Chapter Four: Strangers On This Road
I do not own Fire Emblem or any of its characters.
Author's Notes: This chapter picks up with the War of Heroes (Book Two of FE3). The first three chapters have been like an extended Prologue, and the main arc of the storyline begins here. Warnings going forward: this is rated T for wartime violence, character death, and other "mature" and suggestive themes. This is not a happy story for children. Also, some of the romantic pairings may bother readers as they are not strictly game-canon. Be warned.
***
Melissa did not weep when she saw the wreck the imperial soldiers made of her garden. The new shoots, the beets and the cabbages and the spring onions, all were trampled into the hard earth. She understood on some level when the mercenaries stole their food, but this was different-- this was like smashing windows, like shooting at people's chickens and doves for amusement and leaving them to rot in the street. She was no longer surprised by any of it, and so she simply went on her knees there in the dirt to rescue what she could of their vegetables.
"I think I have enough here for a salad, Grandmother," she said of the pile of uprooted beet-shoots and crushed cabbage leaves. "That'll be dinner today... who knows what we'll eat the rest of the year."
They'd eat onions, perhaps. Most of those looked like they'd survive. Melissa wondered how long a person could survive on onions. Oma patted her on the shoulder and praised her resourcefulness in saving at least one scant meal from the ruin, but Oma straightened up at the sound of a commotion in the street that even her aging ears couldn't miss.
"Men are coming. Hide, Liebchen, quickly."
"Grandmother, there is no place to hide."
If General Lang's men wanted her, they would gladly dismantle every room of Oma's house in order to find her. The walls of their house offered no more protection than did the crumbling walls of the garden. She stayed where she was, on her knees sorting through the mustard sprouts, as the noise from the street continued. She did not bother to pray.
"Liebchen, there are men on horses... an armed man is at the gate. Please, girl...."
"Tell him the usual story, Grandmother."
Melissa remained crouched on the earth to conceal her height; she slumped her shoulders and hung her head low, that the man might have difficulty telling her age. She wished that she had her staff at hand, but this useful prop was left in the house. The worst men would not care, even at the sight of the staff. Clerics disappeared like everyone else if they were pretty enough.
She could hear footsteps coming down the garden path. Melissa raised her head just enough to see a pair of very fine boots approaching. The boots stopped a few paces away as Oma went into her recital.
"Sir... please spare this girl. She is but ten years old. She has not even finished her training as a sister."
"Peace, seƱora. Do not worry. We have no plans to take the child."
Melissa stiffened her shoulders; she reacted not to his words but his voice itself. She was used to the nasal speech of the Archanean mercenaries, and this stranger must hail from somewhere else entirely. Above her head, Oma made an undignified grunt of surprise.
"You are not a soldier of the Empire?"
"No. You have the wrong idea. We have not come to your land to fight against its people. My men have taken the bandits that plagued this region, and we are distributing food and other supplies at your village square."
Melissa had never heard a voice like that before, light and soft and pleasant, each word given a strangely formal emphasis. The voice also sounded young; she looked up through her eyelashes to see the stranger was indeed young, no more than twenty years of age. Tall and slender, elegantly dressed, with clear skin and delicate features. How truly odd....
The fine boots stepped away, and it seemed the stranger was going to head back down the garden path.
"If you require anything, please ask. We have much to share with you; please take what you want."
"Wait." Melissa scrambled to her feet; she felt her heart pound like the wings of a pheasant taking flight as she stepped forward, one hand outstretched in an unmistakable plea. "Please, take me with you."
The stranger looked at her, and his eyebrow arched in suspicion.
"Only ten years old?" The disbelief was plain in his voice; he almost sounded amused by the lie. His reaction was not at all what she expected, and Melissa decided at once that a well-spoken argument would give her the best chance of escaping the ruin of Gavarnie.
"Grandmother lies to protect me," she said quickly. "I am already of age, so she lies for me so that the soldiers don't take me away."
She studied the stranger as she spoke. He wore enough gold to feed their village for the rest of the year-- gold embroidery on his clothing, gold ornaments on his sword and its sheath, a gold circlet in his hair. She realized he must be at least a nobleman in his own land, and was more determined than before that he not leave without her.
"I know that if I stay here, I will eventually be discovered and captured by the imperial soldiers. Lang's men are like beasts." Melissa watched his eyes as she spoke; the idea that she was in danger of being molested affected him, and Melissa aimed her performance to hit whatever part of his heart might feel moved to protect her. She widened her own eyes and curved her lower lip, just the way Oma had taught her. "I can see in your eyes that you are different from Lang and his soldiers. Please, take me out of this country and into your own."
She really had little idea where this youth was from, but it wasn't Grust and that was all that mattered to her in that moment. Melissa waited for his response, and when it didn't immediately come, she supplied a prompt.
"Is that all right, Grandmother?"
Oma had been watching the exchange with obvious delight, not to mention a gleam of calculation in her eye.
"Ah, of course. You will be much safer compared to here." She turned back to the stranger and went into her performance again. "Young lad, I beg of you-- please protect this girl. Should you want it, it would be no problem for her to become your bride. This child is a beautiful girl, even as I was in the past. She will definitely make a fine wife. Melissa, you would surely be happy to take this youth as your husband."
The young man parted his lips, and Melissa cut in swiftly, to not give him a chance to object.
"Honestly, Grandmother! I couldn't possibly say."
***
Melissa once felt shame over allowing visitors to see the state into which her family's home had fallen. In her mind's eye, she saw it the way it had been before the war, before her grandfather's death, with tapestries from Khadein on the walls and silver plate gleaming on the tables. Now, much of the plate had been either stolen or bartered for food and necessities. The floor-carpets and table-carpets were worn and mended, and some were tracked with filth, and one of the tapestries had been slashed open by a soldier who thought something might be concealed beneath it. Melissa did not mind the presence of this stranger, though, as part of her wanted for him to see the degradation of such a fine house.
The young man made no comments on the state of the home; he waited patiently while Melissa packed up her things. He did have questions for Oma, mostly regarding General Lang and his occupation. Why did they have so extreme a reaction to his arrival? Were young girls abducted often? What sort of "beasts" were Lang's men? Oma was happy to air her complaints to this youth who seemed helpful and well-connected. Melissa was thankful that her grandmother's time was being spent so, as Oma was more of a hindrance than a help to her when it came to packing.
Oma finally announced that she was going to pack a few gifts of her own for her granddaughter, which left Melissa and the young man alone together. Melissa simply continued to gather her belongings, but as she wrapped her healing staff, he spoke to her directly.
"You are a sister, then, Melissa?"
"More or less. My official training ended abruptly when my teacher disappeared a few years ago."
"I am sorry to hear that. Under whom did you study?"
"Her name was Lena. She was the daughter of our bishop."
She saw a flash of recognition in his eyes-- a flash of something, anyway, quickly concealed with a blink. He said nothing, though.
"Lena taught me a few good things." She might as well advertise that she had some useful skills. If he had any thoughts of abandoning her out on the road, he might reconsider.
"I am sure of it. Perhaps we can see to it that your training is completed."
He said everything-- almost everything-- in such a cautious, neutral way. Melissa never had heard anything quite like it before, and she had a sudden burst of suspicion. What was this polite young stranger concealing from them? She realized, then, that he had not so much as offered his name to her.
"We must leave soon, Melissa," he said, before she could ask anything more. She heard a definite edge of authority in his voice-- still polite, but firm. Melissa looked down at her idle hands. The ring of braided hair on her finger was dull now, with dust caught in every strand of the braid.
"I need to take a few things from the kitchen," she said.
She almost ran toward the kitchen. Melissa tugged the braided ring off her finger and threw it into the fire, then turned away before she could see it vanish into flame and acrid smoke. She retrieved a few pieces of tableware so as to not make herself a liar and returned to her legitimate packing. When Melissa's earthly goods were ready to transport, the youth turned to Oma with a final offer of help.
"Is there anything you need of us? If it would be a hardship to you to travel to the village square, I can have one my men bring you whatever it is you want."
"I need you to give my granddaughter a good life." Oma said, and for once it seemed unvarnished honesty, but then her face crinkled up as she took on another role and began to haggle with the youth. "Oh, just a few things... a tablet of salt, a cup of honey and perhaps a sliver of beeswax, a few almonds, and a little gold. Seven pieces should do."
"Grandmother!"
"Salt, honey, wax, and almonds. All good things, perhaps not easy to find in these times." The young man tilted his head as he considered Oma and her odd desires. "Done. I will have someone bring your request."
And so Oma saw them off with joyful tears and kisses, as though Melissa were truly embarking upon a new life with a husband, not creeping out of town with some young foreigner who hadn't provided his name. She had even dared to pull Melissa aside for a few words of private advice. Melissa was glad they'd had that conversation in Grustian instead of the Common Tongue; she didn't think the elegant stranger would have enjoyed hearing it. Still, Melissa in spite of herself felt a little caught up in the romance of the moment-- slipping down the path of her grandmother's ruined garden with this shining young man with the gold circlet and silk-lined mantle. The beautiful white gelding awaiting them in the street completed the picture.
"Tirante is swift but very easy to handle," he assured her as he lifted her into the saddle. "I will make sure he is gentle for you."
The horse, too, wore enough gold on his trappings that Melissa wondered how much wealth this young man might have. She hoped he hadn't wasted it all on display, given that he was going to need to take care of her now. Also, there was the matter of the ride itself; Melissa was used to riding side-saddle and was uncomfortable and a little embarrassed as her new companion led Tirante through the street. The walls of Oma's garden were well behind them when Melissa asked the most urgent of her many questions.
"I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, sir."
"Marth of Altea."
He said it lightly, speaking over his shoulder, as though it were a detail of no great consequence. Melissa blinked, hoping that she'd misheard. But all the strange details came together-- the gold circlet, the odd way of speaking, the references to "my men"-- and Melissa shrank back in the saddle, feeling more than a little afraid of this seemingly perfect youth who had just bartered her safety. Adomar's words from two years before came back to her: he's nothing, he's my age....
Melissa stared down at the slim hand guiding the reins of Tirante and realized it was that very hand which held the rapier that sealed the doom of her motherland. Camus has fallen. The hand that killed Camus, killed the kings of Gra and Pyrathi, and then brought down the Dragon Emperor. The very commander whose forces had slaughtered the flower of the Grustian cavalry and left the land near to defenseless. The scourge sent by the gods to punish all Grust for the sin of allying with the Dragonlord of Dolhr. Everything she had ever heard about the Prince of Altea, nine-tenths of it terrifying, rattled through Melissa's head as Tirante ambled along with a gentle clip-clop sound.
"Your name is a curse here," she said to him, in the sweetest voice she could manage.
"I know it," he replied, again lightly. "All the more reason to be sparing with it."
Melissa thought her grandmother, had she only known, would likely have thrashed the prince with the nearest available piece of kitchenware. Her heart again fluttered like the frantic wings of a bird flushed out of hiding, and she very nearly asked the next question: What do you want with me? For what could the Altean prince possibly want with the half-trained novice of a country he hated so? She did not have the chance to ask, for just then the prince halted Tirante; it seemed an old man in violet-hued armor wished to speak to him.
"Your Highness?" The old knight arched a heavy eyebrow at the sight of Melissa.
"I'll explain later, Jagen."
Melissa found herself taken on a farewell tour of Gavarnie; most of the townspeople stayed indoors, despite the promises of food and assistance. Whenever Melissa was seen, she heard a trail of whispers: "They are taking our Sister Melissa." She wondered if she ought to wave to them all, but instead kept her pose on Tirante like a proper lady, and she did not speak to anyone save Prince Marth. After a time, she began to enjoy herself a little more; it was a fine spring day, after all, and she was going through town on a white horse shining with gilded trappings even if her skirts were all bunched up.
It was late afternoon when they reached the camp set up outside the village walls. If she had doubted Marth's claims to be a prince, this sight would have resolved them, for the blue banner of Altea fluttered above the highest pavilion in the camp. The sentries bowed in the way that one bowed to royalty-- even a general would not be treated so, and Melissa's heart quickened now to think that a prince was walking at her side while she rode on his gelding. Once in camp, Melissa found herself surrounded by curious faces, most of them belonging to boys and girls close to her own age. These were the Temple Knights of Altea, who left rivers of blood in their wake?
Prince Marth assisted her down from Tirante and had her stand at his side while he addressed his knights.
"Friends, a brave sister of Grust has agreed to join us and lend us her support. Please make the sister welcome."
The prince then switched into a different language for a few more sentences; Melissa assumed he was repeating the greeting in the Alteans' own tongue. Either that, or he was saying something that she wasn't supposed to hear. Whatever he said, it produced a round of applause from the soldiers.
Melissa was the sensation of the evening. One of the archers spread a cloth on the ground and gestured for her to sit on it. A handsome young knight offered the "honored sister" a plate heaped with ham and rice and vegetables. Another handed her a cup of water-- silver, not the tin the soldiers drank from. Melissa accepted it all with delight-- was this the new life that awaited her? Silver dishes and servants to attend to her every desire? Choice bits of meat and white polished rice? The smoky, salty taste of the meat almost made her dizzy with pleasure. She could remember the last time she'd had any meat at all; a few months back, she managed to cajole some scraps of chicken from a dim-witted young soldier, and the memory of that chicken had sustained her through many weeks of black bread and turnips.
A foot-soldier interrupted her dinner to let her know that he'd delivered the promised gifts to her grandmother-- "And a small ham, and two sacks of chickpeas, and a round of cheese. Your grandmother should lack for nothing."
"How very generous of you," Melissa said, and she did wonder how Oma would truly get by in her absence. She might be able to browbeat one of the village children into doing menial work... Melissa never had been very good at keeping house, anyway. Melissa tried not to think of her grandmother as she looked around the camp, at these happy young people in their bright armor. One of them, a very young boy in the garb of an archer, was staring at her with round green eyes. Melissa beckoned him over.
"Is there any more wine?"
"Si-- yes! If the sister desires the wine, I will fetch her some."
He came scampering back with a silver goblet of delicious red wine.
By the time Melissa was sated, her belly felt twice its normal size. She sat on her brocaded cloth, eyes half-closed in sleep, while the prince addressed his people a final time for the night. Melissa did not truly pay attention; afterward, emboldened by the wine, she spoke to him without waiting for him to address her.
"Where will I sleep for the night?"
"Cecilia will share her tent with you and see to your safety."
Melissa looked sharply at the slim figure in rose-colored armor standing behind the prince.
"Don't you worry, sister! I will protect you," the girl knight proclaimed with a smile.
"How very kind of you," Melissa responded, wondering what sort of trouble she was in for. She never had liked spending time with girls her own age.
Cecilia turned out to be another willing servant who rearranged the tent just the way Melissa wanted it. When everything was to Melissa's liking, Cecilia left her alone, claiming she had duties elsewhere.
"Wait! Aren't you supposed to protect me?"
But the tent-flap closed behind the female knight, and Melissa wondered if she hadn't been deliberately left alone. After several minutes, Melissa opened one of the bundles that Oma packed for her. She put on the cut-stone earrings and pendant, then tied a new scarlet ribbon into her hair. She touched up her lips and cheeks with the rouge from the little pot tucked in the bottom of the bundle. Oma, in her enthusiasm, had even given up her prized bottle of perfume, a treasure imported from Holy Archanea many years before. Just opening the bottle sent a flood of rose and orange-blossom fragrance through the tent, and Melissa placed one drop of scent behind each ear. Then she waited, on the assumption the prince was more likely than not to want to see his new "bride."
He did not come, nor did he send for her. Melissa was not sure whether to be glad or sorry.
End Chapter Four
Trying to make sense of nonsensical gameplay tropes is so much fun....
