"Crap."
That was the plainest way she could put the sentiment to words. She pondered the use of a number of expletives, but found them needlessly severe, and yet anything more benign seemed unfitting of her frustration. At least there was one good piece of news on the table: "Seen -M." Anna could recognize her daughter's unique calligraphy anywhere, slanted to the right so strongly it seemed to be stabbing into the quill and inkwell that sat beside the page, but with the sophistication of cursive lettering. Undoubtedly, Morgan had pursued her father to Ylisstol. Perhaps she would be meeting with Cyrus sooner than she had expected. Of course, the capital would be completely abuzz with news of the attack by now, and Chrom would likely be scrambling for advice, meaning the merchant woman likely wouldn't get much of a chance to enjoy the return to her husband's company. Not for a while, at least.
Anna dropped herself onto their bed, but immediately regretted it as the frame groaned in agony beneath her. It had seen a lot of use over the years, that was certain. A smile alighted Anna's face as she chided herself for the flood of improper thoughts. Still, it reminded her of earlier days, when her husband was less... cold? Was that the word? No, that seemed unfair. He was still a loving man, and a dutiful husband, but Anna had noticed that her husband no longer appeared... interested, not only in her, but in anything. He sat in silence for hours at a time, contemplating what Anna had determined must have been matters too weighty for her to comprehend, or nothing whatsoever. The redheaded woman needed not delude herself, of course. All this had come about on the day young Morgan elected to leave their home. He would prevaricate when she made the accusation, but the proof wasn't difficult to see. Whatever they were doing, Anna hoped her daughter and husband had had a moment to reconcile, even just a moment, and that, perhaps, on joining them, things could feel normal again.
A breath escaped her lips as the tips of Anna's fingers grazed her hair while her palm trailed along her forehead. She would have to go to Ylisstol now, of course. She shivered. Perhaps she would take another moment to warm her frozen legs by the fire before she set out.
[...]
Robin set his free hand upon the railing, the other maintaining a firm grip on the wearied wood of the wheel. He stared at the sea as it parted lithely before the ship's bow, gently rocking it vertically as they rose over the whitened caps of the open ocean's waves. Spray was minimal, and none of it seemed to land on the deck. Perhaps that storm would hold off. Robin almost wished it wouldn't, putting his arm over his face to shield himself from the sunlight for a moment. He grimaced as his eyes resisted opening, having been tightly squinted for so long. The unperturbed sunlight had made it unseasonably hot on the journey to Valm. Robin writhed in his dark robes as the dry heat clung to his chest. Slowly, the former tactician's vision trailed up from the endless expanse of blue to find his daughter, her arms folded onto the railing at the ship's bow as she stared at the same vision her father had abandoned. The Ylissean prince sidled over and draped an arm around her, which she greeted with an affable smile, appearing contented with the distraction. They appeared to be exchanging words in hushed voices. Morgan's father doubted he would care what they were saying or that they would appreciate his hearing, and looked elsewhere.
"Not the worst view to be stuck with, is it?" the prince impressed, looking outward.
"I suppose. Not much to say about it, though, is there?" she mused, eyes half shut.
"There's some beauty to be spoken of in nothingness, isn't there?" Inigo shrugged, tilting his head to his beloved.
Morgan's pale brown eyes reflected the sea a moment more, now widened, "No. Nothing isn't worth anything."
Inigo paused a moment and looked askance, "I'm confused, do you mean that literally, or are you playing some kind of word game where... I don't know..."
"Don't trouble yourself with it," she hugged him, "I love you. Is that satisfactory?"
"More than you know," he grinned broadly.
"Morgan!" the call came down, causing the pair to look up, "I'd like a word with you in my quarters."
"Yes, father," she accepted flatly.
"Inigo, be a good lad and man the ship, would you?" he demanded, stepping away.
"I mean not to make an issue of myself," the prince rubbed his neck, "but I've never steered a ship before."
"And, with any luck, you won't now," Robin smiled, descending the small staircase, "Just keep us going straight until I'm done, okay?"
"Very well," he nodded, walking opposite the former tactician. Morgan watched as her father passed her, his hand bidding her follow.
The young woman kept a few paces behind her father as he pushed the old wooden door open and walked straight through to a dusty, forgotten, sorry-looking little room. Piles of books spilled from nearby shelves without any effort seeming to have been made to replace them and cobwebs, as well as a noticeable layer of dust coated the remainder of the place. Robin trudged behind a miserable excuse for a yellowing wooden bench and sat in a chair that sounded as though it nearly snapped. He gestured for Morgan to seat herself across from him, in a chair that, despite all odds, seemed even worse for wear. Begrudgingly, she descended upon it gently, for fear of producing the same effect.
"I neglected to ask," Robin began hoarsely, "perhaps because I was afraid to know the answer... Morgan, did you see your mother out there?" The older man's eyes seemed to already glaze over, though Morgan knew well that her father wad quite focused on the answer. The sparkling in his pupil told her that.
"...No," Morgan replied honestly. The question that would follow was the one she truly needed to prepare her answer for.
"Do you believe..." the former tactician struggled with the word, his jaw clenching subconsciously, "That is, are you inclined to think... What I mean is..." He grunted in frustration. Asking a simple question shouldn't be this difficult.
"Father," Morgan's eyes dropped to the pathetic excuse for a desk, "I can't... The only thing I ever saw for certain was... I wasn't more than a block from mom's shop when... well, when the world was set aflame."
It was the answer Robin had been expecting, and yet the words still stabbed into his chest. A chill shocked its way through his spine. The redhead watched his fist clench on the desk. "I see," he managed. His eyes were glassy. Morgan said nothing. Really, what could she say? There was no proper protocol to explain the death of a parent. There was nothing she could say that would make her father feel any different. Instead she stared at him as his gaze refused to break from the desk. "Damn her," he sighed at length, "If she could've left that miserable shop for one day..."
"It wasn't her fault," Morgan defended, "she was there for me. We were going to meet."
"Oh? What for?" Robin cocked an eyebrow.
Morgan cursed herself. Her family had all been terrible liars, and she was no exception, "We... met with some regularity, every month. We'd catch up and she'd make me lunch."
"I could have made you lunch," a vague smirk came onto the older man's face. Morgan elected to say nothing. "But it's all right," he reclined in the chair as it begged for reprieve, "Father is far too restrictive. He doesn't know what's good for young girls- women. He doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't understand me. He's only concerned with his own thoughts, isn't that right?"
"You're every bit as contemptuous as you were seven years ago," she growled, "A shame, all that gray hair and you've still not matured a day."
"Don't talk to me about immaturity, child," he coughed, calmly dropping a fist onto the desk. Another snapping sound followed.
"Gods' sakes," she threw her hands up, "I'm not your 'child' anymore, all right? I'm a young woman, with her own place in life, not property whose every waking moment you're meant to supervise!"
"Um, Robin?" Inigo called worriedly from outside.
The former tactician rose from his chair and brushed past his daughter, proceeding to open the door, "What the hell is it, boy?"
"I may not be able to handle the ship anymore!" the pitch of his voice heightened.
"Oh, for Naga's sake, just keep it straight! Couldn't be simpler..." Robin's words trailed slowly as rain pounded on the deck of the ship and waves rose in frightening crashes, shoving at the sides of her hull. "Hell," the former tactician grunted, "All right, Inigo, fasten down those extra sails! Morgan, get all the ropes on deck secure! At best, I'll sail us right out of this mess, at worst, we'll hunker down and wait it out."
"Got it," Morgan nodded, and attended to her task. She found the coils loose rope dotting the ship and began knotting them together, the rain streaking down her hair and matting it to her forehead as she worked.
Inigo leapt to the port side of the ship and pulled at a rope, trying to bring the sail down. Robin shouted, "Not from there, you lout, you have to climb and pull it up!"
"C-Climb?" Inigo shuddered as he stared up at the ship's mast.
Robin struggled as the Starling's wheel shoved down onto him, forcing the former tactician to brace his shoulders, as if holding back the waves themselves as they continued to thunder upon the ship's hulling, tossing gallons of black water on deck.
"Dammit," Morgan grunted as she pulled tighter on the rope, it snapped loose as she released it, "I can't get them to stay, dad!"
"Little busy!" her father replied, his face turning red as rain lashed it amid the stress.
A thud sounded across the deck. Inigo grunted in pain. Without a moment's hesitation, the redhead hurdled over her current work to the collapsed prince's side, "Oh gods, Inigo, what happened?"
"I tried to climb to get the sail," he sputtered, "a wind caught me off-guard and... and..." The prince needed say nothing more. Morgan's eyes digressed and found his leg bent at an inhuman angle. She turned and scrunched her nose in disgust.
"Father! Inigo's hurt!" the redhead cried.
"Might be some vulneraries in my quarters," he grunted, "best I can do right now." Morgan pushed herself up shakily on the slick deck, now completely flooded, and took a step forward to make for her father's quarters, but she was instantly interrupted as the Starling groaned in agony and shifted onto her side over a massive swell, the ocean surging at the ship's starboard side and threatening the crew with an eclipsing, churning pit of night-black on the opposite side, from which they were suspended almost vertically. The thief was paralyzed by fear, and slipped as the all that wasn't nailed to the deck, herself included, rushed toward the abyss. "Dammit!" Robin roared, "the whole ship's going to break apart if we don't get out of this!"
Morgan only barely heard his voice as she clawed at the wood, splintering beneath her fingernails, to keep herself attached to the deck.
More snaps resounded, and Robin furrowed his brow. He knew the wheel wouldn't be enough to save them, but he had hoped. Now he had lost control of the Starling. He looked away from his labor to see his daughter kicking and crying incoherently as her drenched face sank and paled, clutching desperately at the planks beneath her. "MORGAN!" he jumped from his spot, nearly flying off the deck as it hopped up in an angle from another rogue wave.
Morgan cried for her father, at least she thought she did. Her mind was as flooded as her clothing as she called out in a language she herself failed to recognize. She was deaf to everything as she sputtered, and her heart sank as her grip wrenched open and she fell, air whistling beside her. The water was cold and dark. The impact was barely felt. The young woman's eyes fell shut. Silence.
In a way, it was relaxing. The darkness provided an opportunity. Morgan's mind had been such a whirlwind of consideration since her rendezvous with her father. There was so much else she would rather think about then another battle. The redhead felt a moment's glimpse of warmth drum in her chest as she thought of her mother's smiling face. She even tried to chuckle as she was briefly reminded of her husband's antics and was soon equally amused by her own use of the word "husband." It was strange even to her to think of the young man with the sapphire hair in such a way. They weren't like either of their own parents in their marriage: Morgan didn't wait at home for Inigo to make his return so they could share dinner and fireside chats, rather they spent days, weeks, and even months with their own affairs, but when they rejoined, that was what made the time worth it. It seemed to make the love they shared even stronger with each fond farewell and sudden reconnection.
Then her mood fell. Morgan had reminded herself of her mother. What would she ever do now that that beautiful woman was gone? Her father likely wouldn't forgive her, and she wasn't much inclined to leap back into his embrace, either. She hadn't thought much about the loss at the moment she escaped that hellhole, but now the feeling truly struck her. Her mother, one half of her being... she was gone. Of course, she felt the presence of the cold darkness in which she was enveloped, and realized she might be dead herself.
Until she felt a tug on her arm. It took only a moment, but it might have been days to the redhead as the light momentarily blinded her and her lungs swelled to capacity with a rush of freezing air, causing her entire body to shudder. Her limbs flailed instinctively in the icy blue, and water covered her face and splashed into her eyes, nose, and mouth. None of this, however, disturbed her father, who pulled harder and plucked the thief from the seas. She gasped like a fresh catch as she was laid out onto the patch of deck wood. "For the record," coughed Robin as seawater dripped down his soaking hood, as well as his nose and bearded chin, "You'll always be my child."
"I-Inigo..." she huffed, "Where?"
"Lover boy is just fine," the former tactician waved his hand to the right. Morgan turned her head to find her husband clutching his leg in one hand, and a segment of the Starling's railing in another. He fed her a weak smile.
"Thank... you," the young woman breathed. As she regained her composure and her breath, she sat up, "I... You know, I have no intention of cupping your cheek and telling you I was wrong."
"I wouldn't have dreamed it," the vague smirk was back, "Well, start kicking. It's a long way to Valm."
"Hardy-har-har," growled the prince from his driftwood sanctuary.
"I wasn't joking," the former tactician breathed, "You've still got one good leg, haven't you?"
"Morgan," Inigo's hair fell and teased the surface of the water, "have I mentioned that I hate your father?"
"Have I mentioned that saving a one-hundred-seventy-pound fruit with a bum leg wasn't in my plans for this trip?" the older man grumbled in reply. Morgan looked out at the setting sun, now visible through the parting steel-gray clouds. Maybe permanent limbo would have been a bit more relaxing.
[...]
The rose-haired woman watched the older woman of similar build with a sneer. Nihilus was before her, talking about his early days. She didn't need to listen; she had heard all this information, these stories, ins days past. Nihilus had loved to share his more vulnerable past with her. Confessing his weakness, he had said, gave him more strength than he thought possible. Of course, here it was nothing more than a sympathy grab. That much was obvious, but she watched the other woman nod her head earnestly, with those wide, shimmering eyes, and wondered if that was what she had looked like; so bright, so naïve... It would be cute if it weren't annoying.
"I fell on hard times after my parents were killed by agents of the Conqueror. I took to the streets, like many a Valmese child was forced to in the wake of Walhart's storm of jack-booted thugs. That was when I met Dahlia, over there," the purple-haired young man thumbed at the rose-haired woman.
"That is... regrettable, but then why do you choose to further sow the seeds of war?" Olivia furrowed her brow.
A smile pulled along the corners of the young man's mouth. He shook his head while shrugging his shoulders, "You make me sound like some sort of marauder. My objective, dear lady, is not war for the sake of war, as your tone would appear to imply, but rather to wipe the slate clean, to create a world that will be the true vision of peace."
"I still fail to see how war brings about ultimate peace," Olivia murmured defensively.
"Allow me to explain it in this way, dear," Nihilus made a point of creating eye contact between them, "Growing up beneath the Conqueror's heel meant I had to learn to be strong, as those who weren't strong were destroyed, simple as that. The same was true when Walhart fell: he was bested by the might of the dynasts, as well as the Ylissean League, and was replaced by leaders more powerful and, thus, appropriate to the position."
"Such as yourself?" the rose-haired queen noted.
The young man laughed, "No, I am not among this country's leaders. Do not mistake my purpose for conceit; I merely submit the argument that war is the perfect catalyst to bring out the greatest power that exists in this world. Does that make sense?"
"No..." Olivia ducked her head, "I'm sorry, I've tried to listen, but I hear only more madness."
He smiled and shut his eyes, "Not to worry. You will understand, one day." Nihilus stared at the queen another moment before whistling and waggling his finger in the air, "Return the exalt to his bride. We're done for today." The steel doors opened loudly as Chrom, still biting and shoving at his guards, was thrown back into the cell.
"Olivia," he reached out for her, "tell me he didn't..."
"No, I-I'm all right," she breathed, "We only talked."
"Still such a low opinion of me," Nihilus shrugged with a sour note as he leered at the exalt, "What a shame. You'll see the truth in time, though." The young man's composure was broken as he erupted into a loud cough, followed by another, then another, and still one more until it was apparent he was out of breath.
"Master Nihilus!" the rose-haired woman who stood off to his side approached him. Noting his condition, with comprehension in her eyes, she held the young man's face and subtly removed a small item from her pocket and eased into the purple-haired man's suffocating mouth, "You must remember to take more appropriate caution, my lord."
He recovered quickly, taking a deep breath and nodding appreciatively to his associate, "Thank you, Dahlia. What would I do without you? I believe I'll take this opportunity to retire for the evening."
"Will milord require additional blankets, clothing, or nourishment before his rest?" she responded, standing straight.
"No," he waved his hand genially, "but thank you for your concern, dear. Goodnight to you."
"Goodnight, sir," she bowed. The young man's footsteps resounded through the hall as he pivoted away.
"You seem a dutiful guard," offered the exalt after a pause.
"Milord receives the honors he is due," she refused to acknowledge him.
"And why is he due those honors?" Chrom pressed, "Why is it you serve this man, and not someone with nobler aims at heart?"
A fire lit in the girl's eyes as her glance cut a swath down at the blue-haired man, "Milord's aims are nobler than any of those dandies who are so galling as to choose themselves 'nobles' in this land might even begin to consider. Speak not of that which you fail to understand, fool!"
"I suppose I'll take that as a 'no' on my offer to join me," the exalt sighed. The rose-haired girl scowled at him.
[...]
"Uck, this collar is so itchy," the blonde groaned, "This is why I don't do cloaks."
"Tell me 'bout it! I can't see a derned thing 'neath this cotton-pickin' hood!" her husband compounded.
"I beg your tolerance just a few minutes more, good sir and madam," the silver-haired man beckoned, "Please do remain silent while I speak to the guards, then, once we're out of sight, you may remove your garments as you see fit."
"Be ready, fair lad of the word," the excitable young man beside him declared, "My sword hand twitches in anticipation of blood to soon be spilt; we are in imminent danger!"
"We certainly are, if you can't manage your twitching a few moments more," he grumbled.
"Halt!" called one of the assembling border guards, "Who goes there?"
"Good morrow, sir. My name is Etienne," the silver-haired man smiled, "I was told to remove these two from the capitol; a pair of Ylissean priests."
"Why weren't we sent advance notice?" another guard watched them critically.
"Lord Arc is not much for foresight, is he?" chuckled the young man.
"Watch your tongue about Lord Arc, or I'll box your ears, you louse," barked still another guard.
"If you'd just allow us passage, we'll be out of your way in no time at all, I assure you," the young man bowed.
The guard before them looked each member of their ragtag party up and down, "'Ey, has that one got purple hair?"
Steven felt a bead of sweat appear on his neck, "Er, I don't believe so... why do you ask?"
"Yeah, it is!" he roared, "Hey boys, mount up! The little princess and 'er hubby are tryin' to make a getaway!" The men around the guard raised their axes.
"Begone, fiend!" Owain shouted, jumping at the chance to slash across one of their chests.
"So much for planning," Steven rolled his eyes. One of the guards charged and swept broadly with his axe, a clumsy move. The silver-haired young man sidestepped the strike and retaliated with a snap of his fingers that resulted in a bolt of lightning scorching the assailant. He uttered a guttural moan and fell. The remaining guard had taken the opportunity to get behind the young man, and seized him by the throat.
"Gotcha, ya wiry little bastard," he chortled, holding his neck between his elbow, "Now how about the princess steps over here real nice-like..." He was cut off: Steven reared back and bucked the back of his skull into the aggressor's face, breaking his nose. Given the opportunity, the silver-haired man shoved himself forward and broke his captor's hold. He pivoted in place and blew the pained guard away with a swell of fire that consumed him quickly.
"I was hoping to avoid something like that," Steven rubbed the back of his head gingerly.
"I see you've gotten better with your magic, Steven," the princess nodded, dropping her hood.
"I suppose I must have inherited some ability from my father, eh?" he nodded, "I'm nowhere near as gifted as he, but, any port in a storm, as they say."
"I think Robin would be very proud," Lissa grinned at the young man.
"Of what?" he lamented, "My failure to execute my own plan, or my meager ability to barely survive with my own life?"
"Oh, come now," she hooked her arm around the young man, "You know your father wouldn't tolerate such relentless self-deprecation."
"I had just hoped my own designs might succeed for once," he moped, "Ah, well... it seems father's tactical genius never made it into my repertoire... At any rate, come away. We should be safe..." The silver-haired man glanced at the fallen bodies, blood pooling around Owain's victim, the other two charred beyond human recognition, "...Now." He scanned the horizon. Regna Ferox would be... ten days march, at most.
[...]
"Well, well, well," chuckled the familiar voice, "I've already missed you bunches, big fella."
"Stow the 'disaffected hard-nose' crap for once, Cyrus," grunted the man across from him, "If you're here, I have to assume it's because Daddy Nihilus needed something done, but was to chickenshit to take care of it himself."
"More like he's too busy for self-important blowhards," scoffed the green-haired swordsman.
"You want this to come to blows?" the Tenebrous Hero pushed up from his recently seized throne.
"Oh, I'd love that," the Storm Blade grinned, "but Nihilus seems to like you, for whatever gods-forsaken reason, so I'm just here to tell you to keep your ass in line, lest my next visit be a little less friendly."
"Well, then," Arc exhaled, "care to spar for a round, 'friend?' I think it'd make both of us feel better."
Cyrus put his fingers to his chin, he was supposed to be above this clueless lout, and yet, when the clueless lout was right, he was right. Nihilus might not be thrilled with him, but there would be no way he would back down from a chance to knock that pompous ass flat on his back, "Sounds like fun."
[AN: Hi there! Thanks for reading! If you're here on Cormag Ravenstaff's recommendation, thanks for taking the time to check me out. If you aren't, you should go have a look at some of his stuff, like his current secret agent/detective AU set in the FE universe "Impossible Emblem." And, hey, no matter how you find yourself here, please leave a review, even if it's to tell me you hated the story! I strive to improve, and the best way to do that is to get a sense for what my readers do and don't like! Thanks for your time!]