies, Lord Falstaff. They're our guests."
"It does not erase the events of the past year, nor the millennia of bad blood between our nations. You are a noble man for wanting to see the best in them, milord, but I cannot vouch the same for our…guests. It stands to reason that the best course of action is to have them watched. Prince Daraen did sign an agreement submitting to our terms, after all."
Chrom, swallowing, gauged the reactions of the rest of his cabinet. Valentine, Urquhart, Kospa and Oswynn were firmly in Falstaff's corner. Trengrouse and O'Feargihal looked indifferent. Eschmann, always a firm supporter of his, was clearly in disagreeance, yet said nothing.
"I guess I don't have much of a choice in this, do I?" Chrom sighed. "Fine. I'll double the guards around Daraen's quarters and have the Plegian retinue's weaponry confiscated. But his attendants stay with him."
"Your Highness, I must disagree—!" Oswynn protested.
Falstaff interrupted again. "The woman and that boy who sat with him at the feast should be allowed. They seem to be close. The rest should stay in separate quarters, and the Ylissean servants assigned to him will discuss their findings with us."
"You've no authority to decide that," Chrom said testily. "Mary and her staff report directly to me. I chose them personally for the job, and that job doesn't include spying."
Falstaff regarded him coolly. His eyes were so like Maribelle's—a rich, ruby red—and yet so different, possessing none of her warmth.
It was unwise of Chrom to challenge his ministers on such matters, but he was not going to let them bully him. He was still the prince regnant, and as such, he had to be deferred to whether they liked it or not. He knew he needed their help to run the country…but lines had to be drawn somewhere.
"I apologise for being so forward, milord." Falstaff's smile was light and airy. "I forgot my place. Yet, I do believe that the rest of the Plegians ought to be housed elsewhere, if only to keep the peace. Prince Daraen's friends can stay with him in his guest quarters."
The room filled with soft vocalisations of support for Falstaff's proposal. Eschmann shot Chrom a questioning glance. He did not have a clear majority on his side.
"Fine then," Chrom conceded.
As the cabinet members filed out, eager to retire for the night, Chrom beckoned Frederick to his side. "Our own spies haven't reported any funny business on Falstaff's end, have they?"
"No, milord," the knight said.
"Let's hope it stays that way." Chrom yawned noisily, exhausted and nursing a bad headache, and made a straight beeline to his room with Frederick following closely. He had a poor night's sleep.
The next few days were no better, with the summit and his audiences and his…other preoccupations. But thoughts of Daraen helped take the edge off. Chrom discovered a newfound admiration for his Plegian counterpart after the feast, seeing him in a new light. Daraen looked so regal and sure of himself in his own clothes—a far cry from the awkward, scrawny thing in borrowed garments Chrom was used to seeing (then again, he rather missed lending clothes to Daraen). The prince of Plegia was relaxed and carried himself confidently at the feast. He smiled more easily. It was a change Chrom welcomed gladly.
He would never admit to anyone that he was rather shocked over Daraen's body. The prince's low-cut tunic had exposed surprisingly well-developed muscles, very unlike the impression he gave off when wearing loaned doublets and hose. Not to say that Chrom felt inadequate in comparison (he was taller than Daraen, and even though his days were mostly occupied with bureaucracy, he made sure to squeeze in a few hours of exercise), but it was rather jarring.
Then there was also the fact that Chrom had drunkenly praised Daraen's facial features as feminine that one night, so there was that additionally awkward layer.
What really made him jealous was how his retainers treated him. The way that woman—Tharja—fawned over Daraen, with kisses, and praises, the way the others looked at him during his speech. Chrom did not enjoy that kind of support. Although he was fully aware that achieving popularity with everyone was impossible for any monarch, Chrom knew that a good part of his court whispered behind his back, mocked him, or compared him unfavourably to Emmeryn. He could cope with that somewhat.
But never with the ones who compared him to his father.
Chrom did not begrudge Daraen for it; Ylissean court politics and intrigues were not his fault. After all, they were friends now.
Friends! The word made Chrom feel nice and warm inside. It put a smile on his face as he recalled the feast and Daraen's offer of friendship along with an orange. Their relationship had progressed far since that moment when they first started a chain of correspondence, and now, Daraen was calling him a friend. Chrom admitted to himself that he had been rather lonely as of late. He was still close to his Shepherds, but it was simply not the same anymore: everyone was preoccupied with their own duties, caring for children, enjoying marriage, and having adult lives beyond Shepherding. He missed his youth with them and their comparatively carefree days before the war and before Emmeryn died and he was saddled with a title and throne he felt overwhelmingly unprepared for. Now his life consisted of politics and being surrounded by people whose allegiances he was unsure of.
Not Daraen, though. He had been a wonderful guest, a formidable negotiator at the summit table, and a witty, interesting conversationalist. Chrom enjoyed spending time with him. He had no doubts over the prince's goals and could spy no hidden agenda on his part.
If only it were not so awkward given that he had involved the poor man in his pursuit of Olivia. He was confident that Daraen was the man for the job, but with all the stress that being at the summit entailed, as well as the restrictions imposed on him, it was quite a lot to ask for.
I owe him big time, Chrom thought as he burrowed farther inside his sheets. But I'm still feeling guilty over this.
It was certainly a fine mess they were both in. Perhaps they were being stupidly in over their heads and biting off more than they could chew. At the very least, Chrom was not feeling so alone in it now.
I hope we can still stay friends after this. I'd like that very much.
I just realised that I do so enjoy slow burn *LAUGHS IN SHAKESPEARE*