Chapter 18
"Guard..." Chrom moaned ignobly, clutching the steel bar before him with one hand and his stomach with the other.
"Oh, please, would someone come here? My poor husband," Olivia added, holding his shoulder.
A woman with flowing pink hair strode in. The pair recognized her as one of Nihilus's subordinates. Her face was severe, "What do you want? Your braying will wake my master, and that would displease me very much."
Olivia took point, "We're ever so sorry, good lady, but my husband... he's feeling quite ill all of a sudden. He desperately needs some medicine."
"And perhaps the toilet, if you'd be so kind," the exalt winced.
The swordswoman rolled her eyes, "How stupid do you think I am? I'm a general in Lord Nihilus's army; I can't be fooled so easily."
"What do you mean?" Chrom gritted his teeth, "I... I really feel ill..."
Dahlia tapped her foot, "Not my problem. Go on, then, o mighty exalt. Defecate in front of your wife and maybe I'll consider letting you clean yourself up."
Chrom grimaced and sat back down, sighing aloud.
"Don't waste my time again, you Ylissean filth," she sneered at him.
"Wait," Olivia outstretched her hand.
"Now what?" the Rose Blade sighed, "Are you 'suddenly' ill as well?"
"No," Olivia bowed, "but something is troubling me..."
"Take it up with someone who cares," Dahlia made for the door.
"Something about you." Against her better senses, Dahlia paused before the door and turned around, walking back up to the queen of Ylisse as she pressed herself against the bars of her cell. She opened her hand and looked into Olivia's eyes to signal that she may continue. "Something on your face... doesn't sit right. The face you wear isn't your own. Is something distressing you? Are you being coerced? Is Nihilus... is he-"
Olivia was cut off with a sharp slap to her cheek. The Rose Blade glared with flame-filled eyes at the Ylissean queen and withdrew her hand slowly, "Mind yourself. You have no right to speak to me or my master with that tone."
Olivia fell onto her rear and rubbed the red spot on her face in dull shock, her eyes focused on nothing. Her husband stood and walked in front of her, lowering his eyes to the opposing general, "I don't take kindly to people laying hands on my wife."
"I am sorry, Exalt Chrom," she declared in a tone that said the opposite, "Perhaps if you had wed a creature less sniveling and spineless, this problem would not have befallen you. I hope you'll know better than to annoy me next time." With an exhausted sigh, the Rose Blade excused herself.
Chrom cupped his wife's cheek, "Are you all right, Olivia?"
"I'm fine," she gave up rubbing the mark, "It's that woman who's suffering... the look in her eyes is confusing... scary. It's even a little familiar, somehow..." The queen eventually trailed off.
"I knew that would have been too easy," Chrom cursed, pushing meaninglessly at the ground, "We have to use a more sophisticated plan of escape."
"I... have some thoughts," Olivia began to blush, "but I don't know how much you'll like them."
He raised an eyebrow, "No, I don't think we need to resort to something like that... we can find another way... We're clever enough..."
Olivia nodded her assent, but then drooped onto his shoulder, "All the same, I find myself a bit lacking for ideas right now."
"Should worst come to worst, we can always start digging," he suggested with a weak smile. Olivia reciprocated the gesture and hugged his shoulder. Her husband had always been her source of strength; he was everything she wished she could be: determined, strong, confident, decisive, and, above all, clearly unashamed. She smiled when she remembered how he would drag himself out of bed, still in his plainclothes, to attend meetings with Ylisse's gentry, scoffing at their particular dress. She remembered how her face flared up when he would send her flirtatious looks across the tables as she served their guests coffee, how he would grab her hand as she walked by, and whisper a joke into her ear. The politicians would look at him with stern glares, like impatient lecturers, and he would throw out an apology before going right back to what he had been doing. He was a little rough around the edges, but Chrom was exactly what Ylisse needed in an exalt; Olivia couldn't imagine any of these stuffed-shirts running the nation with the same authority as her husband.
And then there was Robin, but that was another matter entirely. A complex one. Robin had always been a...
"Son of a bitch!"
Olivia lifted her head to see Chrom already listening intently; a tremulous eruption had moved the floor beneath them with that earlier vocalization accompanying it. Chrom rose suddenly, and Olivia did the same; the stone floor suddenly became hot. That heat was quickly replaced with an odd, smoky scent, consistent with the burning of oil. The pair listened for more feedback and heard droves of footsteps moving to the level below them. A few indistinct mutterings came out through the floor; it seemed they were asking what had happened, but neither Chrom nor Olivia could understand the frenzied description of events.
Just at that moment, there came a quick rattling, followed by the door to the prison being opened. "Heh, simpletons. A little misdirection is all it takes," a figure whose face was obscured by a red hood pushed through the door, brushing dirt of its shoulder.
Chrom approached the figure first, "What was that all about? Did it have something to do with you?"
The figure paused and stood parallel to the exalt before replying, "What do you think, genius?"
"Are you hear for... us?" the exalt guessed.
"No, I thought I'd grab some milk and maybe an apricot or two- of course I'm here for you!" shouted the figure, "And I don't have time for twenty questions, so can we make this brief?"
"Right," Chrom nodded, "What's your plan?"
"Grab your wife and that bedsheet," the figure indicated, pointing to the lone garment on the cot where Chrom and Olivia had been forced to sleep, "I'm going to lower you out a window."
"That sheet's nowhere near long enough for us to safely reach the ground," Olivia protested, "Not from any of these windows."
They saw a smirk beneath the figure's hood, "Not exactly what I meant."
The trio hurried out of the hallway, hearing another thunder of footsteps making a dramatic procession to the upper floor. The figure received them as they began to climb up onto the windowsill. "So, what is your plan, then?" Chrom gripped one side of the sheet and Olivia gripped the other, as instructed.
"Hold on tight," commanded the figure, "I'm going to creatively employ some wind magic."
"What?!" Chrom nearly swallowed his tongue as he felt gripped by a sudden coldness, staring out at the long fall below them. Olivia watched his panicked eyes; her husband had shown an aversion to high places since she had met him, particularly at the prospect of standing atop them, but this was to confirm all his fears.
"Just don't let go," instructed the figure, "It'll work, I promise."
"I hate this plan," the exalt groaned before being thrown out the window, screaming, by a quick gust.
"You are going to sincerely wish you hadn't done that," the Rose Blade drew her sword at the hooded figure as she ascended the staircase.
The figure chuckled, "Sounds like fun, but I can't stick around to play with you, hon."
"You think I'll let you get away?" Dahlia leered as she pointed her weapon.
"I don't think you have a choice," in a fluid motion, the figure removed a tome from its pocket and summoned another gale, throwing soldiers left and right. Dahlia, however, planted her feet firmly into the carpet, scarcely budging. "Ooh, tough one," the figure mused, "it really would have been fun, but I gotta go." Another tome came out and a missile of fire was lobbed at the Rose Blade. She dodged it, but it singed the ends of her long hair as it passed by and scorched the castle wall. The hood of the figure fluttered in the wind as it swept past the pink-haired woman and skated out the door. Dahlia didn't rise from her knees, but simply pounded the floor with a grimace.
[...]
"Hear ye, hear ye," the man at the front of the Feroxi party recited mechanically, looking into the eyes of the archers that were standing atop the palace, pointing their arrows downward, "We approach on official business, a decree to be delivered to West-Khan Lon'qu directly from the hand of East-Khan Vlasis the Goodhearted."
Lon'qu looked at his guests, followed by his wife and rolled his eyes, hearing the voice from inside the stone walls. "They give that boy a new title every time I hear his name."
"Lon'qu! Go not into the clutches of thine enemy, for it is most surely a trap!" Owain shouted, "Of course, all the best heroes get out of traps like that no problem, so maybe you should let it play out so you can show off... Hmm, decisions..."
"The boy exaggerates," Panne stated the obvious, "and yet, I do smell foulness in the air."
"I smell it too," Yarne added.
"Yarne, didn't you smell 'foulness' when I asked you to dust the dining hall last week, too?" Lon'qu leered at his son.
"Well, can you blame me? Those statues are pure evil..." he quivered.
"I will be cautious," Lon'qu rose from his throne, "but if the East Khanate demands parley, I must respond. Lissa, Donnel, Owain, Cynthia; this is not your fight, and they may even be looking for you, so hide yourselves."
"Pardon, Lon'qu," Donnel objected, "but why would they be lookin' fer us?"
"They could easily make up something about harboring fugitives, or like nonsense. Just hide yourselves for now and you'll be safe," he answered.
That seemed to satisfy the group, and they were ushered into a back room by a guard. Lon'qu approached and opened the door with Panne at his side and Yarne behind them both.
Already the scene appeared strange: there were more guards present than a typical escort party, and, in fact, these men hardly seemed like guards at all. They wore thick armor and held swords, lances, and axes, as well as a few bows, and further, they stood in columns behind their commander. Lon'qu addressed the crowd, their eyes fixated intently on him, "What is your decree?"
"Let it be known," the man who stood in front of the "guards" began, as a robed figure moved forward to his side, "that the West Khanate has sent spies to infiltrate the inner workings of the government of the East Khanate."
"That is not true," Lon'qu rejected, staring at them firmly.
"Khan Vlasis has made this decree," the man answered simply, "there is no fact to be disputed. The infraction of espionage against one's own countrymen is a serious offense, one punishable by death. This crime also shows an egregious lack of trust on the part of the West Khan." At this point, the man began to breathe more laboredly, stumbling over his words at points and losing his official tone. Members of the crowd appeared to be sweating beneath their helmets. "As such," he eventually continued, "East-Khan Vlasis the Goodhearted has deemed it proper that the entirety of the East Khanate... declare war on the West."
A shock of murmurs spread through the crowd, as if the soldiers themselves had been partly unaware.
"I think that is a serious mistake," Lon'qu leered, "for both our provinces. Why is Khan Vlasis not here so that I may discuss the matter with him directly?"
"The order is signed by Khan Vlasis," the man at the front swallowed, "Ergo, his presence is unnecessary."
Lon'qu folded his arms, "What are your terms, precisely?"
But he was cut off, "Eek! Dad, help!"
"Sniveling little wretch," snarled the robed figure, restraining Yarne.
Lon'qu's gaze sliced through the crowd, "You! Unhand my son, villain!"
"This little half-breed vermin that you call your 'son...'" the robed man protested, "Just attempted to attack me, clandestinely and preemptively!" Another wave of murmurs through the crowd.
"He would never," retorted Lon'qu, recapturing everyone's attention.
"Well, I say he has," grunted the old man restraining Yarne, "and whose word do you think this crowd will believe?"
"You there," Lon'qu pointed to the man who stood in front of the soldiers, "Tell your man to stand down."
"I am... not his superior," the announcer conceded frankly.
The robed man wrestled with the frightened taguel, "It would appear to me that Khan Lon'qu's own heir just attempted to take the life of a man of the East Khanate... With that in mind, I think our men know very well what to do."
Lon'qu scanned the crowd with extreme rapidity; they certainly did know, but for now they all clutched their weapons and swallowed, staring straight ahead. Sweat made trails along many a forehead as the troops' armor became stuck to their skin with the building perspiration. Despite it being winter in Regna Ferox, it was hot as hell right here. A few of Lon'qu's personal detail now began to filter out of the palace doors, having overheard the proclamation and screams. They, too, stifled their breathing as they stared out at their brethren.
"Now," Lon'qu projected his voice, "There's no need for such rash action. East Khan Vlasis must be a sensible man, even if I've never met him. Only allow me a moment to discuss this colossal misunderstanding and I will-"
Before he could finish, a boot shuffled in the crowd and a hooded man leapt forward. Lon'qu recognized his garb as that of an assassin, only too late, as the knife slid between his ribs. "Death to the West Khan!" the man shouted in Lon'qu's face, dropping him to the ground. Guards swarmed the attacker immediately afterward, turning him into a porcupine with their blades and lances. Outraged easterners leapt onto the platform after him, striking back at the western guards. Yarne shook himself free of the robed man's grasp and hopped into his transformation in a single move, landing with a thunderous shockwave that flung the easterners away from his father's cadaver. "No...!" he screamed tremulously.
The fighting ignored his presence: westerners bearing axes charged at the eastern mob and were quickly torn to shreds by mercenaries wielding swords. Still, they crashed against the line, some of their own swordsmen making impacts as they brought up the rear. Eastern pikemen were not far behind, however, and impaled the westerners as quickly as they moved forward.
Yarne clutched his father in his hard claws, his long ears twitching to each side feverishly. He looked to the advancing soldiers for help, but his fellow Feroxi stormed right past. Panne burst through the doorway already transformed and saw her son with her husband in his paws. She bent her head and joined her son for a moment, then bared her teeth at the crowd. "I will make you suffer for attacking my warren, man-spawn!" She hopped down among the crowd and swatted away a line of easterners with a feral growl.
"Kill it!" screamed the easterners, "Kill the monster!" Soon the easterners were striking at Panne repeatedly, spotting her fur with dripping brown patches as their swords drew blood. Still, she swiped and bit at them, eliciting frightened yelps as more and more attackers piled onto her.
Yarne felt his blood freeze. "No, no, no...!" he cried lowly. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real. Waking up this morning he had had muffins. He had no idea why he recalled that now, but... blueberry muffins. And he had complimented his mother on finding them and seen her smile in that vaguely dismissive way that she professed her love, with just the tiniest grin. With a big gulp of his drink, his father made an offhand remark about them, too, and then Panne pretended not to be interested. And now they were dying.
And now he would die.
Quivering at that thought, Yarne did the only thing that constituted any logical sense in his mind: he fled. Tearing up tufts of snow with kicks of his large back legs, the taguel fled into the snow, not considering once where he was going, just fading into the gray of the horizon.
Lissa bit her lip as she pressed herself against the wall for support. Her husband returned, hanging his head. Lissa felt pressure shutting her lips, but pushed past it, "What... What is it, Donny?"
"Lissa..." his eyes were uncharacteristically dark, "We gotta get lost, fast." Owain saw his father's grave face and decided not to ask, opting instead to wrap his hand around Cynthia's and lead her, behind his parents, out of the palace.
The sounds of metal clashing filled the air for what seemed to be hours as the group plodded heavily through the piles of snow, faces growing red from the burning of the icy winds and feet going numb as more and more snow soaked their shoes, but they kept running until they found a clearing on a high hill, still hearing faint sounds of a scuffle past the muffling of the powdery ground. When it seemed they had a moment's peace, Donnel dropped himself to the ground, joined shortly by the remainder of his small party. Solemnly, he adjusted the pot on his head as it sank over his eyes. "Hells, Lissa... Lon'qu was a good feller. Real good. I know he'd never'a hurt nobody, so why did they attack him like that?"
Lissa frowned deeply, affected by her husband's downtrodden stare, "Who knows? Politics make for all kinds of danger... No one is always happy with their ruler, and, sometimes, people do things... violent things to make the world better suit them. It just... happens."
That didn't seem to placate the villager, "'Happens,' huh? So we just gotta take that people will be killed as a fact o' life? Even people near and dear to us... they gotta die just because ambitious guys decide that that's the way it hasta be? ...I guess I just don't understand nobility, Lis, but... That don't make a lick o' sense to me."
Lissa sighed and dropped her head, too, staring at the snow. The wind blew at their faces again.
[...]
The ship groaned lowly as a larger wave swayed it at a more severe angle than was typical, forcing Steven to clutch the railing to avoid falling over. That didn't seem to affect the ship's captain much, however, as he walked in front of the orator and effectively changed hands; he assumed the position at the ship's wheel, muttering something that sounded like "clumsy big-city arse."
Steven knew better than to be upset by the griping of others, of course, and smiled pleasantly to himself as he descended the staircase, intent on finding something to eat. Their voyage hadn't been long, but they also hadn't packed much in the way of provisions, presuming the haste of said voyage. As the silver-haired man traipsed slowly below decks, he found his mother pushing the door to her cabin open (Steven and his brother had opted to bunk together so as to give their mother her privacy). She wiped her eyes, but it didn't seem as if she had been crying. Perhaps she had just taken a nap.
In either case, Steven greeted her with a warm smile, "Hullo, mother. How fare you?"
Whatever expression had been on her face before was quickly replaced with a more typical sarcastic smirk, "Steve, honey, you know you can drop that 'How fare you' nonsense with me."
"Only trying to be polite," his clinical smile didn't waver.
"So, what brings you down here, kiddo?" his mother straightened her collar absentmindedly.
"I was looking for a bit of food," he replied, "curse my shortsightedness... I really should have prepared more for all this."
"Don't be so hard on yourself, hon," she rubbed his shoulder, "It was short notice."
"All the same," he frowned, "I'd be more ready to forgive myself if we still had at least two loaves to rub together."
Anna paused and cocked an eyebrow, "I think you mixed your metaphors somewhere in there."
"Drat," he sighed, "Now this hunger is forcing me to lose my one asset. Well, at least I still have my dashing good looks."
Anna laughed, "Well hey, I have a bit of fruit that was going nowhere left in my inventory. I'm sure it's still fresh, but I don't know if it's any good."
"That reminds me," he paused, "I know business is important to you, mother, but did we really have to bring that entire pile of gold? It weighs as much as three extra passengers."
The smile disappeared from Anna's face as she narrowed her eyes at her son, "Steven? What is my answer to all questions involving the import of finance and gold?"
Steven swallowed, realizing his mistake, and bowed quickly, "Sorry, mother. Perhaps we could have a bit of that fruit together now?"
She brightened up, "Why, I think that's a splendid idea, lovely son of mine."
Steven watched her warily, then followed her into the cabin from which she had emerged, looking down as she pointed to a crate on the floor. Steven opened it and procured the fruit (Anna couldn't remember the names; she had gotten them from some exotic tropical island and was prepared to sell them with that marquee alone, but it hadn't worked). The silver-haired orator seemed pleased with the haul and bundled the fruits up in his arms, carrying them out onto the deck.
"What are you going to do with all those, honey?" Anna trailed behind him, "Shouldn't we save some?"
"I have an idea, if you can find me a pan somewhere," he smiled, "I think I'll try to make something like a fricassee with these, except there'll be no meat, but I will be able to saute a few of them and smother it in the juice of these... It will keep longer and taste better, I promise."
"Frica-who?" Anna shrugged, "Fine, I trust you, sweetie, gimme just a minute..."
True to her word, in about a minute, Anna returned, producing some cast-iron cookware. Steven took the pan and placed it on a barrel before whipping a small knife out of his pocket and dicing up the fruit.
Anna peered at the knife, "Since when do you..."
"It's only for emergencies," he grinned slyly, "Politics is sometimes more dangerous than warfare, dear mother."
Dropping the fruit matter into the pan, the silver-haired man snapped his fingers, clutching a tome beneath his cloak, and sparked up a quick, but raging fire that made the pan radiate heat; the fruit began to sizzle and pop immediately, oozing a sweet nectar that filled the immediate airspace with its scent. Anna sniffed it and licked her lips dreamily. Then she paused for another moment, "When did you learn how to cook like this? I know I didn't teach you? Did your father?"
"Father could cook a decent steak or breast of chicken, but he knew nothing of the finer arts," the orator smiled.
"So, when?" Anna insisted.
Steven hesitated a moment before sheepishly turning around to his mother, "The ladies of Rosanne have very particular tastes..."
Anna blushed and looked down at the floor of the deck, then back up, "My son the lover-boy. When did this happen? Weren't you always so busy with writing your speeches and planning this and that maneuver and whatever else?"
"Ma certo," he nodded, "But, as it turns out, there are some lovely young ladies who don't find the court all that thrilling, and find the notion of a handsome, young, foreign dignitary very exciting..."
The merchant smiled ironically at her son, "So where do you fit in?"
"Very funny," he copied her tone, "If you don't want to hear about my exploits, don't ask."
His mother waited pensively before she decided to ask, "So... have you had many... 'lovers?'"
"Oh, only a few," he relaxed, sighing contentedly as he thought of them.
"And what about, what was it, 'Sophie?'" Anna continued.
"Ah, ma belle dame d'or..." Steven mused wistfully, "She's the most recent, and, hopefully, the last."
"Really?" Anna folded her arms, "Retiring so early?"
"You almost sound disappointed," he answered.
"I almost thought my son was a respectable man," she tapped her foot.
"I'm very respectable. The girls love me, and the men respect that the girls love me," he grinned broadly, "Not to mention I'm the best there is at my job."
"And what happened to all your humility?" Anna continued, "I'm starting to think I don't even know who you are anymore."
That made him frown a little, "I'm the same man, mother, but I'm a bit consumed by worldly passions. Is that not comprehensible?"
"Just... let's not talk about your love life anymore," his mother shook her head.
"Done," he began to fan the heat of the pan away with a bit of wind magic before mumbling, "You were the one who brought it up, anyway..."
[...]
It was another day of marching for the group. Fortunately, there was no heat to complain about under their piles of vestments, various levels of armor, and burdens of weapons. Of course, the lack of heat meant the opposite problem, as more than a few of the troops, in addition to those leading the pack, found themselves shivering, despite their thick apparel, as the steel clouds of Lieben seemed never to part, giving the craggy landscape a dull bluish or purplish hue. Robin reacehd up to his face and slapped his cheeks a bit to ensure the blood continued to flow to them.
Sylvia wasn't far behind him, "Holding up okay, daddy?"
He smiled, "I'm your father, not your grandpa, Sylvia. I can withstand a little cold."
"And I'm your daughter, so permit me to worry," she answered. He nodded.
"I say, Sir Robin," Virion was catching up to them, "I wanted to ask you something, if I may."
"Be my guest."
"What was in that letter you discovered? The one you took from that scoundrel leading the enemy at the last town."
"It was a set of orders from a different general, someone outside of Valm. Might've been Plegian, looking at the insignia on it. He referred to himself as 'Lord Datura.' He'll probably be the next person I confront on my little list of conspirators for this incident."
"But, is that not marvelous news? Can we not tell General Argent he has been deceived, and use that as justification to end this silly war?"
The Grandmaster shook his head heavily, "I only wish we could, but I know men of General Argent's ilk; he wont' concede that he's been fooled. Or, even if he will, he would still want your head; that's the 'honorable' thing to do, finish the fight."
"Still, is it not worth the attempt?" Virion begged.
"I'll tell you what," Robin frowned, "If you want to take that news to General Argent and see if he'll relent on the day we march up to Lieben Keep, you can do that. I'll let you tell me if it was worthwhile after that's done."
Virion lowered his eyes to the ground and sighed. Sylvia frowned at her father, as well.
"Daddy, you couldn't have given him even the slightest hope?" his daughter mewled.
"I'm sorry, Sylvie," he breathed, "but I'm just... tired. Tired of the fighting, tired of 'honor...' tired of all this. I've been through this all once before, and I just can't believe it's happening again... I want there to be some way that I can change it, but no one's ever willing. Fight, fight, kill, kill... it's the answer to everything..."
The performer stared at her father, then simply buried her head in her cloak, feeling a little too depressed to concoct a reply.
"But not for you," he tacked on, finding a note of light in his voice, "You kids... well, you're all good kids, really good. You and your brothers and sister are better folk than half the people I've met in my entire life. You have a chance... you can change this world better than an old man like me. They'll listen to you, someone with a fresh face and ideas to match... Even that fool Inigo, he'll make a good prince for his country."
"Father," Sylvia picked her head up, "Where's all this coming from?"
"I'm giving you the slightest hope," he said with a wry smile.
"Lieben Keep isn't far, is it?" Sylvia asked, knowing the answer.
"No," Robin became grounded, "We'll have to make ourselves ready. There may be a few skirmishes ahead, but... Well, I shouldn't have to tell you that when we meet with General Argent, things will get violent."
"But we'll be prepared, won't we?" she smiled with a show of confidence.
"Only if you keep training. Don't lose your edge, sweetheart," he kissed her forehead, despite a brief protest.
Morgan and Inigo matched each other's stride, strolling a few feet ahead and to the left of her father. The latter had his eyes uncharacteristically concentrated sharply on the horizon before them. "Something the matter, Inigo?" his wife slowly wrapped her hands around his arm, pulling herself in close.
His brow jumped up and he turned to face the redheaded thief, "Hm? Oh, sorry, I was lost in thought. What did you say?"
"I was wondering if something was wrong," she repeated.
"No," he shook his head, "nothing. I was just thinking about those Liebenese we passed by... Do you think we did the right thing for them?"
"What do you mean?" Morgan cocked her head to the side.
"I mean... Should we have let them go? If they return to Argent, they'll probably just be killed later, and on their own they might starve or become lost," the prince began to frown to himself.
Morgan grabbed his shoulder, "I think I hear a bit of your father peeking through, Inigo. It's not like you to moralize like this."
"Whatever it is," he groaned, "I don't like it. I haven't been able to get my mind off it since we left."
"Just... take a deep breath, or something," Morgan patted his back softly, "My handsome prince can endure anything if he just keeps a clear head."
Inigo bowed and smiled, "You're too kind, Lady Morgan."
"Anything I can do to help," she reciprocated, "Er, but, if you don't mind, maybe I'll just leave you to your thoughts for a bit? I kind of want to talk to my dad about our strategy a little..."
"Of course," he grinned, "you need some kind of stimulation for that brain of yours, and Naga knows you won't find it here."
She hugged him, "I won't be long, I promise. Any talk with my father is going to be brief."
Inigo nodded and let her go, then gripped the hilt of his sword and began to stare out at the horizon again. Lieben still looked blue, covered by the clouds.
[...]
Chrom and his wife panted profusely as they scaled the hill, collapsing into seated positions on the dry grass. Chrom bent his head and wiped some of the dirt from his face as the pair stared forward; the fortress was only a small grayish stain on their horizon now, they were finally free. In a fit of relief, Olivia quickly grabbed her husband and held him tightly, elciting a warm smile and a return of the embrace.
"You know we still have to keep moving, right?" he breathed lowly.
"Yes," she did the same, "but... it's fine, so long as we're out of there. I'd rather my legs fall clean off that sit in that dungeon a moment more."
Chrom nodded, and lay back on the hillside to catch his breath. After only a second, however, he jumped back up, "Robin! Gods, Olivia, I wonder what's happened to Robin? I want to find him quickly... ah, but, Lucina and Ylisstol... hells..."
"I wouldn't worry too much, Chrom," his wife mewled, "I mean, I'm concerned about Robin as well, but it seems like he can take care of himself, doesn't it?"
"I know," replied her husband with a weighty sigh, "but I'd never want him to think I abandoned him, especially since Anna and their children might still be in danger... there are so many questions about the halidom that I need answered right away..."
"Surely, though," Olivia coughed, "we won't find those answers worrying ourselves sick. We have to trust that our allies-and our family-can manage things until we reach them... right?"
The exalt nodded, "All the same, I don't want to waste a second finding Lucina. Inigo too."
His wife nodded her assent, but breathed heavily, "Me too... but, I'm a bit worn out from our escape. Maybe... maybe just tonight we could find an inn or somewhere to camp?"
He took hold of her hand an scolded himself for his impatience, "Of course. Yes, of course, Olivia. We'll find somewhere to stay the night, then make our move in the morning. I just pray these... mercenaries, whoever they are, I hope they don't have any way of finding us."
"I don't think anyone's connections run that deep," Olivia contributed, "As long as we keep our distance, I think we'll be safe."
Chrom nodded, more confidently this time, having caught his breath. It showed in his voice when he stood and pulled his wife up, "Come, Olivia. We've got to protect our halidom, just as we did years before."
"I'm by your side," she bowed, "Just like before."
And following their plans, Chrom and Olivia walked over miles of plains in the dry air of... somewhere on the continent of Valm, Chrom was sure of that much, until the cool and blue-black of dawn began to wash slowly over the landscape, prompting a few shivers from Olivia, a sign to her husband that they needed to find shelter immediately. And that was how the exalt and his bride ended up sleeping in a small hay-stuffed wooden bed in a proportionately small village, whose people were mostly unintelligible, but friendly.
As they entered their room, Chrom lay his wife down on the bed and she sighed with slight contentment and relief. Chrom himself sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and stared through the window at the moon, luminous in the sapphire sky, as if waiting for something. "Naga," he told the window, "I know I've never been a praying man... but you showed yourself once to me before, and I have all the faith in the world, now. I would ask you... keep my son and daughter safe, please. Watch over them, and protect them as your scions, your very own son and daughter, born of the blood of our convenant with you... and while I know doctrine states that he is a sinner, diametrically opposed to you, I hope you can see to it to protect Robin and his family as well. They say to forgive is divine, after all, don't they? Bah, but I'm merely rambling to the stars now..."
The exalt started a moment as he felt his wife's palm land over his. He had figured she had fallen straight asleep, but now he was blushing, unsure how much of his little prayer she had heard. Resigning himself, the blue-haired lord lay back in the bed beside his wife, pressing her close. Lucina and Inigo were strong kids, they could handle anything. He was becoming increasingly more certain of that. Robin, however... Robin was a special case. Robin had gotten more frail in his old age, and, to the best of Chrom's knowledge, he had foresworn violence. He recalled seeing him there, in his tiny villa out on the hills, without his cloak, but with the warmest smile he'd ever seen. Robin was dressed like a damned scullery maid (Chrom recalled having made a jeer similar to that), but it was the happiest he'd ever seemed, rooting around for weeds in a little garden. And Anna had appeared shortly after, and his eyes sparkled, giving her a kiss at their greeting, and then, of course, Morgan had burst out of the door wanting to play and getting mud everywhere. She was always the most rambunctious of those kids; the others were probably cracking jokes at one another inside...
Chrom turned over. He couldn't bear to see that memory spoiled.
[*]
"Fuck your 'control.'" Those were the last words. The tactician rose and shoved his seat in, pushing his way out the door with a stern face. He marched down the hallway and descended the stairs rapidly, not acknowledging the curious faces of the many guards he passed on the way down. Then, Olivia appeared and looked up to him empathetically. She asked him a question with her eyebrows and he nodded in reply before taking off.
He would wait in the castle's study, arms folded and eyes shut, for at least an hour, perhaps longer. It all seemed the same in the darkness of the closed room. But that darkness was comfortable and familiar; the young tactician had spent so much of those two years relaxing in this room, thinking, planning, devising, reading, learning... It actually put a smile on his face to relive all of that in the scent of the aging books, the worn shelves, and the faint smell of his own presence, which he had trouble detecting but which, he was assured, lingered long after his departure.
Eventually, the door clicked and a ray of light shone in. Chrom step forward and seated himself across from his friend. "So... I suppose that's that, huh?" he said with laughter in his voice.
"Quite," Robin nodded.
"That was one hell of a performance, Robin," the exalt smiled, "You really do portray indignity and fury quite well, especially for a home you don't even remember."
"Not all of it was pretence," he noted, "some of those bastards up there really rub me the wrong way."
"Preaching to the choir," accepted the exalt, "but... well, you already knew how all this was going to happen, right? You're sure you want to go through with it?"
"I made that decision long ago," he nodded firmly, "Once Grima was dead... that would be the end of it, one way or another."
"This does mean we won't be meeting much in the future," added Chrom.
Robin clutched his heart mockingly, "Oh, how devastating. Now I'll only be able to spend time with my family."
"Don't forget the friend who gave you this opportunity, you arse," the exalt punched his arm.
"Never, Chrom," he grinned, "I will miss you and Olivia... and Lucina and Inigo, too, but this is a done deal. I'm finished with war and politics, I just want to live in peace with my family. If that means I have to be dead to the rest of the world, I'm fine with that."
"All right, then," nodded the exalt, standing, "it's time for you to go. I'll visit when I can get away from my security detail."
"Thank you, Chrom," stated the tactician simply, shaking his friend's hand. Nothing else was said as he was smuggled out of the building, off to begin his life as a forgotten man.