Chapter 15
"Now strike!" commanded the Ylissean princess. Stahl did as he was ordered and sent the bewildered mercenary spiraling to the ground. Sully rode up behind her husband and smashed through another hapless vanguard with her lance. Kjelle rounded out her family's contribution by swiping down a third man with her axe.
"Bloody hell!" cried a far-off voice, "We're under attack!" They had taken notice. The clatter of alarm bells began to fill the air.
"Legacy Shepherds!" the young lord raised her rapier commandingly, "To arms!"
Of course, this call was mostly facetious and for show, as the Shepherds had already concocted a plan. As mercenaries grit their teeth and emerged from the mostly abandoned and withered city streets in rainbows of mixed clothing, they bore down on Lucina and her guards. Then they were scattered as a massive fireball scorched the ground before them. "Such irascibility makes for a target altogether almost too susceptible to subterfuge for such a maneuver to even provide significant intrigue," Miriel adjusted her glasses on a nearby hillside.
The real fighting began after the mercenaries were forced to break rank, spreading themselves along the streets of the small town to combat the advancing Shepherds. "Back off, ya tin-booted dandy!" jeered the leader of a squadron of the ragtag forces as Frederick stared at them from across the street. "I faced down armies all by meself, and Ylisse thinks it can scare me be sendin' some gray-haired jackanape at me?"
"I assure you," Frederick leered from atop his mount, "You might have faced entire armies, but you have not faced me."
The mercenary rolled his eyes and commanded his men to attack the aging great knight. The first to approach Frederick leapt into the air and was cut down immediately. A second took a similar approach and was impaled on Frederick's spear. When a third tried to flank Ylisse's knight captain, he was met with the butt of the lance in his face, shattering the cartilage in his nose. Rearing his horse, Frederick charged the remaining two foes and swept out their legs with his lance, following up with a pair of consecutive stabs to their chests. Suddenly, the great knight's eyes narrowed as an archer trained his bow toward the knight's head from atop a nearby house. No sooner had Frederick begun to sweat, however, than was the archer swatted off the house like a pebble from the road.
"Got 'im," giggled Sumia with a faint salute to her husband, caressing her pegasus's neck.
Meanwhile, at the other end of town, Maribelle stared down several assailants from her own high horse, holding onto her tome carefully. "Lookit this," laughed one foe, "Did those Ylissean cowards pull you right outta court, sweet cheeks?"
"Heavens no," she replied, "I emerged of my own volition to extirpate rapscallions such as yourselves." A chorus of laughs followed the reply.
"Hey, why don't'cha just put down the stupid books and I'll show you how we rural folk have a good time, eh, beautiful?" the man opposite her jeered, gesturing to his comrades.
"I'd call you meaningless filth," Maribelle replied with a disaffected air, "but that would besmirch the name of benign and simple filth."
This irked the mercenaries, and they collapsed into feral shouts and swears as they dashed toward Maribelle. Three were sent flying by a bolt of electricity Maribelle fired forth from her tome. Three more were tackled and quickly disposed of by the hidden Gaius. The thief held the last mercenary by the throat, "Makin' comments like that to a guy's wife... you should be ashamed."
"I... uh, begging your forgiveness, sir," the man smiled weakly.
"Well," Gaius scratched his chin, I would, but you made the chocolate in my pocket melt, so..." The man fell over in a pool of his own blood.
"Mercy, Gaius, must you be so dramatic?" his wife scolded, her horse sidling up.
"You dragged me into this, Twinkles. At the very least, I'm gonna get to enjoy it," he folded his arms.
"Uh, hey guys," Kellam stepped out from an alleyway, his armor soaked in blood, "How's it going? Is Miriel all right?"
"Oh," Gaius jumped, "Crivens, what happened to you, uh... Whats-your-face...?"
"Kellam," he sighed, "uh, I did a little infiltration."
"Well, uh, good goin'... whoever you are. Anywho, yeah, Specs is a-ok," the thief answered.
Down the middle road, another pegasus was soaring, carrying with it its dauntless rider and her excitable husband. The pegasus was tracked low along the ground and Gregor set himself up, seeing the cloud of enemy forces ahead. "Heh! This remind Gregor of the olding days!"
"You've done this before?" Cordelia tried to focus on the road.
"Gregor jump off many things at high speed when he was fall fowl," the aging mercenary answered.
"Do you mean 'spring chicken?'" asked the pegasus rider. Too late, he had already leapt off and started swinging his blade, knocking scores of men to the side and the ground. Cordelia swooped up into the air, then lent her own lance to the fighting, doubling up on the number of rogues being tossed around.
Lucina charged forward while Stahl and Sully rode a few paces ahead, storming toward the enemy command tent; Kjelle had been left to cover the rear, being a bit too slow by herself. "Cordelia!" shouted the princess as she approached the pegasus knight sweeping mobs of foes away.
"On it!" she knew the command and brought her mount to heel, pulling it back out of the pile and setting its back hooves on the ground.
"Take your respective flanks!" Lucina commanded her two cavaliers, "I'll give the signal when it's done!" Stahl and Sully nodded in affirmation, and with that, Lucina hastened ahead and hopped onto the back of Cordelia's pegasus. Balancing carefully on her heels, she felt herself lifted over the scrum of troops in the middle and heard the footsteps of her reserve troops marching in from behind. With a call from Cordelia, the princess returned her attention to the front and ran into a leap off the pegasus's front, landing into a roll on the hard brick that was much more difficult than she had imagined. Nonetheless, she continued and waved off the pegasus knight, storming the command tent unopposed.
The commander inside was no one of significance, that much was immediately clear by his dress, which looked like any of the other mercenaries' with an officer's jacket hastily draped overtop. "For your crimes against Ylisse, I sentence you to death!" shouted Lucina, raising her sword. The enemy commander attempted to prepare a counter, but the rapier slipped between his ribs before he could utter a word. As he sank to his knees, Lucina took a few withered battle plans from the small table inside the tent, and then took the candle that adorned that same table and put the tent to the flame. She stepped out and watched as, after a few minutes of gaining momentum, the fire began to consume the entire tent and the flag at its top was engulfed. There went the signal. This fight was already over.
[...]
Robin glared at the waves of tents and infantry scattered about before Rosanne Keep. Fires dotted the sea of unreadable faces like the white caps on waves, only that these were orange and burned and flickered, as if the fires themselves were absorbed with hatred, belching black smoke into the air through which Robin's small cadre flew. After their hours of listless flight, Robin shook himself awake as Cherche and Minerva descended onto the keep's roof, followed shortly by Gerome. The aging tactician sighed to himself; there was only one way this day was going to end.
"So," Robin began by clearing his throat as the group descended the last flight of stairs and entered the throne room, "In total, how many troops would you wager you have left, Virion?"
"Perhaps four hundred, though some may have deserted in my absence," the duke of Rosanne sighed with a grimace.
"Why didn't they shoot us on approach?" asked Morgan, suddenly butting between the duke and her father, "They seem to have ample supplies of bows and arrows."
"Barbarous as they are," answered Virion with more than a hint of resentment, "the Liebenese are not so callous nor so craven as to strike before a formal declaration of war has been made."
"They'll likely be receiving that declaration soon, given that we're here," added Cherche.
"Then let's get a plan together," commanded their tactician. The group nodded in agreement... with the exception of Morgan, who flipped her hair and folded her arms. "Virion, you're the center of morale for this battle; if you're defeated, the enemy wins no matter what. As a result, I'd like you to remain in the back of the line, where you can be protected."
"I do not disagree," mumbled the duke, "but... I fear the men will call me craven for standing behind them like so many shields."
"They can answer to me if it's a problem," Robin clenched his fist, "and anyway, Rosanne is a dukedom, not a democracy; sometimes the sovereign has to lay down the law, and his subjects have to honor his decision."
"Even so," announced Gerome, suddenly interested, "I hope you wouldn't have any reservations about my taking up the attack."
"Not at all," the Grandmaster replied, "In fact, I was going to encourage it, however, if that's to be done, we need to be intelligent about your approach, getting rid of any archers in your path and so forth."
"The Liebenese archers are well entrenched... it would take someone of considerable speed and skill to break through their ranks to eliminate the bowmen..." admitted Virion with a frown.
"Please, stop, you flatter me," chuckled Inigo as he sauntered forward.
"You?" Robin and his youngest daughter said in unison.
"Quite," he returned a bright smile, "I am a prince, after all. I have to start making a good name for my house in such trying times; it simply wouldn't do to have the only member of Ylissean gentry present sit back and do nothing for his allies. And besides, I've heard that the women of Rosanne are..." Inigo made a strange gesture that concluded with him pulling his fingertips along his lips to kiss them, "Imagine the songs they'll write about me!"
"I'll give you a song," Morgan cracked her knuckles, "it's called 'The Requiem of Morgan's fists in A-Major.'"
"Hardly the proper key for a requiem, dear," Inigo chuckled.
"I can certainly bring it down a few octaves," answered Robin. Inigo swallowed hard.
"Father, please," Morgan hushed him.
"'Twas but a jape, my darling," Inigo seized his wife's hand, meeting some initial resistance that quickly faded.
"Don't go getting yourself hurt," Morgan commanded, her eyes shining into his.
"I wouldn't dream of if," he replied, "I'll play the hero to these helpless Rosanniens and their prince, and let them take over from there."
Robin nodded succinctly, "Then I suppose we have our plan. We'll put half the troops around Virion and half forward to support Inigo's advance, after which Gerome and Cherche can move up."
"What about you and me, daddy?" wondered Sylvia, who had been busying herself with a petulant eyelash.
"You stick to your healing, dear," he said with an infatuated smile, "and your father will provide support for the defensive group. As will your sister, if she finds that amenable."
"As you command, father," Morgan bowed her head dully, following her husband away. Robin watched her leave and tightened his cloak, drawing his sword from its scabbard.
"Don't take it personally, daddy," Sylvia mused, "it's probably just-"
"I know what it is," he answered gruffly, leaving with Virion to analyze a map.
Sylvia's head ducked into her cloak and a frown tugged at her cheek as she heaved a sigh.
[...]
"Watch out!" grunted Morgan, swinging her blade parallel to her husband's back. He swiveled around with a grimace, kicking away an advancing myrmidon.
"Never fear," he flashed a smile past the unkempt locks of his hair, "Inigo always triumphs, dear." The Ylissean prince's eyes widened as he was shoved to the ground by a knight. Morgan rolled her eyes, then rolled over her spouse to slide a boot into the knight's face.
"Hands off!" she yelled, throwing a stab toward a gap in the foe's armor. He endured the hit and shoved her away, throwing drops of blood into the air and onto the young thief's face. With a growl, the knight returned a punch to Morgan's face, which drew blood as the cartilage in her nose cracked audibly. A moment later, the knight fell to the ground with the Ylissean prince holding his ankle.
"Lay a hand on my wife, will you?" Inigo gritted his teeth, positioning himself on top of the knight's back and wrapping his elbow around the enemy's neck, squeezing with all his force. Morgan blinked and wiped under her nose, then looked down at the scene and vindictively kicked the suffocating knight in the face. As more troops advanced on their position, Morgan ducked under jabs from lances and sidestepped swipes from swords and axes until Inigo finished and stood to take swings at a few of the scattered aggressors, who fell with considerable ease.
All at once, the tide of Liebenese attackers was stemmed by a wall of flames, after which Robin stepped forward and slapped his tome shut. "Morgan," he offered her his hand, "are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she nodded brusquely, wiping the blood from her nose onto her hand and then onto her pants.
"Did you bring down the archers, Inigo?" Robin glanced over his daughter's shoulder.
"Yes, they're decommissioned," the prince panted, "I'm okay, too, by the way."
"Come with me," he instructed, leading them through the fray of clashing iron back behind the Rosannien lines. Virion, Cherche, and Gerome awaited them, each grasping their weapons nervously. Cherche and Gerome's mounts screeched impatiently and adjusted their wings incessantly. "Gerome, Cherche, the archers are down. Now or never."
"Right," Cherche saluted, giving a pull on Minerva's reins. With a ferocious growl, they took to the air, Gerome shortly behind them.
"Sylvia," Robin spied his eldest daughter poking her head out, "your sister and her husband need a little fixing up."
"Done and done," she nodded, whipping out her staff. Morgan and Inigo sidled over to her.
"How are we looking?" demanded the Grandmaster, adjusting his cloak and loosening his wrists.
"So far, your plan has worked remarkably well, good Sir Robin," the duke of Rosanne smiled briefly, "The Liebenese cavalry and armor cannot penetrate our magically-armed lines, supplemented by the sagesse of our swordsmen, of course."
"By the sound of your voice, I'd think you had expected me to fail," admitted Robin with a chuckle.
"Not at all," Virion shook his head, "I am only impressed by our own efficacy. I thought I would most certainly lose my home to these dastards."
"We haven't won yet, vôtre majestie," Robin unsheathed his sword, "keep your eyes open and one hand on that bow."
"Of course," the archest of archers concurred. Wings beat and wyvern screeches, followed by the shouts of flying Liebenese, sounded over the field as Cherche and Gerome's axes flung advancing cavalry from their steeds.
"What's the damage, Morgie-Worgie?" Sylvia held her staff to her sister's face.
"Just a broken nose, and please don't call me that," Morgan's face fell in embarrassment.
"I can't help it," she shrugged, "you'll always be my little sister. Now, hold still, I gotta pop your nose back into place."
"You can't fix that with your magic?" the redheaded thief covered her nose protectively, then winced when she touched it accidentally.
"Unless you want it to be tilted at a fifty degree angle for the rest of your life," Sylvia shook her head.
"Fine," Morgan sighed, lowering her hands, "be gentle."
"Hold still," the performer repeated, supporting the back of her sister's head with one hand. Gradually, she shifted the cartilage as it made an unsettling crackle, navigating the circumference of her sister's lip as a guide until the nose was set back into place. Morgan gritted her teeth, but a single, silent tear escaped her eye. "Keep it in place," Sylvia instructed, withdrawing her hand carefully and letting Morgan take over. She concentrated as her staff began to light up.
"To think, my father actually wasted time negotiating with you worthless cretins," Gerome spat, gutting a Liebense pikeman with a broad stroke of his axe.
"Gerome, focus!" whistled his mother. The marquess of Rosanne nodded reluctantly. The wyvern beneath him twisted into a roll as he surprised a cloud of Liebenese knights, swinging his axe to and fro, denting their armor and tossing them about like ragdolls despite their weight. "Although, in fairness," Cherche giggled in a more charming tone as she knocked a cavalier from his horse with a thrown axe, "they really aren't much of a threat, are they? Just look at these weaklings." Gerome smiled at his mother and swept the legs out from under another knight.
"Something isn't right," Robin eventually declared, stroking his chin and beard.
"How do you mean?" answered Virion, loosing an arrow into the crowd.
"General Argent told us he had no intention of negotiating; he planned this fight from the start. So why are his troops so poorly equipped for this assault?" an unsettled frown creased the Grandmaster's brow.
"Well, the Liebenese have a habit of underestimating Rossanien resolve," Virion chuckled assuredly, firing off another shot.
Robin shook his head, "Perhaps, but... something doesn't feel right."
"Those are some nasty gashes, lover-boy," Sylvia giggled at her brother-in-law as he bared his chest for her.
"Do try not to stare too long, darling," he quipped back beneath a brow drenched in sweat.
"No problem, believe me," she resisted, "It's just a couple'a cuts. Won't take but a minute."
Morgan was still gingerly applying pressure to her nose, "Please try to be more careful, Inigo."
"Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs," the Ylissean prince smiled brightly at his wife.
"Just don't go getting yourself scrambled," Morgan stroked his hair gently and placed a kiss of his forehead.
"Uh... over-easy," Sylvia blurted out, "...I couldn't think of a joke."
"Morgan, I need you for a moment," she heard her father call out. The thief sighed, rubbed her husband's shoulder, and nodded at her sister before responding to the call.
"Yes, father?" she strolled up, inspecting her fingernails.
"Do you think you could do a little reconnaissance?" he was stroking his beard again.
"Usually you scope out the enemy before you fight 'em," came the ironic reply.
"Something about their formation is making me suspicious," the Grandmaster elaborated.
"Fine, fine," Morgan whipped out her sword, "What am I looking for?"
"MAGE!"
"Okay, I'm right here, geez," Morgan pretended to massage her ear.
"That wasn't me," her father strode forward into the line protecting them, peering over the shoulders of the Rosanne infantry. He skipped backward immediately, at the great displeasure of his aging knees, as an explosion of heat scattered the line in front of him.
"What was that?" Morgan jumped, taking a few steps forward mostly on instinct.
Robin's eyes darted to the shower of scarlet embers as a cloaked countenance slowly formed a shadow on the outer edge of the small crater that had been torn in the ground. He calculated and recognized the intent when a pair of purposeful eyes shifted toward Morgan, who was absorbed with the flood of sparking flame that was only now settling to the ground. The Grandmaster gritted his teeth and leapt in front of his daughter, who reared her head suddenly at the maneuver. She opened her mouth to speak, but she was stopped dead by a mouthful of heat, the sensation of having swallowed a pound of desert sand. Winds sent ripples through her hair and she felt a twitch in her legs that told her to duck her head, which she obeyed, only to have her ears assaulted with a deafening shout. The noise made Morgan shut her eyes tightly, like an infant exposed to a thunderstorm, but when she opened them, they widened and showed her her collapsed father, the front of his clothing, and then some, scorched beyond recognition.
Morgan didn't utter a word. Or maybe she couldn't. She didn't feel the sweat on jer forehead, or the stinging pain in her nose. She didn't hear her sister scream in horror or her husband leap to his feet. She didn't see the two wyvern riders halt in midair to glance back with horrified gasps. She didn't see Virion lodge an arrow into the mage's eye. She didn't hear the fervent shouts of the Rosannien corps, who redoubled their resolve and pushed back the enemy. She didn't feel Inigo's hand land on her back as he gazed down with melancholy. She didn't see the iridescent glitter of her sister's tears of despair. She didn't hear the hoarseness of Gerome's throat as he shouted, growled gutturally and cleanly removed the intestines from several Liebenese. She saw her father's eyes squint, and then shut.
[...]
Chrom squinted at the daylight struggling its way between the bars, casting the tiniest fragment of a shadow onto the floor. This was his reward "for good behavior." The worst part was that that sanctimonious bastard Nihilus probably thought that he really was doing him a service. The exalt balled his fist as he felt the aggression surge through him again, then sighed and let it dissipate; it wouldn't do him any good to get riled up in a situation like this.
The blue-haired lord glanced down at his sleeping wife, huddled in the corner of the cell, her dirtied face hidden from view by the nigh-interminable darkness. With a deep breath, Chrom clutched his forehead and sat down on the floor of the cell, determined to come up with a plan if it killed him.
"Are you all right, Chrom?" he heard the small voice of his wife.
The exalt twitched and craned his neck around to confirm that it had been his wife speaking, "Oh, I thought you were asleep."
"Hardly," she smiled weakly, "you know I can't rest without the firm grasp of my husband, the exalt, the finest warrior in all the realm, to protect me."
"Ah," he rubbed his neck, blushing, "I'm sorry, Olivia..."
"What are you thinking about?" she detected from his posture.
"About..." Chrom sighed ruefully to himself, "About how much I wish Robin were here. We had our ideological differences, sure, but when push came to shove, he always told me what he thought I needed to know, and he had a plan for everything..."
"He was a man of much wisdom," Olivia agreed, "but he never failed to encourage, either. What do you think he'd say to you, sitting and looking forlorn like that?"
Chrom smiled, "He'd probably say, 'Are you still sitting there? Come on, I have an idea!' ...And then he'd make some off-color remark about 'tipping the scales...'"
His wife chuckled, "I think so too. So, why don't we try to find the solution for ourselves?"
"You're not frightened of what they'll do to us if we try to escape?" Chrom had now turned all the way around to face his queen.
"I... don't purport to be the most courageous woman around, believe me; I'm still frightened by so much every single day... But I've realized, in my years as the exalt's wife... I've had to do some growing up. It's not about what I fear, or, at least, my own fears seem trivial now. What right do I have to be embarrassed about my dancing when some poor woman out there doesn't have enough money to feed her children tonight? Those are the things I keep in mind, the important things, and then I set my anxieties aside," Olivia proclaimed with shaking in her voice.
Chrom absorbed the entire statement with interest, then bowed humbly and moved over to embrace his wife, "How is it that Naga blessed me so greatly as to have you as my wife, Olivia?"
She blushed hotly as she embedded her cheek into his arm, "...It's still sort of embarrassing to hear you say things like that out loud."
"Sorry," he chuckled good-naturedly, ending the embrace, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to keep looking for a way out."
"You're all right," Chrom thought he heard from somewhere far away.
[...]
"You make for quite the captain, Steve," his mother lauded, inspecting the ship's wheel.
"I've had my hand in a few mutinies," he smiled, pleased with himself, "It was either get my sea legs or drown."
"Leo, why don't you come up here with us?" Anna called through the grating to the captain's quarters, where the ship's own captain rested in preparation for the night shift, "You could enjoy some of this fresh salt air...!"
"No thanks," he replied curtly.
"Aw, why, hon?" his mother pouted, putting her finger to her chin, "you don't want to spend time with your mom and big brother?"
"No... well, I don't mind spending time with you, anyway, but..." the young assassin hesitated, "I just don't do boats, okay? I have a thing about boats."
Anna glanced at her eldest son, who shrugged. "All right, just get some rest and try not to get seasick," she relented.
"Working on it," the assassin said mostly to himself, discreetly removing the lis from one of the captain's "private barrels" and scooping out a bit of succor in a tankard he found on a nearby shelf.
"Well," Steven breathed aloud. Anna knew this meant he was in a pleasant mood; he always started with "Well," preceded by a big inhale when he had something on his mind that contented him, "now that we have a moment, how has the store been doing, mother?"
"Spec-tac-u-fan-tabulous," Anna grinned broadly to reassure her son.
"Quite," he smiled back. That was another of his habits, Anna recalled: he always said "quite" as a polite substitute for "I have nothing to say to that."
"Of course, I certainly appreciate all the advertising you do for me, honey," Anna added on.
"Advertising, moi?" the silver-haired man feigned indignation, "Never. I simply relay to my... wealthier associates a location from which they may find an ample value for goods they intend to purchase that is worthy of their deep pockets."
The redheaded merchant nodded appreciatively, "Good enough for me. How's, uh... whatever it is you do?"
"'Political management' describes it accurately, I believe," he returned.
"Right," his mother snapped her fingers, "how's that going?"
"Oh... ça va," Steven glanced out at the rolling wake, "An insurrection here, perjury charges there, so on, so forth, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam."
"Did you ever manage to find a young lady for yourself?" Anna folded her arms to settle in.
Steven mostly brushed off the question with a scoffing laugh, "If I could ever find the time, I'm sure I'd be courting plenty of ladies of which you might disapprove, but I'm far too engrossed in my work."
His mother mulled over the answer and nodded comprehensively, "I see... it's okay, Steve, you don't have to be coy with me; your mom's a pretty progressive woman. What's his name?"
The silver-haired man let go of the wheel and stared forward before turning sharply to his mother, "Mother, what ARE you insinuating?"
"Steven, I'm your mother," the merchant replied, "I'll love you no matter what, I promise."
"Th-That's not...!" Steven blushed intensely, "I'm not...! I've just been busy!"
"Methinks the boy doth protest too much," Anna winked at her son.
"Now look here...!" Steven declared angrily, pointing his flustered finger. A rolled up parchment suddenly loosed itself from his sleeve, "Ah..."
His mother nabbed it before he could say anything. She unfolded the document and glanced cursorily at the writing.
"Mother, please, that's a private correspondence..." Steven rubbed his neck, putting one hand back on the wheel, "Damn me, this is what I get for being indiscreet..."
"'M. de la Mont awaits the results of his election with great vivacity of spirit, and says we have you to thank, Monsieur Steven. He lauds your performance and commends your formidable character. I, too, cannot hope but to confess my content with your gentle nature. The children, they already sorely miss your presence and, at times, I, too, find myself pining. I know you have many duties, Monsieur Steven, but should you have time to visit M. de la Mont's office, I assure you, your presence would be warmly welcomed. -Votre Cherie, Sophie," Anna read aloud, "What am I hearing, here? Who names their son Sophie?"
"It's a woman, for goodness's sake, mother," Steven, blushing pure crimson, ripped the note from his mother's hand, "I just had a little chat over some coffee with the daughter of one of my employers..."
Anna's eyes widened, "Oh, so you are keeping your options open, huh? Steve, you sly dog! I hardly knew you had it in ya!"
The silver-haired man's head sank as he tried to cover his face, "I... need a moment. Why don't you try your hand at the wheel?"
The redheaded merchant stared at her eldest son as he hastened to the bow, then shrugged and put her hand's along the wheel, whistling an old sea shanty to herself.
[...]
The field was darkened by an omnipresent smear of blood and consumed entirely be the stench of iron. Crows called mockingly into the fading daylight as the remainder of the sun, flickering orange like a weak candlelight, baked the smell of death into the ground.
So this was victory.
Morgan bit her thumbnail, staring hard at the flap to the medical tent. Virion, Cherche, Gerome, and Inigo had all already given her their condolences. There was only one person who had yet to deliver her opinion, and hers was the only one that mattered, as she was the one pacing back and forth behind that thin wall of cloth. The pacing had driven Morgan crazy. Half an hour ago, Morgan had sworn that if her sister took so much as another three steps without emerging, she would tear down the whole tent and scream.
But she hadn't, of course. The redheaded thief stood and watched the tent like it was a mile-high wall made of an utterly impregnable alloy as her sister walked another one-hundred-eighty-nine steps. She counted, as if that data could help her glean something.
The young thief's eyes threatened to glaze over for the sheer concentration she had been exhibiting for the past... two hours? Three? Had it been light when they started? But, suddenly, a figure emerged. Sylvia parted the tent flaps at last. She glanced up at her sister and parted her lips slowly.
Morgan braced herself.