Chapter 14
A dozen pairs of eyes wept as they crowded in the center of the small village, a crude fire burning in the middle of the cobblestone street. The invaders, clad entirely in either red rags or crimson, gleaming armor, stalked around the area, leering at the five men kneeling on the street, resentment burning in their eyes as they sat with their hands bound.
"Now, listen up!" the commander of the invaders, a very unruly-looking man whose sleeves were torn and whose hair was a mess, called his men to attention, "I'm gonna complete our little demonstration here. The rest of you, here's the stakes: one gold for the head of every able-bodied man you bring me, five for any belonging to Rosannien nobility, ten for any filthy half-blooded Plegian scum, and if you bring me the head of a full-blooded Plegian sorcerer... You win."
[...]
Robin stepped off the wyvern first as the old man hobbled over to them as quickly as he could, muttering indistinctly. He came up to meet the once-again tactician shortly, "Oh, please, sirs! You've got to help us!"
He had flagged them down. This meant real trouble. "What seems to be the matter, sir?" Robin responded in the kindest voice available to him.
"The Liebenese! Oh, it's horrible, sir!" exclaimed the balding old man.
"Robin, have we the time for such delay?" asked the duke of Rosanne, leaving his wife's mount, "The capital is in danger as well. We should avoid petty distraction."
The old man's eyes widened, "Oh, praise be to Naga, Duke Virion! You must save our humble village, monseigneur!"
"Calme-toi," ordered the Archest of Archers, "Pray, what has befallen your village, good sir?"
"Those dastards from Lieben, they rounded up all the working men around town, and they're going to execute them right in front of their poor gods-fearing wives and children!" the old man's eyes tightened.
"What do you think, Robin?" asked the archer, "Worth our time?"
"For hearts and minds?" he smirked, "I think I can handle a bunch of petty murderers like this. Let's go."
"Understood," Virion nodded, "Cherche, Gerome, everyone, we've a skirmish to fight!"
"Here I was hoping to not have to mess up my hair," Sylvia slid down the wyvern's back.
"It's always a mess, Sylvie," her little sister teased.
"Do try not to get blood on you, dear," Inigo offered his hand to help his wife down, "I would hate to see your beautiful face tarnished by the ugliness of combat."
"I've seen plenty of blood and ugliness," the little redhead smirked, pulling her knife from her satchel, "Thieving is a more dangerous profession than most would have you believe."
"The plan is simple," Robin announced as his troupe began to gather round, "The enemy has a number of small, light units spread about an open field. Their commander is in the center of the village, one would predict, and the either way, I'm certain that's where the prisoners are being held, given that it's the only safe place. Cherche and Gerome, since you have winged mounts, I'll count on you to close up on each flank of the enemy. I would suggest you take the left, Cherche, as Minerva is a bit more resistant to magic."
"Wouldn't it make more sense to have us just kill their commander?" Gerome grumbled, "Then the fight would be over."
"Not necessarily," the tactician stroked his beard, "To kill their commander would disincentivize them, certainly, but it wouldn't create the same kind of hopelessness as knocking out a few of their peers would. Plus, if the enemy can see two wyverns making for their camp, they wont hesitate to kill off their prisoners immediately. We need to be more subtle, which brings me to my next point..."
Morgan stared at him and played with a bangle on her wrist as he faced her, "I'm going after the commander, huh?"
"As quickly and quietly as you can," he nodded, "it shouldn't be a problem for so skillful a thief, should it?"
"Don't patronize me," she pushed him out of the way.
"Wait, don't run off, my love," Inigo followed behind her, clutching his sword.
Robin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, "Don't let her get hurt, Inigo."
"On my life," the Ylissean prince swore by putting his hand over his heart. When he was released, he resumed his pursuit of his beloved.
"What about us, daddy?" Sylvia put a finger under her chin.
He smiled softly, "I'm too old to be doing any real fighting. You, Virion, and I will stick to support roles: Virion and I can cover from afar, and you can do your healing when we need it."
"Right, then," she cracked her knuckles, "break!"
Cherche and Gerome took off, and the remaining three began to march forward in a triangle formation.
[...]
"Now, which one of you wants to die first?" the unruly man cackled to himself. "You," he put an axe beneath the chin of the first man in the line, "That your little girl with the pretty little pigtails?"
The man glanced up at the girl, clinging to her mother's dress, crying her reddened eyes out and sniffling silently. He made no comment.
"C'mon lad," demanded the Liebenese man, "There's no use in tryin' ta hide it from me."
"Herr Kommandant!" shouted a mercenary as he stumbled up the streets, "You won't believe this: there's dragons swoopin' outta the sky and picking our men off!"
"W-Was der...? Where did they come from?!" he demanded angrily.
"We don't know," the young man bowed, "but there's precious little to stop them."
"Secure the prisoners, we'll use them as leverage if we must," the unruly man ordered.
"Ja volt," his subordinate obeyed.
"Wyverns?" the Liebenese commanded muttered to himself, "Who could be after us?"
[...]
One breath, exhale, and... slip. Morgan whipped the knife out of the man's throat, letting him slump to the floor, clutching at the suddenly-inflicted wound. "All this sneaking around is a nightmare on on my back," complained her husband.
"Shush. You blow my cover and a lot more than your back will be in jeopardy," the young redheaded thief returned. She vaulted over a stack of crates and covered herself in a tarp that sat atop them. Inigo simply circumvented the previous cover and walked to her position to crouch down. She frowned wordlessly at him. "Not much of a patrol here," Morgan remarked to no one in particular, "we just have to carefully work our way into the center of town and find the best dressed guy there, then we're golden."
"Is it always all this planning and hiding around with you?" her husband asked, sighing briefly.
"It's not a duel or a fencing match," she rolled her eyes at the prince, "It's a real fight with real people, people who aren't too honorable to grab you by the throat and shove a sword clean through your intestines. I have to be ready to do the same."
"How... charming," Inigo covered his mouth.
As footsteps sounded out just beyond the lines of the crates, Morgan peered over. A Liebenese soldier strolled by the alleyway, doing nothing in particular, whistling a tune. Seeing the opportunity, as he strolled by the crates, Morgan grabbed him, threw him to the ground on the other side of the crates, and stuck her knife in his throat. After a few seconds had passed, she whipped it back out. "This would make a good disguise, if you want to get a jump start on rescuing the villagers."
"What?" Inigo lifted his head, appalled, "But he just bled on the-"
"It's red," Morgan noted.
The Ylissean prince's brow sunk, "Fine. I hate you for this."
"Afraid to get down and dirty for me, princey?" his wife giggled, "Go on, get it on and start looking. I've got a commander to take down."
[...]
"Father..." Sylvia mused as she walked behind him, "It's been quite a while since you last saw all of us, hasn't it?"
"I suppose," he smiled, "What of it?"
"Have you been lonely at all?" asked the performer with the chestnut hair.
"That's a loaded question," the tactician chuckled, "Sure, I miss you girls and your brothers all the time, but I've got your mother. She's plenty of love for me by herself."
"And when she's at the shop?" his daughter pressed.
"I get by just fine with my work," he shrugged, "Otherwise, I accompany her when I can."
"Daddy," she grabbed his arm, "I know you don't like to talk about your feelings much, but you know I have a willing ear if something's bothering you."
"I know," he kissed her forehead, "You've always had a great compassion for others, Sylvia, and I appreciate it. It mustn't be easy, when your brothers and sister are busy with their own affairs and your father is the biggest source of controversy in all of Ylisse, to come home and smile at your family every so often."
"Not so hard as you might think, daddy," Sylvia winked, "The whole family's pretty good at keeping secrets, and, for my part, I gave up caring what other people think a long time ago. I focus on my business, like mom would."
"Is it wise to be chatting like this amid such a battle?" Virion chattered nervously.
"If it wasn't, do you think your chief strategist would abide it?" Robin stared back. Virion had no reply, so the tactician continued, "Cherche and Gerome will have no problem with these punks, and Morgan and Inigo can handle the inside work for certain. We're only going down to the village to meet back up with them and help pick off stragglers or free remaining prisoners." Virion nodded, then turned and shook his head when no one could see. Robin proceeded, "So, how's your magic coming along, sweetie?"
"Splendidly!" Sylvia announced with a satisfied grin, "Yesterday I got eighteen rabbits out of one hat!"
The tactician chuckled, "Did you ever take my advice and try any practical applications for those parlor tricks of yours?"
Sylvia pouted, sticking up her bottom lip, "'Parlor tricks?' Humph."
"Honey, you know I didn't mean anything by it," he shrugged.
"I think they're plenty practical by themselves," the performer set her hands on her hips and sneered up at her father, "but just so you know, I managed to heal a severed arm back onto a guy in one village."
"That's amazing, Sylvia!" her father's eyes widened.
"Yeah, I know," she winked and folded her arms, "Of course, the whole thing with trying to conjure up more potatoes for them didn't go quite as well... I guess you could say I'm in transition on the more practical magics."
"As long as you're still working at it," he smiled.
"How d'you think Morgie-worgie's doing right about now?" Sylvia progressed, looking back out toward the village.
"No screams yet," Robin noted, "so we're either in very good or very bad shape."
"Helpful," she elbowed him softly.
[...]
"All safe now," Inigo smiled as he unbound the young man's hands. The freed man glanced down at the corpse of the safehouse's Liebenese guard and, with a final scowl, kicked his lifeless skull. "I hardly think there's any need for that," the Ylissean prince quipped, watching the man walk away. Afterward, the prince joined the congregation of other prisoners standing outside the long hut and addressed them, "Now, listen here, I know how much all of you are going to want to strike back at the dastards who rounded you up, but you have to let that go and get back to your families. Let them know you're okay, and then get yourselves somewhere safe. My group will take care of the rest."
"Who are you, kind sir?" asked one of the shorter men among them.
"Me?" the prince thumbed at himself, "I'm Prince Inigo of Ylisse."
"Then it's true," the same man surmised amazedly, "The Ylisseans have returned for us! I always told my friends Ylisse were the best allies Rosanne could ever have, but they never took me seriously. Well, look at this!"
"Aye, Ylisse looks out for those it can protect, but our numbers are still few as of this moment, sir; there's been an attack on our home, too. So, for the moment, please just do as I instruct, as we need to hurry along," Inigo ordered.
"Of course, sir," he and the rest of the captured men began to separate in various directions toward their homes.
"Now," Inigo whispered to himself, "Morgan, I hope you haven't gotten yourself into any trouble… No, she's a marvelous thief, if that's not an oxymoron… I couldn't catch her if I tried, so how could they?"
[…]
Morgan grinned as she shoved the gold bullion into her pocket. She didn't even have to feel bad about stealing from these scumbags, and that made her twice as happy to make off with the spoils of their conflict.
"Hey! What d'you think you're doing?" a guardsman caught her attention as he burst through the door of the storehouse.
"O-Oh," the redheaded thief froze. She gathered herself and shifted her expression, "Oh, well, thank goodness there's a gentleman here. I do so hope you can help me find my way. I'm a trifle lost, you see: I come from the capital."
"Really?" the man's face softened, "A noble of Rosanne, huh? How lovely."
"Oh, you're too kind, sir," she leaned back and puffed out her chest, "I was just beginning to think I needed a man's company."
"Well, I can certainly be your man," the Liebenese gentleman strolled toward her and opened his arms to wrap them around her.
Morgan had to resist the urge to wrinkle her nose as she played into the embrace: he smelled like rotten onions and three pounds of garlic all mixed into a bucket of filth. Luckily, this was where the fun part came in: Morgan loosed the knife from her sleeve and slipped it along the man's jugular, watching his eyes widen, then pushed him off of her, frowning only a little, "In your dreams, mule-breath."
With that last irritation dealt with, Morgan pushed open the storehouse door, leaving the body behind, for now (someone else could be tasked with cleaning that up), and continued on with her mission. In the center of the streets, she spotted an unruly-looking man with mussed up hair deliberating something with a man beside him. The former man was considerably better dressed, outfitted in real armor, and so Morgan took after her target. She ducked into the shadows of an alleyway and followed the line of buildings along the small main thoroughfare, moving only when she was not in line to be observed by her target. As a glance from the unruly man came her way, the redheaded thief made herself scarce against the wall and buried her face into her clothes to avoid showing anything that distinctly identified her as a living being. Finally, after a few minutes of tense withholding of her breathing, she arrived at the other end of the street, and began to work her way up the side of one of the huts, the largest she could see, which explained why the enemy commander was so close to it.
Climbing the simple building wasn't hard; Morgan stepped up onto one windowsill and grabbed at the thatch covering the roof to pull herself up. Fortunately, it remained firm and she swung her legs up acrobatically, ending in a crouched position on the rooftop. From there, she stalked carefully until she was beside her target, as well as a few feet above him. With that in mind, she whipped out her knife again and glanced down.
The unruly-looking man beneath her glanced up as he heard what sounded like a flag flapping in the wind, then tried to shout but was cut off as a blade and a pair of boots, followed by an entire body, fell directly into him, reducing him to a bleeding pile on the ground. Morgan stood and wiped her knife clean on the man's undershirt, looking to each side to find the missing lieutenant who had been standing there only a minute ago.
"Gotcha!" the redhead suddenly heard yelled as a pair of arms wrapped around her own in a full nelson. She probably should have seen that coming. "Did you really think I'd be that stupid?" cackled the real commander, "I hope for your sake the rest of your lot aren't as dumb as you, girly."
"I hope for you sake you're not as dead as the rest of your lot," the thief rebutted.
"Cute," he restrained her to make her wince against the force, "But I didn't really give much of a damn about those fools. I'll just use you as leverage and work my way outta here, that way no one has to get hurt… assuming someone'll actually be willing to save some dirty little thief girl."
"'Dirty little thief girl?'" Morgan repeated distastefully, "I most certainly am not 'dirty!' And furthermore, I think you'll find a lot of people are interested in me. Ever hear of Grandmaster Robin? He's my father."
"Right," the man scoffed, "The daughter of the man what killed the fell dragon is a petty thief. Just keep your mouth shut, fraulein, you're cuter that way."
"She's right, you know," noted a rather familiar man's voice.
"Huh?" the commander was distracted from his hold, "Who—agh!"
Robin folded his arms and tapped his finger on his elbow, "You're holding my daughter, sir. I'd like her back, as I'm sure you can imagine."
The Liebenese man glanced down at Morgan, who smiled coyly in response, then looked back up to the grandmaster, "I… she's your… I…"
"If you don't want to give her back," Robin pulled an old tome out from his oversize pockets, "I could always send twenty thousand volts up your spine and have you dance like a puppet until your flesh sears like a finely-seasoned steak."
The man's eyes widened and he released Morgan, thereafter fleeing and screaming away from the street.
"I could've handled that," Morgan noted, rubbing her wrists as she moved away.
"I have no doubt," her father smiled, "I just figured it would be over faster and less messily that way."
"I mean it," the redhead added, "I totally had that. Don't you dare talk down to me."
"I wasn't," he held up his hands, returning to a more neutral expression, "Anyway, this was just the beginning of our work. We need to begin heading back to Rosanne Keep. Where's your husband?"
"Right here," Inigo announced proudly from an alleyway, now back in his regular clothes, "Everything all right, Morgan, my dear?"
"I'm fine," she dusted her shoulders.
"Such a temper," her father folded his arms, Sylvia giggling beside him.
"Come away, Inigo," Morgan beckoned her husband, "I want to get as much private time with you as I can during this accursed campaign."
"No time for that," Robin halted her, "We have to hurry on to Rosanne Keep, and our ride is just now arriving."
Morgan felt a lock of hair droop onto her scowling face as she heard the beating of wyverns' wings.
[...]
"...and has thus declared war on the whole of Rosanne," Dahlia finished her explanation, clutching the hilt of her blade reflexively, prepared to endure the response.
But it was more tranquil than she had anticipated: "I see. Have there been any formal skirmishes at this point?"
"No, sir," the rose-haired swordswoman answered, "But, of note is the fact that Grandmaster Robin has apparently sided with the sitting Duke of Rosanne."
Nihilus shook his head, his amethyst hair waving, "That's not altogether surprising; Grandmaster Robin fought an entire campaign in Valm at the Duke of Rosanne's behest many years ago. It seems only logical he'd be there to provide assistance again if asked. I just hope Argent knows what he's getting into."
"Sir," Dahlia nodded neutrally.
"Oh, don't be so drab, Dahlia," her commander insisted, "What do you think of the situation? I want your full and honest opinion."
"Well," she stroked her pink locks uncomfortably, "General Argent is a very strong man. Surely even with the greatest strategic mind in the world, the pittance of troops Rosanne possesses cannot hope to stand up against the Liebenese army."
"I wouldn't be so certain," Nihilus shut his eyes, "the Grandmaster is practically a force of nature; the Mad King and the Conqueror were both brought to heel by that same man."
"But one cannot outwit a blade, can they, sir?" the ghost of a smirk tugged at Dahlia's cheek.
The purple-haired man nodded, "Perhaps. In either case, I look forward to seeing a sample of Grandmaster Robin's power firsthand."
"Shall we begin supporting General Argent?" asked his subordinate.
"No," Nihilus declared firmly, "We could be tracked if we shipped supplies out. Argent wanted this war, so let him fight it himself for the time being."
"Yessir," Dahlia bowed to show her obeisance.
"Now, where's that partner of yours?" demanded the man with the amethyst hair.
"Cyrus!" his companion called.
The Storm Blade made a number of stumbling noises from outside the door before shuffling into his commander's office, "Hell's bells, Dee, turn it down a notch. What's so bleeding important?"
"Cyrus, have you been drinking again?" Nihilus folded his hands on his desk.
"Why, you know me so well, master," the green-haired man smiled disingenuously, "What gave it away, the five o'clock shadow or the bloodshot eyes?"
"I've told you this is unacceptable practice," Nihilus scowled.
"And then I burped, you laughed, and we had a bowl'a soup. What of it?" the Storm Blade smirked sidelong.
"Does any sort of propriety ever take hold of you, Cyrus?" his commander asked.
The man with the leaf-green hair laughed and shook his head, "No. And you wouldn't want it to. See, what you call 'propriety,' I call 'nonsense some codger who couldn't take a breath to save his life made up to make other people equally miserable.' It's all a lie spread by noble folk. The only real path to self-realization is to set aside all the second-hand mannerisms and just act how you want. If someone disapproves, then they can fight you for it, and the winner takes all. Easy."
Nihilus massaged his forehead, "Your philosophy is truly a marvel, Cyrus, but it's not my concern right now. I need you to perform a bit of reconnaissance for me."
"Again?" he groaned.
"I need some information on a few situations that I consider to be related," the man with the amethyst hair continued, unperturbed, "Lord Datura tells me he had a prisoner escape not long ago who fits the description of Grandmaster Robin's oldest son."
"Ferox?" Cyrus scoffed, "Great. The only thing uglier than the weather there is the women." He sputtered and clutched his stomach when the woman beside him elbowed him just below the ribs.
"And," their superior continued, giving both of them a scolding glance like a pair of feuding siblings, "see what you can dig up about the one they call 'The Crimson Hood.' Oh, and see if you can spot Robin's wife, Anna, while you're out there."
"A-Anna?" the Storm Blade gritted his teeth, "Red hair? About an inch shorter than me?"
"That's right. Why?" Nihilus cocked an eyebrow.
"N-No reason," the swordsman swallowed, "I think I have an acquaintance to visit while I'm there."
"I'll give you a week; don't tarry," commanded the man with the amethyst hair, following a wave of his hand.
"Milord," obliged the leaf-haired swordsman, turning to leave looking very much like he'd eaten some bad seafood.
As the door clicked shut, Nihilus seated himself on the edge of his bed and glanced up at his remaining subordinate, "Naga, he's frustrating."
"Tell me about it," Dahlia folded her arms. Hearing herself, she frowned and apologized for the impertinence.
"Not at all," her lord replied, "I wish they could all be as malleable and practical as you."
"Milord's compliments humble me," replied the Rose Blade, doing her best to conceal a blush.
"Your actions humble me," came the rather prideful and paternal response from her superior, "I only wish I could be doing more... Sitting on my hands while good men of ours die... It kills me, Dahlia."
"Milord needn't concern himself with the-"
"Enough with the 'milord!'" he growled suddenly, "'Milord' this, 'milord' that... That is a word used to speak to far old men who think their blood earns them obeisance! It is the deeds of a man that ought to grant him such appellation. No man is a lord who is in his heart a squire."
"Eloquently stated," Dahlia bowed her head, "It's that same rhetoric that persuaded me to join you. If you prefer, I will address you in a more familiar way."
"I would prefer it greatly," he acceded.
"Very well," the pink-haired swordswoman cleared her throat, "You shouldn't be concerned about the laymen; there has to be a bottom of the barrel for it to contain anything."
"The very same reasoning that made me despise aristocracy for eternity," spat her superior, "I'm not much placated by having to become a hypocrite. It makes every moment I suffered in Valm seem meaningless."
"I can offer no perfect answers," Dahlia shook her head in commiseration, "Perhaps it would behoove you to rest a bit more."
"Indeed," Nihilus nodded, "a repose to collect my thoughts would likely prove beneficial. Might I ask you to vacate my chambers, please?"
"As you command," his lieutenant accepted.
"And Dahlia," he halted her, prompting her to stare back with the eyes of a reproached pup, "Please don't enter while I'm sleeping again. If I should need something, I will call for it."
"Yes, sir," her cheeks burned at the remark. She turned and hastened out to shield her embarrassment from her master.
Nihilus swigged some water from the glass on his nightstand, then lay down and shut his eyes loosely. He was here on his snow-white linens while honest men who believed in him were dying; this was never his intention. He never believed he would be the one taking afternoon naps while gallant soldiers took to the front lines; he had always meant to be the front lines! How had he gotten this far from his vision? Perhaps that was the reality of a war over its illusion, the tedious brushstrokes that make up the painting of the illustrious commander riding his steed into glorious battle. Now the amethyst-haired man reproached himself again, he knew there was no glory in war, and yet still he dreamed to be that commander. Nihilus rolled to his side; he needed to sleep.
[*]
The orphanage was a damnable wreck. It had been that way since they both stepped inside its doors all those years ago, and no one had once attempted to repair it. Beams supporting the roof rotted with each passing day, doors could barely be cajoled to remain closed, and a persistent draft and impenetrable, dim squalor constantly dominated the sighing wooden walls.
His socks were too tight. Why was that the only thing he could think of? His legs itched, his stomach growled, his fingernails were dirty, his hair had barely been straightened into a semi-presentable mop earlier this morning... None of it had mattered. He hadn't expected it to; this place was going to be his prison for the rest of his life. What had he done to deserve any of this?
"What are you doing outside your room?" hissed the voice of Sister Agnes. The young man tried to scramble up the creaking stairs, but it was already far too late; he was picked up by the collar and dragged down the hallway. "You can't make yourself look presentable for a nice family, and you can't even go to bed when you're asked! It's no wonder no one wants you, you insolent little brat!" The amethyst-haired boy cringed as Sister Agnes dragged him into her room and pulled out her ruler. The boy tried to hold back his tears as she smacked his hands with them.
Of course, this only served to make him look more pathetic as trails of water streamed down from his eyes as he sniffled miserably. "Um sahwy sesser," he blubbered in his distress.
"What?" she growled, "Speak up, use real words, you little mutt!"
"I'm sorry, Sister!" he bawled, his nose now dripping a little.
"You are now," Sister Agnes hissed, standing him up, now get to bed. I don't want to see hide nor hair of you until morning."
"Yes ma'am," he muttered, clutching his stinging, red hands and scurrying off to his room. He dug himself into his small bed carefully on entering the room and wiped his tears onto his pillow.
"You went and pissed off Sister Agnes again, didn't you, Shorts?" mewled the familiar voice of his roommate.
He didn't answer, trying to clean himself up and look less pathetic.
Slowly, he heard the sounds of the old floorboards shifting and blankets moving. Suddenly, a weight pressed itself against his back and a hand lay itself upon his head, caressing his purple locks like stalks of wheat. "You just need to stop fighting it," she mused softly, "You're a good kid. People will like you if you stop sticking out your tongue and running away."
"I don't care what they think," he returned hoarsely, "I don't want to be a part of anyone's family. I just want to have my family back..."
"You know that can't happen," she scolded him gently.
"Either way, I can't take it here! I let myself be taken in when we were little because I was scared; I didn't know what else to do... Now I see we'd have lived much more comfortably on any street in the world than this hellhole," the young man shook his head.
"Stop getting so upset," she chided him, "One day, your spoiled ass is going to have to realize that not everything works out the way you want it to; sometimes you just have to deal with things you don't like." With that, the girl stood as her black hair fell onto her shoulders. A gold necklace shimmered around her neck like a ray of sunshine in that all-consuming darkness; it had been Sister Agnes's gift, so as to make the young lady look more desirable to whomever might want to take her off the aging nun's hands. The girl began to make for the door.
"Are you going somewhere?" her companion whispered, looking up from his pillow.
"...To the pawnbrokers'," she said with an audible waver in her voice, "I'll see what I can get for this stupid necklace."
"Won't that make the old bag angry, too?" the boy brushed some of the amethyst hair out of his face.
"Some things are worth suffering," she reported vaguely, displaying a weak smile beneath a knitted brow, "especially for the right reason..."
"Will we ever get out of here, d'ya think?" he rubbed his eyes; they were red.
His only friend nodded silently, then opened the door, "Good things come to those who wait. Get some sleep, Shorts."
He still felt uncomfortable; the frame of the bed was rotting, too, and made an awful squeal any time he moved and the air was unseasonably cold for the springtime. Somehow, however, his companion's words were enough to placate him. He simply shut his eyes; tomorrow would have to be another day.
[...]
Daybreak came quickly, or, at least, abruptly; the young man found himself shaken awake by his female companion, "Up and at 'em, Shorts! There's someone who wants to see us!"
"What do I care?" he huffed back irritably into the blinding daylight.
"Just come downstairs with me, you nimrod!" she ordered. Begrudgingly, he lifted himself out of the bed to obey, although he continued to protest by refusing to comb his hair. The black-haired young woman rolled her eyes at him and dragged him along until they reached the foot of the stairs, whereupon disbelief stunted any rebellion in the boy's mind.
"You... you're..." he indicated the figure before him vaguely with his finger.
"Knock that off!" Sister Agnes growled, less acerbically than usual, "It's not polite to point. Silly dear still has trouble with his manners."
In any other circumstance, the boy with the amethyst hair would have had to do everything in his power to suppress his nausea at their caretaker's sudden "moos swings," but his current stupor absorbed his cognition. Staring the young man back were the soft Onyx eyes of the Doctor.
The man looked not to have aged a day, save perhaps with a bit more gray to his beard. His posture was friendly but aristocratic, hands tucked neatly behind the back. A pleasant smile was outlined by his lips and a warm glaze was painted over his eyes, as if he wasn't really looking at anything. "Tell me," he requested in a honeyed voice, "What are your names, kids?"
"My name is Cypress," said the young man's black-haired companion. He was sure that was the first time he'd ever heard her say it.
Suddenly, she elbowed her companion in the ribs. "Oh, er, I'm called Nihilus, good sir," managed the amethyst-haired boy in his manliest tone. He stared back into the grown man's eyes and felt at once both unease and a bizarre confidence.
Suddenly, he was looking down. There was blood on his hand and fires twisted in massive columns around him. Embers danced, the ground was lit rock-red against a sapphire starlit sky, and there was a man beneath him. The man groaned with agony, revealing lacerations on his chest that seemed to have been left by the claws of a vicious animal. The boy, for what reason he could not tell, was not panicked or surprised by this sight. He stared at the scarlet streaks of blood on his hand as they reflected the gold of the twisting fires and felt an odd sense of vindication. His breathing felt insanely clear, despite the flood of smoke and ash descending over the venue, he felt exhilaration as he saw horror reflected in this dying man's eyes. He had... won.
"Well, Nihilus, Cypress," said the tall, old Doctor, breaking the boy out of his reverie, but appearing somehow aware of it, "How would you feel about coming to live with me?"
Cypress cocked an eyebrow at her young ward, "What do you make of it, Shorts?"
He was distracted, seeing his friend's face clearly for the first time, "What happened to your eye?"
She stroked a dark bang in front of it, cursing herself for not being more careful, "Nothing, focus."
He couldn't; he saw sweat and dirt clinging to her forehead and rips along the side of her dress, and he noticed her necklace was gone. Resolutely, the
amethyst-haired boy lifted his head to the Doctor, "I think... I think we'd like that very much."
[*]
"So, any luck?" Anna impressed on the harbormaster with her sweetest smile.
"Like I says," he grunted back, "the boat you mentioned ain't here, and I don't have any for sale or captains willing to rent themselves out."
"Did you give them an idea of what they'd he working for? I'm a very wealthy gal, I can make any trip worth the while."
"Sorry, nothing doing, lady," he scoffed, "Why don't you go find yourself a widow's peak and a rocking chair and just wait it out?"
The redhead bore her teeth and shouted, "What?! Just what are you saying?!"
"I'm sayin' I ain't got time for old ladies what think they have a right to go cruisin' over the ocean whenever they feels like it!" barked the harbormaster.
"'Old ladies?!'" Anna rolled up her sleeve.
"Mom, this joker isn't worth it," Leo put his hand in front of his mother, "Why don't you try tellin' that to my face instead, ya blighter?"
The harbormaster pinched the bridge of his nose, "I ain't got anyway for you lot to get overseas, that's all there is to it!"
Anna buried her head and demanded coldly, "C'mon, Leo. We'll just have to find somewhere else."
"M-Mom?" her son watched her, "are you...? Hey, don't cry, look..."
"I want to know if my husband is still alive, do you get that?!" she screamed at the harbormaster. The merchant found it hard to contain herself and felt her face flush as she sobbed quietly.
The harbormaster's face sank into a sympathetic frown, "Aye, I get it, but I can't just make boats available outta thin air, y'see?"
Anna rubbed her eyes, "I-I know, I'm sorry... I just kinda... lost it there. Sorry." Leo knit his brow beneath his auburn hair as he watched her finish this episode.
"Mayhap you can't, sir," chuckled a familiar and yet altogether haughty voice, "but I think you'll find I'm more than skilled in the art of making something from nothing."
Leo lifted his head first, "Steve?"
"Ben trovato, brother," the silver-haired man nodded with a smile. Leo rolled his eyes.
"Oh, Steve, sweetheart!" Anna wrapped her arms around her eldest child in a heartbeat, fixating her grip.
"An absolute pleasure to see you again, mother," his eyes glimmered as he returned the embrace fondly, "Quite fortunate that I found you here."
"Mama was so worried about her big boy," the redhead cooed, squeezing him tighter.
"Er, quite," he murmured, a trifle distressed, "I really do wish you wouldn't insist on referring to me by such childish musings..."
"Mom's just happy to see you again, hon," she relayed, the maturity returning to her voice, "Don't tell me you didn't miss me at all."
"No, naturally, I wasn't entirely without fear for... for..." Steven's lip wobbled, "Oh, mom! I missed you so much! I thought you might've been dead!"
"Aw," Anna cuddled her sobbing son, "It's okay, baby doll, mommy's okay. Everything's all right."
Leo scratched the back of his neck as the harbormaster stared, "Cheese and rice, you two are so damn embarrassing."
"Uhm, so," Steven cleared his throat, slowly removing himself from his mother's arms, "I don't desire to keep you waiting; I can provide us transport to Valm."
"Wait," his younger brother demanded, "What the hell are you even doing in Regna Ferox to begin with? And how'd'ya know we'd be here?"
"The latter half of that question is the easiest to answer," remarked the silver-haired man, "I was staying with Khan Lon'qu, and his border patrols alerted me to your arrival. I had a rough idea of what your next move would be, knowing mother. My timing, of course, was also fortuitous. As for why I'm here, well, I can tell you all about that on the boat."
"I'll tell you what I told yer mum, kid: there ain't no boats leaving this harbor," grunted the harbormaster.
"Indeed," Steven smiled, "I intend to fix that." Brushing brusquely past the harbormaster, the silver-haired man ascended the gangplank of a nearby Feroxi ship and found its captain. Anna and Leo followed him up.
"I'm sorry, but my runs are done for the month. I can take you aboard in three weeks, but this ship isn't leaving this port before then," the captain shook his head.
"That's a dreadful shame," Steven shook his head ruefully, "I know my friend the West-Khan would be quite grateful if you were to lend us the use of your transport."
"Right," scoffed the captain, "That west-khan can direct my ship just as soon as he's done kissing the fattest part of my arse."
"Fairly, if crudely, put, my good man," Steven withdrew a pair of spectacles from his pocket.
"Uh-oh," Leo muttered subconsciously, recognizing the move.
"Your vessel is called Bartre's Ardor, correct?" the silver-haired man didn't look up.
"Yes," answered the captain tenuously.
"Isn't it true that you have previously hidden and smuggled undeclared quantities of valuable Feroxi ales aboard this ship?" Steven shifted his glasses, letting them slide menacingly down the bridge of his nose to accentuate his glaring eyes.
"Er, maybe," a drop of sweat appeared on the captain's forehead, "So what?"
Steven clicked his teeth, "Well, of course, it's no business of mine, good sir, but according to Article Eighteen, Section 1203 of the Feroxi Crimes Code, let me see... Ahem, 'The act or attempt to smuggle, or by any means conceal or conspire to conceal the sale of international goods exported via sea trade, especially those transactions which involve the sale of alcohol, particularly in large quantities, shall be considered a capital offense against these, our confederated Feroxi Khanates.'" The silver-haired man tapped a finger on his forehead, "It would he an awful shame if I were to stumble upon some illegally withheld liquor aboard this vessel... that would mean you'd have to be executed. Rather an unfittingly gruesome fate for a good man such as you, my good sir, but the law is the law..."
"All right, all right!" sweat began to line the captain's collar, "You've made your point, you scoundrel. I'll make ready to leave immediately."
"Excellent," Steven clapped his hands together, "very kind of you."
"S-Scary..." muttered Leo, swallowing.
"Haha!" Anna draped an arm around her eldest son, "You take after your mom well, kiddo."
"I strive to live up to my parents' magnanimous legacy," he bowed politely, "Would you care for something to eat, mother? You look positively famished."
"I'm starving," Leo asserted, staring at his brother.
"Oh, of course. We'll all have a little bit to eat, eh?" he smiled back.
The captain grunted furiously as he stormed into his quarters.
[AN]: Hey everyone! Sorry for the long absence! Still trying to get a handle on all this college stuff, but I'm not dead just yet, and to make it up to you, I've given you an extra long chapter!
What's that? That doesn't make up for it?
Oh.
Well then.