Chapter 16
"He'll live." Morgan's face deflated like a punctured balloon, the curls of her long hair rolling down her face as her gaze fell to the ground. "But Morgan?" Sylvia pursued. Morgan lifted her head carefully: this was Sylvia's real voice. This voice did not have a lyrical undertone, nor did it imply a wink, and it contained none of the felicitous quality that allowed every sentence to end in a smile. This wasn't the voice of a charming actress beguiling the crowd or an amiable merchant swaying her clientele with a sultry move of her brow, this was Sylvia's own voice, an alto that seemed more pessimistic for having lost its casual vibrance, and that communicated reproach and concern in the same word. This voice hurt to hear, and it was with it that Sylvia delivered her remark, "Whatever's really going on with you and daddy... I want to know what it is. He's in pain, and I can't stand watching the two of you fight anymore."
Morgan wanted so badly to deliver an acerbic reply, a way to decry her father for his foolishness; if he only would have warned her, she could have easily dodged the flames, but he had to be conceited and play the hero to his defenseless daughter, but words failed the young thief as she watched her sister's sapphire eyes melt into tears, "Sylvia... It's not my fault, I swear."
"I could give an owl's feathers whose fault it is," she intended to yell, but the performer's voice remained meek, "Even I can only put on a smile for so long. I'm... I'm tired of having to pretend nothing's wrong, that I don't hate every moment of watching you two be so diametrically opposed; you used to be closer to daddy than anyone... I want my daddy and his little Morgie-Worgie back."
"It boils down to a difference of opinion," Morgan prevaricated while folding her arms, hoping she could swiftly tie up the conversation.
"On what?" her sister persisted, "Does it have something to do with your becoming a thief?"
Morgan, startled by the saliency of the guess, widened her eyes, then lowered them, "You might say that, yes."
"What happened, Morgie?" a note of sympathy returned to Sylvia's voice, "Didn't you always want to be a tactician? Didn't you spend years studying all of daddy's books? You have to tell me what changed."
"I did," the thief replied truthfully, "but... Well, you can choose to believe me or not, but it was father who discouraged that dream, in the end."
Sylvia abandoned wiping her eyes momentarily, "Daddy didn't want you to be a tactician?"
"I think it was his way of protesting Inigo," Morgan folded her arms and pulled out the corner of her mouth like she was biting the inside of her cheek, "He asked me if I would be willing to serve as his tactician should Ylisse come to war again with him as the ruler in the same way that father came to Ylisse's rescue decades ago. I thought father would be practically springing with joy at the news, but instead he got this faraway, narrow look in his eyes, like I'd just stabbed him. It took him almost five minutes before he said anything to me, and when he did, he just kind of shut his eyes and said, 'I have to veto that suggestion.'"
Sylvia stepped back gradually when she heard the words and then tilted her head to each side, like she was rolling the words around or chewing on them, then spit out a breath, "It doesn't make sense... daddy's never told any of us we couldn't do something we wanted to... er, that wasn't dangerous or frivolous, of course."
"If you're looking for an explanation, you'll have to get it straight from the horse's mouth," Morgan concluded, her posture reaffirming her confidence.
"He must have some reason," Sylvia tapped a finger on her chin, "He knew you were going to marry Inigo regardless... Maybe you didn't give him enough of a chance to explain himself."
"He didn't try to explain anything more," her sister rebutted, "All he told me was, 'Becoming a tactician... isn't in your future.' That's it, that's all of it. If he had something more to say, he's had years to say it already."
The young performer stroked a curly bang out of her face and stared at the tent flap, murmuring to herself, "Oh, daddy... You must have had a good reason, right? Why wouldn't you say anything more?"
"...So," Morgan let some of the heat escape from her voice, "he'll definitely be all right?"
Sylvia nodded, "It'll take a few days, at least, but with my staves the healing should go pretty quickly. He's just lucky Virion shot as fast as he did; any more burns and that flame would have cooked his insides like the gizzards of a strategically-gifted turkey."
"Sylvia," her sister moaned at the joke, pinching her nose and pantomiming vomiting.
The performer's eyes gleamed as she chuckled, "You really get a good sense of pathos from that one, eh?" As they settled down, she glanced up at her little sister, "Can you at least try to stop fighting with him?"
"We never fought," Morgan protested.
Sylvia rolled her eyes, "Right. You've been buddy-buddy this entire trip, huh?"
"I didn't ask to be recruited into a war," the thief jeered at the ground before her, "and, as a matter of fact, I only even came with him because I was afraid of him dying."
"So you do still care," Sylvia smiled.
"Of course!" growled Morgan, "It's not like I ever stopped caring; he's still my father. I just... I'm angry with him... I want to understand, but he won't tell me, and... sometimes... I don't know what to make of him, Sylvie. He hasn't even said anything about..."
Sylvia followed her sister's eyes as they fell to the ground, rapt with realization. "About what?" the performer demanded.
"Oh, Sylvie..." Morgan bit her lip, "I... I'm so sorry. I'm sure you've been dying for news about mom..."
"You know something about mom?" Sylvia's eyes lit up.
The little redhead refused to answer, playing with a strap on her shirt. She tried to cover her face with a mop of her own curly locks, but her older sister soon forced her hand with repeated insistence. "Mom is... I was in town to see her, maybe cash in a few of my spoils, but... when those soldiers came... and the town was on fire..."
Sylvia's face had fallen again, and all the jubilant red had been sapped out of her cheeks as she watched her sister, deadly pale, those two sapphires tracing every word in midair, "Morgan... what are you saying?"
"I don't... I don't know if she got out," was all the redhead could force, clutching her shoulder as if she were holding back an open wound.
Sylvia dropped to her knees in the grass, and her real voice returned, but in a horrifically echoing sort of gasp, a voice that travelled through a tunnel before it reached Morgan's ears, "Oh gods... mom... No. Please, gods, no..."
"I'm sorry," Morgan pleaded, "I didn't mean to hide it from you, Sylvie, I guess I just suppressed it... I wanted so badly for it to be untrue..."
After another minute's reflection, the performer stared at her hands, then rifled them fitfully through the grass, scrubbing her open palms on the dirt and tearing away blades of the grass with the same absentminded stare. When she had finished this mysterious task, she asked, without shifting her eyes, "So, what you mean to tell me is... we were almost orphans tonight. Steve, Leo, you, me, all of us... we almost lost the last of our parents just tonight?" Morgan declined to answer, though it made no difference to Sylvia, "And even knowing all that... you couldn't settle your silly little dispute with him?"
"It wasn't..." the redhead hesitated, choosing her words, "I never meant for..."
"You know, when you were born... there was a time..." Sylvia began. Wondering if this was too harsh a reproach, she stopped herself, thinking better.
Morgan refused to let it go, however, "Leo said something like that, too. He was upset with me once... What were you going to say?"
The performer shook her head and began to stand again, "Nothing. You should be grateful for the things you have, Morgan. Be mindful of what you don't say. That's some advice mom once gave me."
"I wish I knew what you meant," replied her sister in a manner that seemed like pouting.
"I'm going to attend to our father now," the performer asserted, "As I'm sure he has something to say about this information. Good night."
The tent flap ruffled as Sylvia went in, leaving the wind to caress Morgan's hair as it swirled through the leaves and across the grasses, shaking the mauves of dusk. She turned and walked back to Rosanne Keep, staring at its high white walls.
[...]
"My friends," Lucina smiled into the burgeoning daylight, "the first part of our campaign has passed without issue. I attribute the entirety of our success to your efficiency as a fighting force; each of you gives the others strength, and you drive us all forward with every step. At such a pace, ours will be a brief skirmish, to be sure."
The Legacy Shepherds applauded and cheered, nodding appreciatively to their princess.
"Where do you suppose Brady's gotten off to?" Maribelle whispered to her husband, "A young man should assist his mother in trials such as these."
"I'm willing to bet he's wherever Severa is," Cordelia smiled pleasantly, "those two have been inseparable for the longest time... Usually because Severa is always dragging Brady by the ear, but... details."
"Daughter is taking passion of lovely mother with lion-heart and fearlessness of father," Gregor thumbed at himself, "She is... what is word? Inextricable?"
"I got the faintest sense I used to hear that word shouted a lot," Gaius scratched his neck, "But yeah, if Brady's anything like his old man, he'll stick to whatever gets him the sweetest rewards like melted caramel."
"I feel certain both Cordelia and I would appreciate your not referring to our children's potential... relationships as 'sweet rewards,' Gaius," Maribelle sighed disapprovingly.
"Heh, whatever, Twinkles," he sneered, "I'm an old coot now. Nobody but nobody gets to censor me."
"Still, Gregor is very protective of little girl," the mercenary cleared his throat, "Thief is making sure that son does not go around wrecking the houses, yes?"
Gaius chuckled a little more, "No, I'm pretty sure Brady counts his lucky stars he's got someone as nice looking as Severa. He'd hafta be pretty dumb to give that up."
Lucina listened to the other Shepherds communicate between themselves, then sighed contentedly to herself before turning around. What relief, she thought, to see that she wasn't hopeless as a commander; she could fill her father's big shoes after all. She finally had the opportunity to prove that she could stand her own ground for Ylisse when the need arose, and she would most definitely bring her father back to his home shortly. The princess closed her eyes and smiled broadly: yes, today had been a success, and she would continue to bring victory to her homeland and verify the sanctity of her birth.
"Princess."
Lucina started with a small yelp when she opened her eyes to find a figure standing before her. It took her a moment to absorb his strange looks, but she realized quickly that this was the same prescient individual whose counsel had helped to win back Ylisstol. She stared silently in awe of his covered face briefly, contemplating how to extend her thanks.
"This advance of yours... how far do you plan to take it?" interrogated the figure.
The thought caught Lucina off-guard while she was contemplating her gratitude, "Until I rescue my father, I suppose."
The crimson-hooded figure nodded slowly, sagely, "I want you to make me a promise, if you're amenable."
The Ylissean princess cocked an eyebrow, but knew better than to question someone already so mysterious: anything extemporaneous she could ask would obviously be stonewalled. "What would you have me promise?"
"That you will end your march when your father is saved," answered the figure.
"Er, I'm confused," Lucina admitted, "Isn't that what I said I'd do?"
The Crimson Hood took a step back, demonstrating that he had no need to answer the question, "Pride comes before the fall, Lucina."
"Wait, don't leave," she pleaded, "I need to thank you for rescuing my army-my friends. Won't you at least tell me your name?"
Lucina observed a smirk from beneath the hood, "My name is one that the legends have long since absorbed. It is irrelevant; I no longer exist. I represent the voice of another age. And we are Legion, for we are many."
"I fear you've lost me," the princess frowned.
"Concern yourself not with me, princess," commanded the figure, returning to a more instructive tone, "Take good care of your flock."
"Thank you," she said weakly.
The figure pivoted around and stepped over a small hillside, vanishing behind it.
The Ylissean princess looked back out to her Legacy Shepherds, realizing that not so much as one of them had seen the encounter. She blinked in rapid succession and glanced back past the hill, but, of course, he had disappeared.
[...]
"Steve," the assassin managed, sounding more as if he were trying to get the name off his tongue in a hurry.
"Lee-lee," his brother smiled back, leaning against the ship's railing.
Leo scowled, "Knock that off. Nobody's called me that in more than a decade."
"Apologies," the silver-haired man shrugged in a manner that made that seem like a lie, "I do always think of you as my baby brother, you know?"
"I figured you might wanna chat after not seeing each other for a couple'a years," the assassin folded his arms, "but if you're just gonna be an ass about it..."
"No, no," Steven implored, "do forgive me, Leo, I wasn't trying to cause offense. You know your brother can be damnably acerbic without meaning to."
"Right," Leo nodded, "and I know for years I was the only one who was willing to put up with it."
"Indeed you were," Steven smiled, "You wanted so badly to have a model for male behavior..."
"Er, but enough reminiscing," Leo coughed, swishing his cape around his back as he moved his arm, "That's not what I came here for."
"No?" the silver-haired man shifted his position on the railing, "Do tell."
"W-Well, I dunno!" Leo shrugged his shoulders, "I just figured, y'know, you might wanna shoot the shit."
"Mm," Steven murmured, "Well, I fear I've shot so much shit in my time I've grown rather weary of it. Perhaps you'd care to begin?"
"Griffon's beak, Steve, why d'ya gotta make this such a hassle?" sighed his brother, "Uh, how's the whole political business goin'?"
"Well enough that I'm sure it'd bore you to tears," the orator mused.
"Actually," Leo rubbed his neck, "I've gotten a little more involved in politics, myself."
"I gathered," his brother nodded, staring at the emblem pinned to his outfit, "Tread cautiously, brother. 'In turba luporum,' eh?"
"Steve, when are ya gonna learn nobody but you knows what any'o that crap means?" Leo tapped his foot impatiently.
"Just mind your blade in the organization of professional assassins with polarized political motivations," his brother elaborated.
"Sure," Leo nodded, "and remember which of those creeps you're deciding to help, eh?"
"Always," nodded the silver-haired man.
"Aw," cooed Anna from her position at the wheel, "do I hear my two boys acting like partners in crime again?"
"G-Give it a rest, mom," Leo blushed, "we're just talking."
"Oh, of course. Don't let me break up the meeting," the redhead giggled, "You two are always so cute."
"Anyway," Leo turned away, "How long d'ya think it'll be till we see dad?"
"Well, we'll most likely arrive in Valm Harbor in just a few days, but finding father will depend largely on our ability to find valuable information as to his location, I should suspect," remarked the orator, watching the slowly rocking horizon.
The assassin nodded and breathed deeply, contemplating the sun. "Right then," he declared after a moment's silence, "Er, good talkin' to you, Steve."
"Likewise, Leo," Steven smiled, "And, um..."
"Yeah?" Leo waited.
"Regardless of the work, I respect your choice of profession, Leo. You have a position, and you do your best to enforce it. That's a very noble aim," the silver-haired man nodded.
Leo turned and headed toward the captain's cabin, "Uh, yeah, sure... Thanks, Steve."
"He might not be able to see you blushing, but I can!" Anna sung at her son.
"Oh, stick a sock in it!" Leo hurried off. Steven shrugged and chuckled to himself, leaning back out on the railing.
[...]
The Storm Blade sat and glanced at his nails, crossing his leg onto his knee to get more comfortable. If there was one thing that put him out more than anything, it was being made to wait, but this was a special case, and he would have to tolerate it for a little while. The man with the leaf-green hair stared about the room, searching for something that could strike up his interest. His eyes tracked up the wall and settled on a wide painting that covered up the dark wood with its gilded frame. He recognized the depiction: it came from an epic he had read long ago in his schooling. The scene showed a valiant-looking soldier in shining platemail holding up a silvery flagpole. Next to him, a dirty-looking vagabond was reaching past his head to try to tear the flag down. The background was of a cliff with waves from a nearby see crashing against the crag and layering spray all about the cliff's face. What had been the title of that work? Cyrus felt it on the tip of his tongue, then cursed as the door clicked open.
"Beggin' your pardon, Cyrus," excused the older man as he stepped out of his office, brushing his dark, thick mustache.
"No bother, Mercurio," nodded the Storm Blade.
"You said you needed to talk a bit o' business?" inquired Mercurio, straightening put both his clothes and his hair.
"Right. I wanted to inquire after a few records, if they're available," continued the green-haired swordsman.
"Of course, of course," he nodded, "Why don't you step into my office and have a seat?"
"Thank you," Cyrus accepted the offer and was led into the nearby room, which was coated wall to wall in gaudy artifacts and treasures earned through some travail or another, including a few paintings, though several of these were portraits of their owner.
"Saw you eyeing my painting back there," smiled the dark-haired man, pulling open a drawer and withdrawing a pair of spectacles for himself. "I'm real proud of that one. It's an original. Got a fancy name: 'La Pouvoir des Sans-Drapeaux...' Or something like that."
"Charming," Cyrus declared banally, "I'm looking for travel records, for a few names."
"Sure, sure," Mercurio nodded, smiling broadly, proceeding to rifle through large dossiers, replete with decaying parchment and all bound by rough leather, "How's that lass you were swinging around the last time I saw you, uh... Samantha?"
"Tabitha," Cyrus corrected, "and hells if I know. That was one night."
"Haha!" the dark-haired man pounded raucously on his desk, "That's why I love you young folk. So free, so uncaring... Hah, a wife really starts to slow you down over the years, my boy."
Cyrus glanced down at the desk and saw a note in fanciful cursive handwriting. He didn't bother to read most of it when he noticed the tagline: "Your Special Flower, Daisy." There weren't any portraits of Mercurio's wife in the room. "I want to know if anyone named Robin has passed through Valm Harbor, among a few other names."
"Robin, Valm Harbor," recited the older man, "Gimme just a minute." After a bit pf feverish searching through several of his dossiers, Mercurio looked up with a frown, "Nope. Don't see any Robins."
"What about an Inigo?" the Storm Blade continued.
"Hmm... well, here's one from Flamenco. That's in Santeria," observed the dark-haired man, indicating with his finger.
"No, the one I'm looking for is from Ylisse," answered the man with the leaf-green hair.
"Well," Mercurio began to shake his head, "I really don't see much in here, Cyrus. Sorry, but I don't think I can help you much."
Cyrus nodded slowly and vaguely before deciding, "That painting of yours... where'd you get it?"
"Hmm?" Mercurio looked up and scratched his mustache.
"'La Pouvoir des Sans-Drapeaux.' How did you come by it?" reiterated the Storm Blade.
"Oh, an old friend of mine was trying to make a living as an artist, but he hardly had a coin to his name, so I commissioned it. Lovely work, huh?" he smiled, returning to looking at his files.
"Yeah, really special," Cyrus nodded his head at the work, which he could still see through the ajar door to the office, "Especially when one considers that it belongs to Dynast Fae'tal."
Mercurio picked his head up again, "How's that?"
"That piece... it was painted almost a hundred years ago to commemorate a scene from a work that was the favorite of former Dynast Fae'tal of Shai'low. It was thought lost when Shai'low was destroyed in the war that united Chon'sin, because the dynast's palace was ransacked," explained Cyrus with all the wisdom of an art historian.
Mercurio coughed and brushed his mustache, "So, uh, what are you saying...?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't have your hands on it," Cyrus folded his arms, "Who gave it to you? What are you hiding from me?"
The dark-haired man scowled angrily, "Hiding? Are you accusing me of something? You're lucky I'm helping you at all, filthy street rat that you are! I could have you sued for defamation you little cretin! I'm not hiding a damn thing!" Mercurio slammed his open palms on the desk.
With a fluid motion, Cyrus flicked the dagger at his belt into his hand and swung it down in an arc so that it bore through Mercurio's open palm and nailed it to the desk. "Do you think I'm playing some kind of game, here?" The Storm Blade growled over his adversary's howls of pain. Grabbing the hilt of the blade and twisting it down further, he commanded, "Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining. Those two came through here. I want to know when. And more importantly, I want to know why you're covering it up."
"Oh gods!" the dark-haired man writhed, "I-It was Bar'kim! He paid me to strike the records! I didn't have anything else to do with it, I swear!"
"Bar'kim?" the man with the leaf-green hair repeated, "isn't that one of Datura's sycophants?"
"I promise I haven't the slightest," begged Mercurio.
Cyrus sighed and nodded to himself, "I guess I'll have to figure out why Datura would try to sandbag word about Robin getting out. Thanks for the info, old boy."
"S-Sure, whatever," the man wheezed, his arm convulsing, "N-Now, this knife...?"
Cyrus turned and inspected it, "Hmm, right... It is one of my favorites, made by a rather grizzled old Chon'sin armorer. Hard-hearted fellow, but amazing craftsmanship..."
"Piss in a pot, Cyrus, just pull the damned knife out!" demanded the dark-haired man.
Cyrus looked up, cocked an eyebrow, and then glanced back down, "No... I think the aesthetic works. It really ties the room together, you know? I'll leave it as my present to you." The Storm Blade stood and left, chuckling a bit to himself as he went out of the small office.
"You crazy sonuvabitch!" Mercurio screamed after him, "You get back here! I wipe my ass with your class of folk! Get back in here and let me go!"
[...]
Robin grabbed the breast of his cloak and sat up, feeling the sweat pour down the side of his face. He cracked his neck as his eyes adjusted to the dim orangish glare of the candlelight, exhaling slowly. He put his palm over his face and shut his eyes, taking a breath, before reopening them.
"I'm surprised to see you woke up so soon," mused a small voice from the corner of the darkened tent.
He scoffed, "If I had a gold coin..."
"Honestly, I'm a bit surprised you're as cheery as you are," added Sylvia, coming into view.
"Heard that one, too," her father laughed.
"Daddy..." Sylvia wrung her hands, "Morgan told you her news, didn't she? She had to have."
Robin's eyes narrowed, "Of course. It was among the first things I asked her about."
"Then why didn't you say anything?" Sylvia meant for it to be an admonishment, but it came out with a ringing of melancholy.
"I... have faith in your mother," declared the Grandmaster slowly.
"That's a lot of nonsense," called the young performer.
Robin's head sunk with an exhale, "I don't want it to be. Sylvia, the prospect of your mother being gone, I can't... I can't even begin to imagine..."
The performer prepared to reply, but her father gestured to suggest he had more to say, prompting her to remain silent.
"Your mother... she was all the remainder of my life, Sylvia. Whenever I saw no point in continuing, I could think to myself, 'But what would Anna do without me?' If she's gone, then..."
"Maybe you could live on for your children?" postulated Sylvia, "You only watched us like a mother hen for about sixteen years each."
"My children have better things to do than waste time on their aging dotard of a father," Robin replied, smiling.
"If you no longer care for the world, that's fine," Sylvia folded her arms, "Morgan and I plan to help Virion's family win this war so we can set things right. If you aren't going to tag along, you can just fall down in the dirt and die. But if there's anyone left in this world you still care for, I'd suggest you get back onto your feet promptly and face what remains of the danger like a man."
"Are you giving me orders?" coughed the Grandmaster with a chuckle.
"I'm asking you, as your daughter, to stay strong," Sylvia balled her fists.
They both paused a minute, Robin staring into his daughter's sapphire eyes and at the faint illumination of her curls of chestnut hair, scarcely lit by the small candle before he smiled again and began to clap, "Ha, that was a pretty good one, Sylvie. I really felt the family drama."
The girl bowed and let her pale blue cloak slide down to cover her shoulders, then rose back up and smiled broadly, "Thank you, thank you, you're too kind."
"When's your next show, dear? It's been a while since I last saw you perform onstage," he added.
"Probably after the war, daddy," she smiled teasingly.
"I..." his face sunk, "about your mother... I don't know what to say to you, honey."
She withdrew a bit as well, "You don't have to say anything. I know you're probably taking this a lot harder than I ever could. I'll miss the hell out of her, but... well... the show must go on, eh?"
Robin nodded, "Business before all else; that's certainly how your mother would handle it. If her ghost could run that damned store, I'd be stuck there for eternity."
"Daddy," she slapped him half-heartedly, "that's much too soon to joke about."
"What is comedy but tragedy over time, my dear?" he supposed with a shrug.
"Well, I can agree she wouldn't want everyone to sit around sulking about her," Sylvia breathed, "It's still going to take me some time, though."
"Me too, sweetheart," the Grandmaster looked into the candlelight, "me too." The silence of the tent began to crowd back in as the pair contemplated different sections of the area with their unblinking, hypnotized stares until Robin began to speak again, "You know, of all your siblings, I think you're the most like her."
"Me?" the performer put a hand over her chest, "It couldn't be... She's an expert, a pro in the art of mind control, and a tantalizing and altogether sweet lady to whom no one could compare."
"But it can be," argued her father, "you and your mother are... were both in the business of earning your gold through smiles. Anna won their hearts only for a few minutes to give them something they thought they wanted, but you, Sylvia... You open their hearts for hours on end to give them something they never knew they needed."
Sylvia laughed wildly, "Put like a true showman, father. It's nights like this when I remember why I love you and mother so damn much."
"Maybe I'm a little poetic about my daughter," he began to adjust his sitting so his legs could touch the floor and he leaned over the side of the cot, "sue me."
"I would, but neither of us have any money," replied his daughter.
"Oh, now she's a comedian, too," Robin chuckled.
Sylvia paused and ran a hand through her curly locks, staring at the ground, "You really think I'm like mother?"
"As close as any one of your aunts," Robin replied.
"Even Auntie Anna?" she asked.
"Yes, even her."
"And Auntie Anna?"
"Her too."
"What about Auntie Anna?"
"Like a carbon copy."
"But what about Auntie Anna?"
"Birds of a feather."
"Ooh, how about Auntie Anna?"
"One and the same."
"Or Auntie Anna?"
"Two halves of the same whole."
"How about Auntie Anna?"
"Hmm, I don't know, your mother and Auntie Anna are very alike..." Robin rubbed his bearded chin.
Sylvia was losing breath with her laughter now, "Daddy, thank you... I'm so glad you're okay."
He brought her into an embrace, "I know, honey. I'm glad, too. I'd miss you terribly."
As they separated, Sylvia spun around and began to work at her cloak, fitfully moving her hands around and digging for something. She groped blindly about the front of her pants near the bottom of her shirt, hidden by the cloak, and strained audibly as she searched, "Where'd I put it...?"
"Uh, honey?" Robin shifted his eyebrows uncomfortably, "Do you need me to give you a minute, or something?"
"No, no, I've got a surprise for you," she insisted with a playful little smile.
"Not helping," he scratched the back of his neck.
"Oh, can it," she stuck out her tongue. After another few seconds, she withdrew a bottle from the inside pocket of her cloak, "There it is! Ta-da!"
She presented the bottle to her still mildly uncomfortable father, who examined the label, "'Jus de Raisin?' Is that a Rosannien wine?"
"Yup," she grinned, "I made a little discovery in the castle."
"I thought your sister was the thief," the Grandmaster folded his arms.
"Oh, I can 'appropriate' one little thing here or there, can't I?" shrugged the performer, "Come on, you almost died today. Are you really going to deny your daughter a little drink?"
He smiled back at her and nodded, "Just drink responsibly. I'm not carrying you or making you eggs if you end up with a hangover tomorrow."
"I was going to have a couple'a sips before bed, daddy, that's all," Sylvia put her hands on her hips, "Honestly, what kinda girl d'you take me for?"
"The kind that I love and want to protect," came the reply.
"Here," she uncorked the bottle, "first sip's all yours."
Robin grabbed the bottle held it still for a moment, "You don't just gulp it down, Sylvie. A fine product like this, you need to let it breathe."
"I thought you didn't drink," his daughter answered.
"I don't, but I can be culturally sensitive," he touted.
"In the culture of casual sex, wine, and loose women, yes, I bet you could be an anthropologist," Sylvia returned.
"Now, what kind of man do you take me for?" he finally took a swig of the wine, "I'll have you know I never so much as touched another woman's bed before your mother's."
"For one: boring!" Sylvia stole back the bottle and took a drink, "I wanted to hear some old romantic exploits from my father. You know, using your clothes as a rope to steal out of ladies windows and courting your employer's daughters... that sort of thing."
"No tales of the sort, I fear," he shrugged.
"And for another," the performer took another drink, "Please don't say anything about 'sharing' mother's bed. Yuck."
Robin laughed and sunk back onto his cot, groaning only momentarily at a small pain in his chest, "Why don't you head to bed, Sylvia?"
"Are you sure you'll be okay?" she looked him over to gauge any weaknesses.
"I'll be fine. Good night, honey," he insisted.
She walked over and pecked him on the forehead, "Good night, daddy. Take care. And... if you need to talk any more, even about... especially about mom, come find me, okay?"
"All right, sweetheart," he cupped her cheek, ruffling a curly bang or two.
She nodded, satisfied, and left, letting the sound of the bottle being turned upside-down echo through the tent as she walked out.
[...]
"General Argent," a guard entered the chamber, "our invasion force, sir... they were routed. No one made it to Rosanne Keep."
The Silver Soldier stood, his armor making a tremendous cacophony as it clinked together. He poised his hands behind his back as he looked down to the guard, "What of Grandmaster Robin?"
"He was injured during the skirmish, sir," reported the guard, "but there exists no confirmation of his death. More likely he has survived and is currently recovering."
"What else can you report?" demanded the Silver Soldier.
The guard paused a moment to consider, then began, "Both Duke Virion and Duchess Cherche were present for the attack. They were accompanied by their son, Marquess Gerome. Reports also indicate that Prince Inigo of Ylisse was among the keep's defenders."
"I thought I saw as much when they arrived," Argent nodded to himself, "Anything further?"
"We are led to believe Grandmaster Robin has two daughters accompanying him, sir," answered the guard.
"Indeed, I met one, the little redheaded girl," recalled the Silver Soldier, "What can you tell me of their fighting ability?"
"Uh, well," the guard scratched his neck, "The red-haired one of which you spoke is accustomed to the sword, and is crafty and quick, but nowhere near as strong as our men."
"As may be expected of the daughter of a tactician," the general nodded to himself, "Continue."
"...And the other girl, the brunette," he added, "she commands a limited array of magic, but was occupied mainly with healing her comrades with staves in this battle."
"So, that's how he plans to play it," the Silver Soldier glared icily at no one in particular, "then we'll need to play our cards carefully but forcefully. He accepts that he cannot hope to overwhelm us."
"Sir," the guard accepted, assuming he was the subject of the command. "Also, if the general considers it important, scouts report catching glimpses of Lord Cyrus leaving in the direction of Chon'sin earlier."
Argent's eyes widened and he nodded slowly, "That is an interesting detail, but I sense little threat in it. I assume he is collecting information for Nihilus, nothing that should concern me, I'm sure."
"Shall I relay any orders to the men, general?" inquired the guard.
After a pause, Argent answered, "Yes. Tell the knight battalions to garrison the cities. Start with Nähe and work outward."
"Sir," obeyed the guard.
"And tell the others... we have a strategy to execute."
[...]
On a cliff, in the solemn purple mountains of Rosanne, a warrior sat cross-legged. A heavy sigh escaped this warrior's lips as the gaze of the warrior's eyes trailed along the glowing fires of the grounds where the valiant defenders had held their ground. There slept Sylvia and Morgan, the daughters of the legendary Grandmaster Robin. Robin, in equal measure, did and did not look the part of a Grandmaster: he was wizened in appearance, shadowed by gray hair, and he had the slower gait of an older man, but wisdom did not sparkle joyfully in his eyes; rather, it seemed to weigh them down, dragging the whole of his face down, if just by an inch. Whether the others sensed it or not, he was forlorn in his face, and in his heart. He was in a decidedly low place, even in the company of his daughters, and the warrior knew all this. For both Robin's sake and the warrior's own, the warrior eagerly anticipated their meeting. Was it curiosity, or something more? The warrior knew not, but whatever it was, it would soon lead to... an imprudence, perhaps.