Chapter 5
"Halt," Cyrus made use of his most official voice to bark at the woman as she drifted by.
She didn't stop moving, "Whatever it is, I'm not buying."
"No soliciting here," he declared honestly, "I'm afraid I find myself a bit lost."
"I'm in something of a hurry," she continued.
"Why not come with me? Perhaps our paths will intersect," he offered.
"I doubt it. And if it's all the same to you, I've learned it to be against my best interest to accept rides from strangers," she still hadn't stopped walking.
Cyrus's nostrils flared. He didn't have the patience for this type of back-and-forth, but now was the wrong time to employ violence. There had to be a way to convince this irritating woman. "Please, my lady, I can pay if need be. I've a very important schedule that must be met exactly."
Against her better judgment, the red-haired woman stopped and looked back, "What sort of pay are we talking?"
"My coffers aren't limitless," sighed Cyrus, happy to have broken through, "but you just tell me what you think is fair when we arrive and I'll be more than happy to pay it."
Anna liked the sound of that, "You're speaking my language, all right, but I need to know I can trust you. How about a little security deposit?"
The man with the leaf-green hair grunted in resentment and ordered his attendant forward. The older man's shaking and vein-covered palm offered the merchant woman a red leather pouch. She took it and opened it carefully, her eyes widened on seeing the inside.
"Can we get a move on?" demanded Cyrus impatiently.
"I think we're in business," affirmed the opportunistic Anna, dropping the pouch into her pocket.
"Good," he nodded, then faced his attendant, "fetch the horses." He bowed in compliance. "So," the swordsman breathed as his attendant departed, "where is the open road taking you today, miss?"
"Home. I need to check up on my husband," she stared straight ahead.
The man with the leaf-green hair smiled, "I see. You did seem the type to keep them on a short leash, eh? Your husband is a lucky man."
She nodded more affably, "I hope he's all right. I've been worried, of late."
"Heh. We men will always tell you ladies we're fine 'till we've croaked, it's as simple as that. I wouldn't be too troubled by it," laughed the man.
"You're right there," Anna mumbled.
Cyrus sobered, "At any rate, 'home' doesn't tell me much. Can you give me a town?"
"We live about three hours to the northwest of Southtown. That's about two or three days' march from Ylisstol," provided the redheaded merchant.
"Oh, excellent," surmised Cyrus, "our meeting was fortuitous, then.
I'm making for Ylisstol."
"I see," Anna remarked uselessly, hearing the trot of the horses coming into position.
"I hope you don't mind riding behind me," suggested the swordsman, putting one foot into the stirrup of his horse.
"That's fine," Anna supposed, traipsing behind, "...You know, the capitol may be busy. Ylisse has been attacked."
The man with the leaf-green hair widened his eyes and lifted his brow in feigned shock, "I'd heard rumors, but I wasn't sure they could be believed."
"I understand," she breathed, the both of them now mounted up on the steed, "I would scarce believe them, myself, had I not been in the eye of that storm."
"You were there?" replied Cyrus, with genuine interest.
"Not for long, thankfully," Anna dared not recall the scenes of the bodies, her eyes clenching disgustedly, "but yes. It was... disturbing. Frightening."
"I imagine," the swordsman nodded. He looked to his attendant to see if they were prepared. Receiving a nod, he whipped the horse's reins, looking out over the horizon and commanded, "We ride for Ylisstol."
[...]
Morgan paced abreast of her father, glancing over at him. As with most other days, he hadn't taken much time to clean up his appearance before setting out: his hair was disheveled and in need of combing, his pants were dirty and creased from being folded wrong or not folded at all for so long, and the ends of his trademark robe were frayed with the wear of near-daily use. "We should stop and get something to eat," she declared in the vacuum of air.
"I'm not hungry. We need to keep moving," he muttered, not looking at her.
"Don't play the martyr, father," she scolded, taking him by the wrist, "Come on, I have some friends in a town just up the road."
The former tactician might have protested, but he couldn't argue with the fact that he was hungry. Judging by the position of the sun and the color of the horizon, he guessed they had been marching for roughly sixteen hours. To her credit, Morgan hadn't complained once, she had simply followed along in stern silence. They continued along in that same manner, barely exchanging glances and never so much as a word until they broke into a line of buildings several minutes later, as Morgan had claimed.
After a moment, she pushed ahead and pointed one building out, "Over here."
Robin complied and followed his daughter into the establishment, his tired legs kicking dust into the doorway as they entered. Morgan took a seat at a counter immediately, ordering a glass of water for them both. Robin pulled himself over next to her with a grunt and dropped his elbows onto the table, causing a great noise as the buckles of his vambraces and various straps clattered on the wood countertop. Heads in the eatery turned to them.
In a moment, a young man sidled up alongside Morgan, "I figured it was you I saw there, Rouge, honey."
"Hey, Ty," she greeted tersely.
He smiled bemusedly, "Why the ice queen act? Somethin' wrong?"
"I'm here with my father," she glanced over at Robin, "and I'm not staying long."
"Oh, I gotcha," he nodded, "Heya, sir. I'm Tyler. I've worked with your daughter on some jobs."
"Jobs?" Robin cleared his throat.
"We'll talk about it later," Morgan put a hand on his shoulder. She gestured to Tyler, "Will you get Pete for us?"
"Yeah, straight away," complied the young man.
"'Rouge...' 'Jobs...'" Robin exhaled, "You really have been keeping busy."
"I wasn't just going to wait around," she folded her arms.
"No, you never would," surmised her father. She hated it when he was so vaguely philosophical. Nonetheless, Morgan declined to provide a reply, thinking better.
After a few more wordless minutes had passed, a large, rotund man emerged from the back of the building, "Oy, you wee minnow!" The man came forward. His clothes were stained with pinkish blood and his arms and forehead were doused with sweat. He reeked of both simultaneously, causing Morgan to shrink just a bit as he drew up and bear hugged her.
"Good to see you, too, Pete," Morgan chuckled.
"An' who's 'is? Din't 'ave you pegged for takin' ta the older crowd, sprout," the man wiped his nose gracelessly while leering at Robin.
"Uh, this is my father, Pete," the redhead introduced.
"No kiddin'?" wondered the man, "Well, chuffed." The large man took Robin's hand happily. One of them was happy, anyway.
"Can you give us some of that good lamb?" requested Morgan, hoping to move along.
"'Can I,' she says," laughed the man, "I'd be right gutted if I couldn't." He pulled out a large, long, and rather unnervingly sharp knife. "I been choppin' from sunrise to sunset jus' hopin' your pretty face'd drop by and ask me for some lamb, lassie."
"I really don't see how you stay alive, working like that," she laughed with him.
"Yeh, maybe meat'll be the death o'me yet. 'Till then, though, I'd like to see it try," smiled the butcher.
"Thanks a bunch, Pete," Morgan saw him off.
"You've certainly made a lot of friends," Robin observed curtly.
"Not hard, so long as you make the effort," Morgan glared insinuatingly at her father.
"And so long as you're a beautiful young woman," the former tactician smiled to himself.
"Very funny," his daughter blew a raspberry at him. She sat in silence a moment, then cleared her throat, "It's, um... It's been a while, hasn't it?" Robin nodded. "Well," she picked up, "how have you been?"
The former tactician glanced down to his robes and coughed. Inhaling, he looked up and worked his jaw into the shell of a smirk, "Keeping busy, I suppose. Your mother's always got her business."
"Does she still refuse to take off?" Morgan pressed.
"Mostly, but sometimes I manage to force her to stay home," declared the former tactician with pride. Finishing, Robin leaned forward and coughed loudly into his elbow several times, dryly sputtering, the cracking of his esophagus echoing from the wooden walls, drawing more attention and silence to the pair. When he had regained his breath, the older man lifted his head, eyes closed, only to be met with the lukewarm stare of his daughter. "Don't trouble yourself about it," he concluded, clearing his throat for good measure.
"Maybe we should rest a bit," his daughter supposed.
"I'll be fine," he managed through a garbled throat.
Morgan closed her eyes and leaned back. What was she going to do with him? Letting her thoughts drift, she was reminded of her mother's indefatigable habits, and then simply of her mother. She had planned for them to meet in the harbor, but now... Morgan's mind halted as a chill scratched at her back: she have to tell her father that his wife had been killed.
"Can we go back to 'Rouge?'" her father's interested voice snapped her back into reality.
"I imagine we'll be chatting quite a while," she breathed, "so, all right, let's begin with that."
[...]
"Well, Little Red came to me one day, sayin' somethin' like 'I need you to help me get a leg up.' Girl was wrong: she didn't need me for anything. She could climb walls like no one I've ever seen, and she has some nimble little fingers; she pried one tumbler open without even using a lockpick. I didn't really think I'd need to test her combat skills, but I tested her anyway and ended up flat on my back with a knife to my throat in all of two minutes. Not my favorite position, lemme tell you. I asked her what in the hell made her think she needed my help to begin with, and she tells me she didn't know where to start. I gave her an old red bandana I had and told her to wear it like a scarf, to protect her identity, and that she should try small scores to start. Haven't seen her in person since, but. I musta run into a hundred bounty hunters lookin' for her, and even more thieves lookin' for her to teach them. Then, of course, I told 'em I taught her everything she knows, and that they only needed to bring me as much candy as they could find to receive some instruction," Gaius finished, slicking his ginger hair back with a sly smile.
"That doesn't surprise me," Stahl acceded sarcastically, "but I am surprised Morgan really wanted to be a thief. How did her parents take that?"
"How the hell should I know?" the thief shrugged.
"Sir Robin was such a respectable man, and at least Anna ran a respectable enterprise. How could such a charming young woman fall into the throes of something so foul as thievery?" Maribelle lamented.
Gaius glared at his wife a moment, "Honey, in the thieving business, you're at an immediate disadvantage if you're not a pretty little girl."
Sidling up to the poorly-maintained oaken door, Stahl rapped gently on the frame. After a pushing sound and a few footsteps, the door swung open: "Friend Stahl! What fun! What is bringing you out to this throat of weeds?"
"'Neck of the woods,' dear," Gregor's wife corrected.
"Gregor, Cordelia," Stahl bowed, "it's good to see the both of you faring well."
"Old useless man Gregor is beggaring around house too much for beautiful wife's tasting, but we are... What is word? Maiming? Marching?" Gregor fumbled.
"Managing, darling," Cordelia smiled. She looked out upon her old friends, "and I've never made your age a part of the issue."
"Is old bones, wonderful wife," the aging mercenary chuckled with self-deprecation, "Will be put in ground soon, anyways."
"Stop that," she hugged him delicately, "Now, is there something you need, Stahl?"
"Have you heard the news?" the verdant paladin wondered.
"About the attack? Yes, someone swung by and warned us about it the other day," Cordelia recalled, "but we've seen precious little news otherwise."
"Chrom is decidedly concerned, and so am I," Stahl admitted, "I've been instructed to gather as many of the Shepherds as I can to retaliate."
"Is sounding like trouble," Gregor grunted, "and Gregor is losing taste for trouble. Why Gregor never settle in peaceful country?"
"You want us to go with you, Stahl?" the redheaded pegasus knight continued.
"If you would be so kind as to serve Ylisse once more," he implored.
"Of course," Cordelia nodded, "If Chrom has need of me, I cannot decline. I am a pegasus knight in service to House Ylisse."
"Gregor may not be good for the smashing as much anymore... but he will come to keep beautiful wife safe," the mercenary decided.
"Then I extend my thanks to you both," Stahl offered his hand. They both took it, one after the other.
"Seem battle never stray far from Gregor," he sighed.
[...]
The sapphire eyes parted and glanced up. She was moving, not of her own volition, but with a rhythm, and a heft that was primarily unfamiliar to her. As her eyes narrowed themselves into focusing, she found Frederick's sullied face before her. "Frederick?" she announced, "What's happened?"
The knight's eyes opened wide for a moment, then he collected himself, shutting his eyes tightly and gripping at his collar, swallowing, "Your father was captured. We are making to Ylisstol to recoup and gather ourselves for a pending invasion."
Lucina's brain had already throbbed in shock, "My father was... captured?"
Frederick nodded with extreme dissatisfaction, his eyebrows falling in defeat, "I was helpless to stop them."
"Well, we have to go get him back!" demanded the young princess.
"Would that it were so simple, milady," Frederick exhaled sharply, "but we would have to contend with an entire nation to bring about that end."
"Then so be it!" decided an ardent Lucina, "I'm prepared to fight whomever I must to retrieve my father!"
"I'm certain you are, milady, but it's simply not possible right now," Frederick declared with greater determination.
"Put me down," the young royal ordered abruptly, "I'll go after him by myself, craven."
"Milady, please," Frederick sighed, "There is a time and place for such thoughts and actions, but it is not here, and not now."
"I'm going," she endeavored unsuccessfully to push herself out of the knight's arms, only lightly turning to her right before sinking back down. In a fit of anger, she shoved into the knight's chest, "Let me go! I wish to fight!"
"Milady!" Frederick growled, coming to a halt, "This is the first time in the recorded history of Ylisse that a single individual protector has failed to prevent the capture of the Exalt in a non-war scenario. Do you think I am enjoying myself? I have made what will likely be listed as the gravest failure in all of Ylissean history, however long it may now last, because I was too weak...! Do you not think I feel shame? That I wish to head back and kick and claw at my foe for this indelible scar against me?"
"Precisely, then let's-"
"But if I do that- if we do that- it will mean death for the both of us, and we will die useless to our own mother country. Is that how you wish to serve the legacy of your father?" Frederick shouted.
"You speak as if he's already dead!" Lucina bit.
"He might as well be, if you'll not quit being so naïve!" Frederick finally lashed out.
Lucina swallowed her tongue; she'd never seen Frederick so plainly angry, "I... I'm sorry, I only wanted..."
"I know, milady," he breathed, calming himself, "and that is why we shall make for Ylisse with all due haste."
"I... should walk. You must be tired," the princess played with her hair.
"No," refuted the knight, "shouldering royal burdens has always been my assignment. Allow me to succeed here, at least." Lucina complied, saying nothing as the man in the heavy armor who bore an even heavier scowl plodded along.
[...]
The Plegian woman's eyes wrenched open at the news. "And you're certain of this?" she pressed, whispering.
"I could not be more so," the advisor assured.
"All the same, I want confirmation," she decided, leering at him, "this is not a situation that can be handled lightly."
"Right you are," acceded the advisor.
"Return to me in three days' time with personal confirmation of what you have reported," the raven-haired woman directed, looking disaffectedly at the man across from her.
This was troubling news. Ylisse had been attacked. Ordinarily, this would be none of Tharja's concern: the people of Plegia were grossly indifferent to Ylissean affairs and hardships, but this was clearly a special case. Not only had the Ylisseans been attacked, but, by all reports, the attackers were winning. While this posed obvious threats against Plegian territory, Tharja's mind was erstwhile absorbed: What had become of her beloved Robin? The tactician- he was a tactician once, at least- was reported to have retired to the backwoods of his country long ago, after the end of their conflict with Grima, however Tharja had been regrettably unable to verify this information for herself, as the running of her nation was not a task that could be performed while skulking about the countryside of a foreign land. She had not lobbied for the position, rather it had been thrust upon her when she returned home, the people of Plegia recognizing her power as being superior to that of both Gangrel and Validar. Robin had then urged her on, claiming that it was an opportunity for her to "do some good for Plegia." She might have rejected the notion outright, but she couldn't refuse the former tactician's earnest hope, and, at any rate, she had promised herself to another, which would prevent them from meeting very often. This might be her last chance to leave her obsession with a favorable impression.
So it was that Tharja saw her coronation with Henry as her lawfully wedded king, and so there he sat beside her, silvery locks astir as his face shimmered with that ceaseless smile, their daughter waiting pensively below. "You look a little blue, Tharja," he chuckled, "Did he tell you a dead baby joke, or something?"
"No, you grinning fool," she sighed in her signature monotone, "Ylisse is under attack."
"What?!" Noire jumped.
"Wow," Henry accepted blankly, "Déja-vu, huh? Am I in the past?"
"This is bad news, you know," she growled.
"Oh, I know," he remarked with a confident smile, "'bad news' is practically my middle name! I see it everywhere! Yep, sure is terrible, Ylisseans being run through all over the place, killed in battle, spilling warm blood all over everyone... Mmm... How's this bad again?"
"Robin might be one of the Ylisseans being run through," Tharja became angry upon telling herself.
"Robin?" the king of Plegian finally found a reason to cock an eyebrow, "Aw, no way. There's tough to kill, and then there's that guy! Seriously, a god couldn't put him in the ground!"
"But he might no longer be so durable," Tharja elaborated.
"I guess," he shrugged, "but do you know how many Ylissean tacticians it takes to bring down an invasion?"
"Henry, not now," she barked.
"Aw, you're no fun when you're like this," he sighed.
"I'm going to Ylisse to investigate the state of affairs there. I need you to keep things in check in my absence. Can you do that?" she implored.
"Sit on my royal rump while you get to go frolic in the gore?" he folded his arms, "Why do you get to do all the fun stuff?"
"Henry," she grew more grave, "I need to investigate. Please just tell me you'll watch over things.
He shrugged and smiled again, "Sure thing. Just make it back soon, okay? And tell Robin I said 'Hurry up and die already, you old geezer!' Nya ha ha!" Tharja shook her head and marched out of the castle. He was completely aloof, but as long as Henry was present, no one would be taking Plegia from them.
"I don't like the sound of all this," Noire quivered before her father, "This talk of battle makes me nervous."
"You think that's bad? In a couple days, I'm gonna be the sole ruler of this country!" Henry cackled.
"Father!" Noire screamed.
"Just a joke, sweetie," he smiled broadly.
"What I wouldn't give for one normal conversation," the girl bit her lip as her father laughed.
[...]
"You're not so quiet as you might think," the massive man declared aloud.
A curse came from the bushes, "And you're more perceptive than you look, you know?"
"Most take me for a fool because I do not often speak. The opposite is true," the hulk remarked flatly.
"I suppose the proof's in the pudding there," breathed the man, pulling down his hood to ensure it covered his face.
"You disguise yourself," observed the mountain, "Your intention is to kill me, correct?"
"That... was the plan," the man in the red hood nodded nervously, "I see now that might be more difficult than I first believed. I had hoped to get the drop on you."
"You are an assassin," continued the gigantic man, undaunted, "on whose coin do you train your bow at me."
"No," the hooded man shook his head, "this job is personal for me. No hard feelings, but you need to... well, your employer needs to die."
"Then why not target him?" the man asked simply.
"You must understand he's... difficult to reach," the hooded man excused.
"Indeed, so, cause casualties to draw him out of hiding. That's your plan?" supposed the colossus.
"It... was," breathed the man in the red hood.
"Your choice of target was a mistake," came the simple reply.
"I see that now," the assassin scratched the back of his neck.
The enormous man sighed to himself, shutting his eyes and inhaling, mulling his thoughts over and stroking his chin as they passed. "Leave," he instructed, following his pause.
"Sorry?" the assassin cleared his ear.
"Leave and never return," ordered the massive man once more, "You have visited no harm upon me, and so you may live. Do not try my generosity."
"Er... thank you, sir," accepted the assassin, "Might I ask your name, for reference?"
"For further plots?" he supposed in return, "I would advise against it, but it will not matter. If you face death at my hands, it will be your own doing. My name is Argent."
"As you say, Argent," the hooded assassin backed up, "and now I disappear."