Chapter 12
The cutting winds of Lieben knifed along the back of the wyvern as it lazily flapped its massive wings with a tremendous force only once every few seconds, gliding without issue as it sailed through the air like a ship at full sail. The former tactician was currently rubbing his eyes, having drifted into slumber temporarily, consumed by a sudden stint of fatigue. While his eyes remained heavy, he resolved to keep them open, as his meeting with the general would not be long off. He glanced back and smiled briefly with content, seeing all his proverbial ducks in a more literal row. The Ylissean prince clung slobbishly to Morgan's hindquarters, his head unceremoniously resting upon the small of her back, just north of her rear, forcing Robin to shake his head and sigh. His eldest daughter looked little more dignified, also slumped over onto the wyvern's background and snoring quietly, a small puddle of drool hanging from the edge of her mouth, but at least, her father reasoned, there wasn't some blue-haired dandy holding onto her buttocks.
Eager to find a new subject for observation, the former tactician cast his gaze to his right, over Minerva's mighty wing, finding Gerome perched atop a different wyvern, gliding alongside them. He was without the mask Robin had associated with him for so long. He rode with a stern glare, despite the shimmering of his hair as it rustled in the chilling winds.
"You stare with a gaze with an intensity comparable to that of Minerva close to suppertime, my dear friend," a sudden voice caught Robin off-guard.
"Apologies," he muttered, "It's been quite some time since I've talked with you or any of the others. I was just curious about how Gerome has been doing."
"He is a good lad, as well he ought to be, per his rearing by the Fatherest of Fathers," the duke of Rosanne nodded, "and he has shown he is more than prepared to succeed his noble father in governing his homeland."
"Pleasing to hear," the former tactician took in, "though I take it he's not as much for the affections of courtesans as his father."
"Alas," Virion sighed, "Gerome shows precious little efficacy, and even downright apathy in the ways of romance, but perhaps he is still too young for such matters."
"Seems probable," Robin concurred.
"I would like to pose you a question, now, if I may, Robin," the archer introduced.
"By all means," the former tactician waved his hand before placing it upon his own chin to stroke his dark beard.
"I must impart that I am a trifle confused," the duke admitted, "reports from Ylisstol had told us that... well, we knew you had survived Grima's destruction, but..."
"My lord means to say that we were told you were dead, Sir Robin," Cherche expedited.
"I was getting to that," the duke of Rosanne hung his head in disappointment, "You have undercut my dramatic buildup, Cherche!"
"I expect Sir Robin would prefer to hasten to the heart of the matter," his wife replied with a roll of her eyes.
A crooked smile was resting on the former tactician's face as he stared at his hands, "I appreciate the thought, Cherche, but I'm actually curious as to the details: What were you told about me?"
"So little has time to occupy the mind of the most noble and legendary men such as my self that I frequently have difficulty recalling such trifles," Virion began, "but no message has ever stricken me in a manner similar to that of the one issue by Exalt Chrom some twenty years ago."
"I must say, even I was left quite stunned by it," his wife added in a tone that seemed inappropriately pleasant.
"Quite," the duke nodded, "The letter explained that the one known as Grandmaster Robin had ventured into the woods one night when the soil was slick and gray with moisture, taking with him his wife and disappearing into the inky black. They claimed your cloak had been discovered, bloodied and torn, in the mists of early daylight. I do not recall the specifics of that correspondence, but it occurs to me that at the time I daresay there was something unsettling about the way it was written. Clearly, the message had something of a malicious undertone."
"Perhaps," the former tactician breathed.
"Er, I was hoping you could elucidate that point a bit, old boy," Virion gestured.
"Chrom was upset with me," Robin replied simply, "we had a bit of a falling out. As a result, I dropped off into nothingness and all but Ylissean gentry were purged of my memory. That's the gist of it."
"B-But, you were so close..." the duke of Rosanne observed, "Surely you were too good of friends for that sort of thing."
"Afraid not," Robin sat back.
"Please, you cannot keep a man of my means in suspense," the duke begged, "What was the reason for this... how did you put it? 'Falling out?'"
"I don't really feel much like going into details right now. Anyway, isn't that Lieben Keep up ahead?" Robin pointed to a round structure made of the palest stone conceivable, standing in the shape of a pillar a few miles ahead, a lone window full of gold light standing as a dubious greeting to the castle, otherwise cloaked in the swarm of steel-gray clouds that were descending on the area. Another storm was likely.
[...]
The sound of a hinge creaking caused the exalt's eye to wrench open in a similar fashion. He sat up quickly and was forced to bring a hand in front of his face as he suddenly squinted in the onslaught of light that struck his face. With a whimper, his wife had risen and joined his side, holding his side tightly.
"It's been a while since we last chatted," remarked the familiar youth, "too long, in fact, and for that I apologize. But I'd like to speak now, if we may."
"I've nothing to say to you," growled the exalt, though his voice had been weakened by the weeks trapped in the suffocating prison, coated on every wall with rust, and presumably all manner of filth.
"Hear me out," commanded their captor, "I wish to speak about the one called Robin."
"Not helping your case," the exalt denied again.
"They say you were good friends with him, but that he... died. How tragic," the purple-haired youth folded his arms without empathy.
"Then there you have it," Chrom breathed, "what else did you need to know?"
"I'm not a fool," the young man knelt to the exalt's eye level, "and I can conduct investigations of my own. The Grandmaster of Ylisse is still very much alive, albeit reserved."
"I still don't see what more I can tell you," the blue-haired royal shrugged.
The young man nodded succinctly and straightened his hair, "I want to know why your little schism happened. What drove Robin away?"
"Why do you want to know that?" Chrom pressed.
"Because it interests me," the young man shrugged, "Now, stop wasting my time and just get on with it."
The exalt sighed. He didn't really have much choice, and at least this would provide a break from the hours of sleeping in darkness. "It began with a regularly scheduled meeting on foreign policy directed at Plegia..."
[*]
The former tactician stroked back a wisp of his hair and glanced over his own forehead momentarily to check that everything was in place. Satisfied, he looked back down, finding Chrom taking his seat at long last. Representatives from the various districts of the halidom sat around them, each sporting a different color robe and hat to signify their affiliation. They sat in numerical order of district working clockwise out from the exalt.
"Very well, then, gentlemen," Chrom placed his hand on the table, "assuming we are all adequately prepared, I'd like to bring this meeting to order." The representatives nodded and murmured their assent. "Today's issue," Chrom began with a subtle but large inhale, "will be the subject of dealing with Plegia. Recently, Ylisse has been made aware that a shift in Plegian governance is occurring, moving away from the proximal anarchy and military junta that has swallowed it since the death of their last king, Validar. This opens a door for new political interaction between our two nations."
"Ain't nothin' good ever come outta any Plegian. Damn 'em all, says I," grumbled a representative in red.
"Your contribution is appreciated as always, Sir Richard," Chrom rolled his eyes while nodding at the aging man. "At any rate," the exalt recovered, "what I intended to discuss was the proper approach to this new situation. Primarily, Plegia still owes Ylisse and Regna Ferox sizable reparations for the Mad King's War."
"The Plegians are honorable folk," proclaimed a man in green, "they'll be prepared to pay those reparations if we just sit them down to a good, rational talk."
"You're as naïve as they come if you think they'll pay in full after what's happened, Neville," challenged another in yellow, "We can't go asking, we have to demand."
"Demands are what start wars, Nelson," argued yet another who sported orange, "the Plegians need to be encouraged to act of their own accord, and only get a little kick when they get rowdy."
Chrom took a sip of wine as his head shifted back and forth between the debaters. With command, he raised his voice to silence them and projected it across the table, "Being the only one here of arguable Plegian descent, I'm eager to hear what you think, Robin."
The former tactician picked his head up, "Well... it's difficult to determine a course of action with so many unknowns. Who will the new leader be? How amenable will he or she be to Ylisse? Will the new leadership last? It's nearly impossible to decide on anything without defining even so much as one of those variables. The last thing we want to do, though, is play tax collector and come bang on the door of a nation like Plegian while it's snarling and bleeding in the corner."
"Well put, as always," the exalt bowed his head.
"With all due respect," motioned a representative in blue, "You don't know enough about Ylissean politics to be making such determinations, sprout."
"Can it, Lindsay," urged the man in green.
"I know what you've done for this land," the man in blue continued anyway, "and you're a smart boy, but you're not more than that. You don't understand the intricacies of this nation the way we old hats do. The only thing that appeals to Plegians is a show of force."
"At least I remember my history," Robin shook his head, "I know you old salts would care to conveniently forget 'The War for the Holy Ylissean Halidom,' but I remember it well, and so do the Plegians. Exalt Chrom's lineage is not forgotten."
"Show some respect, boy!" demanded the man in red.
"Peace," Chrom held up his hand, "My friend is correct. What my father did was monstrous, that cannot be denied. But we do have a serious issue at stake, here, and I need real solutions."
"Have we considered policing Plegia with military force until we can ascertain the situation?" wondered the representative in yellow.
"Viable," Chrom supposed.
"Out of the question," Robin resisted, "putting soldiers around the homes of starving and frightened people is not the way to earn their trust."
"But it would give us a chance to make contact with the proprietors of this new Plegian regime and ensure their stability if they prove amicable to our interests," the exalt returned.
"And if not? Would we let them collapse back into anarchy?" Robin growled.
"If necessary," Chrom tightened his fist, "I consider you a friend closer to my own heart than any other, Robin, but I cannot help but to think you are allowing your heritage to cloud your judgment on this issue."
"I might say the same to you," the former tactician returned, "Your father's blood still rests within you, Chrom. I see it rising from time to time, as with the beginning of the Valmese campaign. You do not see past your nation's own borders, at times, or even past yourself, at others."
"Are you blaming me for putting my country first?" Chrom replied sternly.
"As I would any man too consumed by nationalism to have regard for common sense. Chrom, the way to put out a fire is not to put a torch to it," his friend argued.
Chrom lowered his head and sighed briefly in vexation, a hot and stinging sigh, before cutting a gaze into the man across the table, "You have shown a remarkable fixedness in opposition to war and any conflict in the past, Robin, and while I admire your faithful pacifism, you must recognize that it is not always the most prudent stance of a nation."
"Perhaps," the former tactician breathed, "but I was never meant for the leading of nations. You knew that."
"You were always one to keep to your own affairs when unsolicited," the exalt recalled.
"Perhaps I'm merely sentimental," Robin shrugged, "but I've got a darling wife and a little boy growing up at home. I would ask the exalt to recall his own similar prospects and see if they do not alter his feelings on war."
"I'm afraid I've already made a thorough inquiry to that end and have determined that they do not," Chrom maintained his glare.
"Then I think my time with this court is ended," Robin dropped his hands onto the table, "It's clear my opinions are not those which ought to be taken to represent those of the Ylissean public, and I therefore no longer hold any place in this forum."
"Robin, wait, there's no need to be so rash," Chrom approached him.
The man halted and his cloak swayed as his back turned to the exalt, "Chrom, will you look me in the eyes and answer a question?"
"Of course," the blue-haired man drew near and faced his friend.
"Does controlling Plegia really mean more to you than being here as a father, taking care of your daughter?" Robin posed.
"Managing Plegia is the only way to ensure her safety," the exalt's sapphire eyes gleamed as they reflected his comrade's.
"And every other nation along with it?" Robin dismissed, turning before giving Chrom a chance to respond, "I've heard enough. Fuck your 'control.'"
The palace fell silent, save the echo of footsteps and the great creak of the doors, followed by their slamming shut.
[*]
"Per my understanding, he returned to his wife and children following that," Chrom breathed at the tale's conclusion, "He refused most other communication with me ever since."
"I see," the young man drank in.
"But, I ask again," the exalt affirmed, more resolute, "Why does this concern you?"
"Sir Robin is a very complex man," the purple-haired youth resolved, "and I am determined to better understand the nature of his character. I wish to know what it took for him to arrive at the point where he now exists."
"Your explanations leave quite a bit to be desired," the exalt complained.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Exalt Chrom," the young man ignored him, "I'll double your rations for this week. Oh, and I'll have Ludveck give your lovely Olivia a chance to get some fresh air. Under your supervision, of course."
Olivia clutched her husband's stubbly chin and winced.
"Be strong, Olivia," he urged.
"I know," she held him tighter, "I want to make sure you feel the same strength."
"I do with you at my side," he whispered.
"Perhaps we'll need to fix that," the young man muttered, shutting the door behind him.
"Oh!" yelped a small voice as the young man proceeded out.
"Sorry," he muttered, glancing down to find its source. The rose-haired woman was rubbing her nose, "I guess I wasn't watching where I was going."
"It's fine, sir," she assured him.
"You look a bit pale," Nihilus inspected her cheek, "are you feeling all right?"
"Of course," she nodded, "I wanted to deliver some news, sir."
"Right," he acceded, "to my chambers then, shall we?"
"As you wish," she followed him as he began to walk in that direction.
"While we have a moment," the purple-haired man declared with his eyes front, "there was something I wanted to say to you, Dahlia."
"Sir?" she picked her head up.
"You've done commendable work for me. I thank you for your dedication to my cause. I know it mustn't be easy," he proclaimed.
"I find your cause just, and would therefore stop at nothing to see it properly abetted, sir," the young woman bowed.
"You know you don't have to be formal with me," he reminded her as they ascended the stairs.
"You're my lord and I'm your subject," she determined, "it's simpler for me this way. It makes me comfortable."
"That's what's curious," Nihilus told himself, "given your background, I'd believe you to despise authority and establishment, and with more than fair justification."
"One of the many paradoxes of existence and human consciousness, I fear," she shrugged him off.
The man nodded and stroked his hair back; she wouldn't be talking today, either. Finally, they arrived at his chambers, and the purple-haired man inserted the key into the dark iron slot beneath the knob and pushed the redwood door open silently. "So, your news?" he invited, taking a seat on the bed.
"Ah, yessir," she nodded as if only now realizing it, "General Argent has sent word of a small party mobilizing in Lieben. He believes the Grandmaster to be among them."
"I suppose it was a little birdie that told him that?" Nihilus scoffed.
"Actually..." the rose-haired woman bit her lip.
"Wha- Really?!" the young man cocked an eyebrow, "I was joking, by Naga's fang..."
"He does like those birds a lot," his lieutenant noted.
"Believe me, I'm reasonably aware of how much he likes the birds," Nihilus massaged his temples, "Tell him he's not to engage this group under any circumstances prior to my direct order."
Dahila bowed, "As you command." Momentarily, the young woman hesitated and stared at her superior.
"Everything all right?" he noticed her.
"Apologies, sir," she hid her indiscretions, "what are your plans for the immediate future?"
"I was going to lie down," he remarked at the window, "It's still a trifle cold out, and, as you might imagine, I've been having some difficulty with... er, why are you asking, anyway?"
"I was only going to suggest you take some time to rest," the rose-haired woman provided, "You looked fatigued. I hope you'll feel better after resting."
"Yes, thank you," he faced his bed, then craned his neck back to her, "do see to my orders, if you would. And, when you have a chance, I would be grateful if you could bring me a small glass of wine."
"Easily done," she smiled slightly and nodded, exiting and shutting the door firmly behind her.
"Nervous as a newborn deer," the young man remarked to himself, rubbing his face with his open palm. The rose-haired woman did always seem to lack a certain confidence, and stared at him in the strangest of ways, as if she were evaluating a painting, rather than a living individual. A throb in his chest ended that line of thinking, and the man with the amethyst hair clutched at the sudden outburst, it seeming to feel like a knife had found its way between his ribs and lungs. His other muscles, too, became weak and fatigued at the sensation, and, with a defeated sigh, he lay down on the bed, covering himself with the blankets as best he was able. He despised having to be looked after like a child who had taken ill, but he was left without a choice, until such a time as he could obtain the exalt's treasure. But it wouldn't be that simple, he knew that. He would have to cross the final bridge only when it came to him. As he began to ponder the possibilities presented by the artifact, he found his pain dissipated and the young man fell quietly and quickly into sleep.
[*]
He stared down at the puddle and felt his eye twitch. He wanted to vomit immediately at the sight, but forced his stomach to quell itself, as it would only make the matter worse.
"What are you doing up, Shorts?" asked the black-haired, ash-covered girl, rising from her spot on the floor. He resented the nickname, but she claimed it was the only solution if he would refuse to tell her his name. The boy was sure that the latter was impossible. However much he trusted this girl, to make his name known would be suicide. He had, thus, resigned himself to the nickname over time. Apparently, he was so called for the short pants he was discovered wearing and for the fact that the girl stood about a head taller than he, though the boy believed this to be unfair, as it was clear the dark-haired girl had a few years on him as well. "Shorts" never gave an answer, only continuing to stare at the stain on the floor and restrain his throat as best he was able.
"Hey, what's wrong?" she insisted more softly, crawling over to him. The purple-haired boy didn't answer again as his eyes focused sharply at the floor before him, small tears in the corner of both of those eyes. Finally, his acquaintance looked down, "Oh, gods! Did you cough up blood?!" He nodded his assent weakly. "Okay," her eyes darted around the room in a panic, "Just... take deep breaths, okay? You're going to be fine." He wasn't sure he believed her, but the boy did as he was told and tried to slow his breathing. "Um... does something hurt?" she asked. The boy pointed to his chest. "Okay," she nodded rapidly, "lie down." He complied as the dark-haired girl began to haphazardly apply pressure to his chest. "I've dealt with a few bloody noses before... I hope this is the same concept."
"There's a man outside," the boy rasped all at once.
"Not now, kid," she hushed him.
"He can help us," he replied.
"Sure, whatever, but for now-"
"He will help us."
The girl paused and stared curiously into the boy's eyes. They seemed darker than usual, and filled with an almost suspicious mix of confidence and fear. Feeling herself bizarrely convinced by the appeal, the girl shrugged her shoulders helplessly and got to her feet to open the rotting door of the small condemned house she had claimed almost two years ago as her own. Her eyes grew wide as she saw a man in red fatigues strutting down the dirty streets with a pair of thin spectacles on his face (which seemed permanently neutral in its countenance) and a comfortable swagger in his gait. Swallowing hard, she mewled from the doorway, "Um, sir?"
A gleam reflected off the man's spectacles as he paused in place with a final tap of his expensive-looking shoes and craned his neck back at the girl. He said nothing and awaited her with a smiling curiosity in his green eyes.
"M-My friend..." her teeth chattered, "He's... he's very sick... C-Can you...?"
The corner of his mouth was pulled into a sideways smirk, "Lucky for you, young lady, I happen to be a doctor. Show me to him."
Requiring nothing further, the dark-haired girl hastened into the house and knelt before the boy with the purple hair, who was currently holding his throat apprehensively. The Doctor approached him carefully and took to his other side. "The blood is his," the girl remarked.
The Doctor nodded, "Can you speak, boy?" The boy with the purple hair covered his mouth with his hands protectively. "I see," the man noted with a knowledgeable nod, "Not a bad idea. Tell me, where does it hurt?" The boy pointed to his chest, as before. Nodding again, the Doctor pulled up the boy's shirt to bare the skin and began to size it up, applying pressure with his palm to test for something.
"Do you have a staff, or something?" the girl hoped.
"I'm not a priest, dear," he continued to focus on the boy, "I don't worry about cuts and bruises. I deal in medicine, for illnesses." After a few more moments of silence, the Doctor spotted something that caused him to announce it, "Hello... what's this?"
The boy stared down at the Doctor, who met his eyes and seemed to ask the boy for confirmation. He looked down at his own stomach and realized what the Doctor had been staring at. The purplish mark just above his hip was not hereditary; it had been branded into his skin upon his birth in Plegia, or so he had been told in resentful tones by his father. The application of this brand was to sort out infants who could endure pain from birth from those that could not, and, fortunately, he had been a member of the former group. The Doctor nodded comprehensively.
"Your mother was a Grimleal, wasn't she?" he stared through the glare in his spectacles.
The boy swallowed hard. It didn't take much deducing to see that he was the child of a Grimleal, but how had the man known about it being his mother?
"Expiration," the Doctor mouthed to himself.
"What?" the dark-haired girl now loomed over his shoulder.
"Rare condition," he pushed up his glasses, "usually only occurs in those born in Plegia, and especially among those who travel. Seems to suggest it's a product of some component in the Plegian air that becomes vital to its citizens. Not enough experimentation done to know much; too few willing Plegians." In another moment, before the girl could conjure a question on the subject, the Doctor handed her a small amber-colored bottle full of a liquid that must have been clear, as it was the same color. "Take this," he commanded, "Have him take a quick sip when he experiences these symptoms. Concentrated Plegian water sample."
"B-But... what if we run out?" she wondered.
"I have clinics," the Doctor put his fingers to his forehead as his eyes were obscured by glare in the lenses again, "Almost everywhere you could think of." He handed the girl another item: a silver "V" that seemed to be a part of a larger piece of jewelry, "Here, hold on to this and visit any medical building. If you show it to someone in there, they'll be able to find me, I promise."
"...Um, thank you," she replied in accepting it, "but, what's the catch? Why are you helping us vagrants?"
His face pulled into another smirk, "Perceptive girl. I don't think of you as vagrants, but I do expect to being seeing you... frequently. Once in a while, I may call in a favor; a little errand, nothing more."
"I guess we don't have a choice," she resigned.
"Indeed, you don't," the Doctor stood, "For now, goodbye to you both." He disappeared from the doorway with almost unnatural haste.
Without a second thought, the boy took the vial from his companion and uncorked it, tossing a small quantity of the liquid inside into his mouth. Swallowing it, he felt a sublime relief and opened his mouth.
"Careful, don't drink too much!" she chided him.
The boy wiped his mouth clean and took a breath, "It's all right... I'm better now. And, that man... he's important. He's going to help us even more."
"I wouldn't trust that creepy guy," she shrugged.
"It's not about trust," the boy affirmed, "I... saw him. Like a dream, he was helping us, and we learned from him... There was a big black cloud coming after us, but that Doctor showed us how to fight it."
"Whatever, Shorts," she sighed and massaged her face. The boy noticed a shimmering trail along one of her cheeks.
"Were you... worried about me?" he wondered.
"No, I was worried that freak was gonna do something much worse than he did," the dark-haired girl growled, "So, if you're done sulking and causing problems for us, we've got some breakfast to nab."
"Right," he began to push himself on the ground, "Let's go."
She pushed past him to exit the doorway first. For a moment, the boy was confused, as he was greeted by the sight of a large tree, seeming to have been growing there for centuries, as opposed to the dirty alleyway they had ducked into one rainy evening. He marveled at the blue sky and mint-colored swaths of grass. Then he felt his wrist being pulled on by the girl, and the vision melted away to his expected surroundings.
[*]
"Ladies and gentlemen, Chrom's former Shepherds," she announced from the front of the room. All heads turned to face the sapphire-haired princess, who stood confidently before them, "I thank you all for you part in our success in reclaiming my family's castle. But the grave news that my father, mother, and brother are all absent from this place means I have further journeying to do. I would like to ask for your continued loyalty to that end, but I know that I cannot expect it. As such, I would like to extend to you all the opportunity, at this point, to end your cooperation with me and to return to your lives, free of consequence."
"Sounds good to me," the ginger-haired thief mumbled over a lollipop.
"We're staying," his wife tugged on his ear.
"Aw, strawberry jam," he rolled his eyes, concentrating back on his lollipop.
"We've taken an oath, so we ain't goin' nowhere," Sully folded her arms.
"That's right, sworn protectors of His Majesty and the royal family. We're here to stay," he husband came to her side.
"I'm with you, too," their daughter cropped up between them, cracking her knuckles, "I'm not a real knight yet, but I swear to uphold the vows of my family."
"Naturally, I'll remain by the same virtue," Frederick nodded to Lucina. He hadn't left her side. Sumia, who had turned up, as per the indication of the message Cynthia had brought, not long ago, nodded conjuctively with her husband.
"Likewise, a pegasus knight would never back down from her duties," Cordelia pledged, fist over her chest.
"And Gregor not leave beautiful wife to die. He is becoming fond of hot-blooded Ylisseans. Remind him of young, handsome, more baby-faced Gregor. So much... er, what is word? Enthrallment? Entropy? Exfoliation?" the aging mercenary trailed off.
"Enthusiasm, dear," Cordelia helped him along.
"They heard me, didn't they?" Kellam looked over his shoulder at his wife.
"Regardless, I believe there is little chance of complaint if we continue to follow. I feel certain our allegiance is more or less implied at this juncture," Miriel shrugged.
"Then I must thank you all," Lucina nodded sternly and gravely, "but I do not wish to provide any illusions: this will be a dangerous task. It has been determined that these aggressors hail from Valm, but are not entirely Valmese themselves: they are a band of mercenaries that have found a fostering home in Valm. Right now, they are few in number on the eastern continent, but the result of interrogations on some officials has demonstrated to me that that may not long remain the case. As such, I will deem it our mission to discover the intended landing sites for the invasion of these mercenaries, and lead the Legacy Shepherds to create a vanguard and thwart said invasion."
"'Legacy Shepherds?'" Kjelle repeated to herself, "That girl's been spending too much time with her cousin.
"After I'm satisfied that this invasion has been prevented, we'll make tracks to Valm to extirpate this group at its roots," she concluded, "Does everyone understand?"
A collective sound of assent escaped from the gathered group.
"Right, then," the princess accepted, "Get your things ready, we'll draw up movements tonight and execute them beginning tomorrow."
Another murmured sounded off as the "Legacy Shepherds" began to disperse to collect their belongings.
[...]
"D'ya wanna slow down for a second, mom?" begged her youngest son.
"Here I thought you spent all those years training, kiddo," she smirked, "If you're exhausted already... Maybe you need to improve your endurance."
"I'm fine," he asserted, "I'm wondering about you. You're usually pretty chatty, but you've been quiet as a church mouse since I met up with you."
Her eyes widened and she nodded, "I guess I didn't realize. Your mom can get a little over-focused when she has a goal in mind."
"Don't I know it," the young assassin shrugged, "I'm just trying to keep you aware. Plus... honestly, it kinda freaks me out when you're not talking about your inventory, or whatever."
The redhead chuckled, "I got the sense you got tired of hearing that sort of thing when you said as much to my face. 'Crivens, mom, d'ya really think I wanna hear about the price'a axes again?'"
"Do I really sound like that?" he put his finger to his chin pensively.
"A little bit," she smiled at him. They continued to march in silence for a few moments more until the merchant glanced back at her son over her shoulder, "So, an assassin, huh?"
His cheeks tensed, "How'd ya know that?"
"The insignia," she pointed to the emblem pinned to his clothes, "the movement style, the sword and bow technique... I've been around a time or two, kiddo."
"Around assassins?" he cocked an eyebrow.
"You'd be surprised how many people take a little good old-fashioned finegaling as outright theft," she replied with a neutral affect.
The young man shrugged, "I know you an' dad aren't exactly the biggest fans'o violence, but..."
"We understand violence, Leo," she remarked, "we just want to be sure that that violence is constructive in some way. Killing for killing's sake is no good."
"Well, I do it to maintain political stability in the world," returned the diligent assassin, "There needs to be an external check on political power; leaders can't be expected to regulate themselves."
"I think your father would agree on that point," the merchant nodded, "but you were never really a violent kid. Why the sudden change in demeanor?"
"Hard to explain," he faced forward, "but... To be honest, Steve's always been the clever one, and Sylvie uses her little tricks to keep people guessin', and then Morgan... Well, Morgan's always had her own way about things. Me, I didn't really feel like I had a way of influencing stuff around me, until I found the kind of power a single stroke from a blade could wield."
"Very sociopathically put," his mother chuckled at him.
"Aw, don't take the wind outta my sails like that, mom. I just mean... you know that old saying 'A stitch in time saves nine?'" he looked over at her, "Well, it's kinda like that. 'A blade in mind can save a nation's behind."
Anna giggled loudly in reply.
"Or, whatever!" he blushed, "I just mean sometimes the threat of death is enough to make sure things run smoothly. But to make sure a threat is consistently perceived, sometimes you have to put on a show of force, to make people know someone is watching them."
The redhead recovered and declared more soberly, "I suppose that has a certain logic to it, but who makes sure your little band of assassins is properly supervised? What determines conduct that requires action?"
"All written in a codex too complicated to explain all at once," the young man adjusted his cape, "I had to study it at the same time as I was training physically."
"Still haven't seen much of the results of that training," Anna smirked sidelong at her son. As if on cue, she felt herself roughly pushed to the ground, "Hey! I was pulling your leg!"
Her son gestured with his finger to request silence. He stared out onto the horizon and, with a large inhale, whipped out his bow, nocking the arrow and letting it fly in a fraction of a second. After hearing the whistle of the wind as it flew, Anna heard a muffled yell and the sound of something falling.
"Ha, right in the neck, while you were movin'! Ya won't be tryin' that again, will ya, ya sonuvabitch?!" Leo called out to the rolling hills.
As Anna stood, she traced his vision, "What're you talking about?"
He looked back, "You didn't see the guy on the hill takin' aim?" His mother shook her head. "Well, then there's one result of that training," he grinned. Anna shrugged and nodded her approval. They had miles yet to go before they reached Regna Ferox.