Chapter 23
Chrom stood on the edge of the galleon, looking out to the port that lay just ahead. He would be back on his own shores soon, a fact that sent a stir through his heart and a resultant shudder up his spine. Olivia watched, too, and neared him in his contemplation. "It feels like we've been gone an eternity, doesn't it?"
"I half-expected to find it in ashes," the exalt admitted honestly, reassured by the tranquility offered by golden daylight settling banally on the areas surrounding the port. Chrom could make out movement, people participating in their routines, presumably, which served to reassure him that his home was safe, and that his daughter was as well. Anything resembling patience within him was quickly evaporating. Olivia draped her hands over the railing, also staring with anticipation into the available expanse. Chrom wanted to rush the captain in their approach, but it was obvious the sailor was less than pleased with his current undertaking and would not be willing to make any further concessions for the sake of the exalt or his wife.
So they would wait, adrift upon the gentle waters, until the wind guided them closer. "Do you think Lucina will be back in Ylisstol?" Olivia wondered, unable to quiet her thoughts.
"It's possible," Chrom supposed, rubbing the bit of navy stubble that clung to his exalted chin, "but I would have to assume she'd be out looking for us."
"Unless Frederick forced her to stay home," the dancer exhaled with a smile.
Chrom snorted, "That may be as well. But then, Lucina's a more stubborn girl than she lets on. Frederick would have his work cut out for him if he tried to hold her back."
"I'm sure he has plenty of experience dealing with stubborn royal children," Olivia continued idly.
Chrom cocked an eyebrow and turned to face his wife, "Was that... did you just make a sarcastic remark about me?"
The pink-haired queen of Ylisse paused, "Did I? ...Hum. I suppose I did."
The sapphire-haired lord chuckled, shaking his head, "You're a very different woman than when I met you, Olivia. The years have changed you much."
"I-I'm sorry," she mewled, "I just... well, I try to be helpful as a ruler, but I know I'm no use, so I was trying to at least look like I knew what I was doing, but I guess that just makes me look as unconvincing as a Feroxi warrior trying to play a merchant girl."
"Or maybe not," Chrom sighed, "You don't need to apologize, Olivia. I appreciate your determination. You fill the role of queen very well, and I'm very happy that our children will be able to learn from your shining example."
Olivia blushed hotly and covered her face, "I'm not deserving of such praise. I still sound like a mewling kitten when I try to be authoritative."
"But you never stop asserting yourself, despite your... anxiety," the exalt rebutted.
"You're really too kind," she shrunk.
"And you're too modest," her husband hugged her.
"I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing."
[...]
It had been a long march to get to this point, but the path ahead was clear. There would be only one opportunity to strike at the mercenaries, and it would be presenting itself momentarily. The Legacy Shepherds had only one advantage on the excessive numbers of their opponents: surprise. And that advantage could slip away like so many grains of sand at any moment, so Lucina was determined to direct the attack sooner rather than later. Frederick, of course, had resisted what Lucina later admitted was rashness of thought, but she was growing steadily frustrated with her continued attendance upon the knight captain's plea for a reconnaissance opportunity.
Frederick had abandoned his armor, not without a pang of regret, and had similarly disencumbered his horse to appear as a simple aged traveller so as to reduce suspicion of his examining the perimeter. He studied the camp closely at surface level while his wife's pegasus beat its wings as slowly as possible overhead to reduce the noise. Sumia needed to be even more careful, frequently landing on the roofs of buildings that provided shelter, as there was no good way for a flying animal and its rider to avoid attracting attention on a cloudless day in a camp with a very low skyline.
That being the case, most of the reconnaissance fell to Frederick. The knight captain strolled along the edge of the camp as slowly as possible on his steed, taking care not to gaze out at the area too frequently so as not to appear too interested. His observations were keen, of course, as he prided himself on his battlefield insight. The enemy seemed surprisingly few in number, considering that this was their forward operating base for a large-scale invasion of Ylisse. At most, there were a hundred men within the camp. At least, there were about fifty. It was difficult to tell if individuals were the same with so few glances allowed. The center of the camp was the real focal point, however: tents spread out in a variety of directions from a tall stone tower. Said tower had few windows through which to observe the outside world, making its purpose difficult to determine, but a few flames flickered in the small point of view that could be ascertained for ground level. Logic dictated it was probably a command post of sorts.
In terms of strategic weaknesses, the camp had few. Guards were posted at the only available entrance, the one on the side of the camp that didn't face the sea. The guards changed shifts, of course, but they did so rapidly, and other eyes frequently watched the gates, prohibiting any opportunity to step in and avoid the watch. If the Legacy Shepherds were to mount an offensive, surprise would remain their only ally. Attacks would otherwise only be at an advantage if delivered from above or from behind the camp, neither of which were really an option.
Such was the grave news reported to Lucina. The princess took this information with a low sigh, but she shook her head resolutely, knowing that difficulty was only to be expected in a mission such as this. She spoke to Stahl and Sully and commanded them to rally the remainder of the Legacy Shepherds. This would be her opportunity to put her right foot forward again after her previous failing. She would succeed. Sumia glided down from the skies, smiling at the princess as Frederick slowly began to gather his armor once more.
[...]
"Bah..." the pair heard the captain grumble from off the deck. Chrom was distracted for an instant, but he couldn't fully pull himself away from the odd and yet vaguely familiar flags flying over the port, surrounded by tents. The colors were neither Ylissean nor Feroxi, and the men and women who milled about the port bore weapons, so they were no refugees. Something was happening here, and it disturbed Chrom greatly.
Olivia, on the other hand, did manage to concentrate on their guide, who ascended the gangplank frustratedly. "Is something the matter?" she called out to him as he stormed over.
"Damn right," he growled, "Blackguards want me to pay a tariff for comin' into their port! What folly is that?"
"Ylisseans would never do that, it's illegal..." Olivia's words mimicked her husband's thoughts.
"Do you know who these men are?" Chrom whipped around.
"Why would I?" the captain shrugged.
No sooner had he finished speaking than did a small armed party appear at the end of the galleon's gangplank. "Sir, my superiors have deemed it necessary that we conduct a search of your ship for potential stowaways."
"And what if I refuse?" barked the captain.
"That's not an option," came the cold reply. In an instant, four men appeared along the port side of the ship and cast surprised and vicious glares at the exalt and his wife. "W-What the-? Hey, rally up, it's them! Exalt Chrom and his wife!"
The man beside him sputtered, "But I thought they were captured!"
"Musta gotten away, slippery bastards," growled another.
Unamused by this display, Chrom took his time unsheathing Falchion, letting it shimmer in the sunlight. When he was finished brandishing his might, he held the sword in a prepared stance and growled, "Step aside."
"Make us, blue blood," shouted one of the boarding party. Obliging him, the exalt sped forward and ran the blade cleanly through his foe's stomach before the ruffian had time to react. Two of the other mercenaries observed the attack with great indignation and swung their blades at the exalt, who lithely dodged one and guarded quickly against the other. Imposing his force, Chrom batted away the sword of the mercenary before him and opened the man's chest, whirling around in time to kick back the advancing second aggressor.
Though, the exalt had forgotten about the fourth man, who hefted an axe over his head and prepared to swing it down on Chrom's head. He was interrupted after severing only a few sapphire hairs, however, as he felt a searing pain consume his chest and drop him to his knees. Olivia pulled her sword out of his gut with a grimace and watched her husband shatter the last opponent's guard, knocking him onto the deck with a gash in his forehead.
"Sound the alarm!" came an indistinct voice from within the camp surrounding the port. In less than a minute, a loud brass bell rang out from the stone tower in the center of the port, the entire camp stirred like a besieged anthill.
"Olivia," Chrom looked at her carefully, "We need to get out of here."
"Right behind you," she nodded in assent.
Her husband frowned at her bloodied sword, "Are you sure..."
"Chrom, you know I've had to fight before," she replied.
He nodded, "Right. Of course. Let's hurry."
Olivia complied, following her husband as he sprinted over the gangplank and from behind the nearest building to escape observation. Chrom knew nothing of the enemy's number, only that he and his wife were currently surrounded, and that he would have to find a way out. Despite his attempts at concealment, the exalt heard footsteps.
[...]
"Lady Lucina!" a harried baritone called out.
"What is it, Frederick?" she had her rapier drawn.
"Some kind of consternation has overtaken the camp! If we're going to strike, now may be our most advantageous opportunity," the knight captain answered.
Lucina nodded, mostly to herself, and stepped out of her command tent to view the "consternation." It was as Frederick described: the camp seemed to be in an uproar, men scurrying up and down the streets, shouting for one another while a massive brass bell echoed in a hollow fashion not far from her position. "Right then," Lucina surmised, "gather up the others, Frederick, and tell them to attack."
"Milady," he saluted, rearing his horse and galloping away.
When the other Legacy Shepherds caught up, Lucina was already at the camp's gate. At her command, Nowi and Lissa took aim at the gate with their own brands of fire and blew it open with a thunderous explosion. The remainder of the Shepherds poured in after the burst, which sent a few mercenaries flying. "Stahl, Sully, Kjelle, Aunt Lissa, Uncle Donny, Nowi, Sumia, Cordelia, Maribelle, Gaius, Severa, and Brady, search the camp, find out what's caused this, and keep the enemy off our backs," Lucina commanded, watching a few of her comrades do away with some of the initial resistance from the camp, "Owain, Cynthia, Laurent, Nah, Kellam, and Frederick, all of you come with me, we're going to storm that tower."
The group acknowledged their roles and split according to their orders. "Nah, start bombarding the walls of the tower," Lucina demanded, "but be careful, don't topple it. Cynthia, you hop up there and help her."
"I'll do my best," the manakete concurred, transforming and soaring up to the window, followed closely by the spunky pegasus knight. The rest of the Shepherds flooded the tower, skewering the guards at its base and swatting the token resistance scattered about the stairs. At the tower's apex, all sweating and breathing heavily, they found a man sporting an absurdly broad blade and pauldrons embossed with ludicrous gold designs.
"Let me guess," Lucina pointed her rapier, "You lead these men?"
The man swallowed hard, sweat showing on his brow. His hands twitched as he answered, "Y-Yes."
"Right then," the princess flexed her legs, ready to spring forth, "I am Princess Lucina of Ylisse. I judge you guilty of crimes against my countrymen, the punishment for which is your eternal silence."
The man first grimaced, then scowled intensely before biting his thumb, spilling blood onto a page before him, "Master Datura... help us." As an unsettling purplish smog bubbled off the paper and into the man's throat, Lucina's party recoiled.
Several stories below, the other Legacy Shepherds were making quick work of the camp. The old veterans, in particular, dashed the inexperienced mercenaries with ease making use of their quick and skilled lance- and swordsmanship. Severa and Brady, too, of course, were not shy about making an impact on their opponents, some of whom Brady managed to scatter directly into one of Lissa's lightning bolts with nothing more than a particularly furious glare.
All the Legacy Shepherds were stunned, however, when Lissa uttered a syllable that made all their ears perk up: "Chrom?!"
It was true, at least, as far as could be observed by any of the Legacy Shepherds: knocking bodies away in a tremendous pile was the sapphire visage of the Ylissean exalt, and not far behind him, Olivia swung her sword a few turns, throwing foes off their back. Chrom recognized his sister's voice at once: "Lissa?"
Sully smirked, riding by to give her husband a pat on the back and encourage him to take note. He stared at the two, bewildered for a second, then nodded to Sully with comprehension. "All right, Legacy Shepherds," the viridian knight announced confidently, "Let's give these two a moment." At that order, the Legacy Shepherds formed up around their old captain and savagely beat back the mercenaries, who could never begin to mount a counterattack against the sheer speed and force of their opposition. Sully and Stahl, in particular, danced gallantly atop their horses, sending swaths of the enemy flying back in wide arcs with each swing of their blades.
"Lissa," Chrom sighed more softly, "I... I can't believe it's you."
Lissa was less conciliatory of her emotions, and cried outright at the sight of her big brother, "Chrom...!" She enveloped him in a tight embrace after just a moment.
"Good to see you too," he chuckled.
She lifted her head and wiped her eyes, "I'm really glad you're safe, Chrom."
"And I you, Lissa," he agreed, patting her shoulder, "Now, not to be too hasty, but... please, tell me you know where Lucina is."
Lissa nodded and turned to point at the tower, "Up there, looking for the base's commander."
"Right," Chrom accepted. He made no noise, but his lips spelled out the words "That's my girl." "Olivia, do you...?" he murmured.
"I'll stay here," she sighed, "Go ahead, bring our daughter back." The exalt smiled confidently and sprinted for the stairs.
Lucina and her company continued to watch the figure in a mix of horror and curiosity. The features seemed to have gone blank, save for a pale, pinkish color about the eyes. The nervous-looking man with the gaudy armor had been replaced by... something else. Something that stared at them with a straight scowl, neither moving nor blinking. Finally, the princess worked up her courage and approached the figure, thrusting forth her rapier, "D-Die!"
The weapon penetrated the figure's abdomen, but it made no noise, nor did it flinch, only lingered and began to stare at the steel imbedded in its stomach. The pinkish eyes gleamed into Lucina's for a moment, not with inquiry, more with a simple, chilling indifference. An icy screeching noise sublimed from within the figure's mouth and, within a moment, the figure dissolved, emitting plumes of the same foul, purplish smog, but leaving behind clumps of viscera that spilled sickeningly to the floor. Lucina drew back, grimacing at the bizarre display. Giving voice to the thoughts of her entire company, she muttered, "What in all the hells...?"
She was distracted, however, by a heavy series of footfalls that smashed into the room, "Lucina?!"
The princess turned to face her father, his sword pointed into the cramped office, glittering in the remaining daylight that had not been overshadowed by the flapping forms of the manakete and pegasus who sounded off outside. Breathlessly, the young lady took a series of trepidatious steps forward, outstretching her hand so as to plant it upon the chest of what appeared to be her father. When the gloved hand made contact, confirming that he was corporeal, Lucina collapsed into her father's arms, sobbing loudly and indelicately.
"Easy, Lucina," he murmured in a honeyed voice, clutching his little girl in his broad shoulders, "Shh. It's all right, I'm here."
"Father!" she cried behind beet-red cheeks, "They're dead...! They died because of me...!"
Chrom's eyebrows shifted, "What are you talking about, Lucina? Who's dead?"
The princess sobbed loudly again in reply, almost retching as she sniffled. She spilled a bundle of incoherent phrases into her father's ears: "I couldn't... and the Feroxi... caught us... and Gre-r an' Ri-n, an' all thos' puh-huh-huh..."
The exalt remained dumbfounded, clutching his daughter all the more tightly. "All right, Lucina," he soothed, stroking her hair, "It's over now. I'm here, and your mother's here... Just try to calm down."
Lucina's eyes were red, too, but in her hot embarrassment, she allowed herself to be guided down the long staircase back to the base of the tower.
[*]
The streets of Valm Harbor were wet, although that wasn't much of an insightful observation. Normally, the area would be overcrowded with swarthy sun-bronzed sailors comparing catches and relating areas of success or failure, as well as indulging in the occasional tall tale about massive storms and forty-foot fish, none of which ever rang true, but all of which seemed to amuse them, regardless. Today, though, the sky was steel-gray, and most people hid in their homes, disgruntled by the early dark and mild chill in the wind. An unusual time.
The contract here had made the relative silence and passivity of this morrow welcome to the amethyst-haired young man who now traipsed slowly up the slate streets. Fewer witnesses, and no one to pester him about being a new face in town; he could breathe easy and wait a while to depart for his next contract. Except, of course, he wasn't sure there would be a next contract. Not for lack of demand; the Doctor had been correct when he counseled: "As long as there's at least two people on the planet, someone's going to want someone dead." No, the amethyst-maned young man was now beginning to believe he was tired of the business. Killing for others, soaking his hands in blood for someone else's benefit, to keep some politician or other's gloves glowing white... He sickened himself thinking about it on occasion. The young man had a mind for something a bit greater. He had designs for a different line of work. He had aspirations that extended beyond this continent. He had... a tremendous desire for something to drink.
That, the young man noticed, feeling his tongue and the insides of his cheeks dry, and so, without delay, he found a sign advertising a tavern and let himself in. He dropped himself into a stool and pounded softly on the bar to command its owner's attention. The barkeep responded quickly, "What is it you want, child?"
"Child?" the young man growled, "I want a drink, you judgmental arse."
"You speak like a child," observed the wizened man, "you've lustrous hair and a soft face like a child, and you're short like a child."
"You want my money or not?" the man grumbled.
The bartender sighed and filled a mug with gold that came to a foamy head and set it in front of the young man. "Boy like you shouldn't be in a place like this..." he muttered in pouring the drink.
"Got outwitted by the kid, didn't'cha?" a voice cackled from the other end of the bar, "Hor'aze, you dupe. You're all talk, and as soon as someone pushes back, you yield like a leaf. I should know." The amethyst-haired man looked down the bar to find a man with leaf-green hair thumbing at himself with a smirk.
"You're right, I should have thrown you out, too," Hor'aze grimaced. Other bar patrons started giving the young men glares of irritation.
"Don' mind these ol' pricks, kid," chuckled the green-haired patron, whose eyes were becoming sparkly like polished marbles thanks to a fresh coat of alcohol, "Wha's yer name?"
"Nihilus," the amethyst-haired man answered, bowing.
"Ooh," it seemed to amuse his acquaintance, "I like tha'. Sounds all fancy."
"Thanks," Nihilus shrugged.
"Y'wanna know mine?" the other patron continued.
"Sure," Nihilus tried desperately to break eye contact.
"It's Cyrus," he beamed, "An' I'm the best damn swordsman this continent, nay, the world's ever known!"
"Would you shut up?!" demanded a patron who had, until then, been sitting motionless with his head down on the bar.
"Make me," Cyrus leapt off his stool and yanked the hungover patron out of his. Without waiting for a formal acceptance of his challenge, the inebriated swordsman jabbed his detractor square in the face, breaking his nose and drawing blood.
"Ow!" the man crumpled to the ground, "Noisy little prick..."
"What was that?" Cyrus kicked him in the ribs.
"That's enough!" the bartender shouted, scowling sternly at the leaf-green-haired man, "I've give you plenty of chances, Cyrus, so now get out of my tavern, and don't ever come back."
"Just like that?" sneered the youth, "Nuh-uh. You can't do this ta me. I been comin' here forever."
"And you've never done anything that stupid before, so I cut you some slack," Hor'aze answered, "but now you hurt someone, and it's going to be on my head, so you're done here."
A wild flame sparked up in the young man's booze-bathed eyes, and he smirked, "I ain't leavin'."
"You certainly are," disputed the bartender.
"Make me," he grinned.
After the words had passed his lips, a man moved away from the shadow of the tavern's door, evidently a guard of some description, and took Cyrus by the arm. Cyrus reversed the grab, however, skipping around the assailant's back and tugging, pulling the enemy to the ground, planting a foot in the back of his head for good measure. Another patron stormed up, aiming a punch at the leaf-green head, but Cyrus ducked it swiftly, jabbing this enemy rapidly in the stomach a few times. Said patron consequently forfeited his dinner upon the floor and fell over. The disturbance was such that more and more of the tavern's patrons were becoming agitated, and the few ladies in the establishment shrieked and skittered toward the stairs that led to the vacant rooms. Two more men, guts distended by their liquor dependence, attempted to overwhelm the young swordsman with their weight, but they, too, were easily avoided: Cyrus let one simply fall and smash his face against the floor, then amused himself by throwing an uppercut into the jaw of the second before skipping back and watching him collapse like a sack of bricks.
Nihilus sipped once more from his drink, pleading to avoid involvement in this affair, but now some of the patrons had their gaze fixed on him, and he stole a glance into the leaf-green-haired man's eyes and at once felt the vision creep in. The man he saw was older, not to say grizzled: he looked like one of those men who was still admonished for acting like a child, with profound amusement in his eyes and an all-too-real grin plastered on his straining face. Gales whipped and crashed behind this figure, lightning struck, winds shifted, tides rose and fell, deluges dumped buckets behind him, but he never once seemed buffeted by the elements. He only stood, offering that same grin, and a shimmering sword on his hip.
The amethyst-haired man returned to reality with a suggestion of import from this vision. Like it or not, this was his job now. The young man threw back the last of his drink and stood, "All right. That will be quite enough of this display."
Cyrus cocked a wild eyebrow, "You're turnin' on me, short stuff? Aw, an' here I figured we had somethin' special."
"Just be quiet," Nihilus rolled back his sleeves, "it'll be faster that way."
"Cor, cheeky bugger," cracked the drunk. He wasted no time in flying at Nihilus, flinging wildly quick stabs with his fists that sliced the air at each swipe. Only through his talent was Nihilus able to find the time necessary to escape each blow. He dodged them only barely, however, and he could feel the knuckles in their diverging trajectory brush against his hair and displace the air near his cheeks. The flurry ended eventually, however, and the wind fell out of Cyrus's sails, leaving him open for a response as he swallowed mouthfuls of air. The amethyst-haired man aimed a squared punch at his foe's windpipe: a technique for quick subdual that would end the fight promptly. But something very strange happened: the man with the leaf-green hair leaned out of the way of the attack.
Nihilus caught a low jab into his stomach, dazing him quickly, though not as much as the revelation he had just been dealt. Crumpling a bit and stumbling into a nearby table, Nihilus decided to test the theory again, picking up a mug and flinging it at his enemy.
The swordsman dodged it with a chuckle, "Tsk, tsk. That's just petty." He came at the amethyst-haired man again, slamming his face into the table, but Nihilus still maintained the capacity to react, bucking his hips in his subdued position, flinging his oppressor back in surprise. He spun around and hooked his leg to kick his opponent's shin, earning him a stunned yelp. The drunk stumbled back a few steps, then growled and wound up for a forceful punch that Nihilus only barely intercepted, not without hearing his fingers crack as he held it back. The amethyst-haired man countered with his free hand, but it was seized in kind by Cyrus. The two glared furiously into each other's eyes as they affirmed their grips and, after an unspoken agreement, they each tilted their heads back and slammed them into the other's with unrepentant force.
Then everything went dark.
[...]
It smelled filthy. That was the first thing he took note of as his senses slowly drifted back. The surface was hard, wet, and mildewy, making for a most unpleasant affront to his awakening nostrils. Within a few seconds, one eye split open, followed by the other, but then they were immediately shut in response to the brightness of daylight and an intense, throbbing pain that swelled in his forehead. It smelled even worse than the pain, though, so Nihilus picked himself up, first onto all fours and, with some effort, back on two feet. His clothes were soaked thoroughly, blood stained and caked on his hands and from his nose down the left side of his cheek. His hair, too, was a mess, but that did nothing to compare to the fierce, stark bruise that had formed on his forehead, although the man couldn't see it himself. He only felt the coursing tightness that pained him like a steak knife being jammed into his brain. When he had finished concerning himself with his pain, Nihilus looked back down to his resting place to find his opponent collapsed in the same spot, sporting very similar injuries. He had his eyes open, but was not moving. "Great performance you put on there, you imbecile," Nihilus spit, a little excess saliva flying off his slackened jaw.
Cyrus pinched his eyes shut and massaged his temples, "Not so loud, you... ass."
"What's your problem, anyway?" the amethyst-haired man continued, "Do you get off on starting fights?"
"You could've stayed out of it," the fallen figure replied, "Anyway, what business is it of yours? Just go back to your nice, warm house, you smug shit."
"I don't have a house," Nihilus confessed in a moment of sudden sobriety.
Cyrus managed to sit up as far as to support himself on one knee, "Well... congrats. Guess you and me do have something in common, after all." Nihilus stared back, supposing that he was inspecting his foe's massive forehead welt. "I figured that meant we were done," the leaf-green-haired man growled, "What are you waiting for?"
"Did you live on the streets, too?" panted the amethyst-haired man.
Cyrus rolled his eyes, "What? Yeah. Yeah, is that what you want, a confession? Yeah, I'm a street rat who picks fights in bars because I'm bored. You caught me."
"People... they always ignored you, didn't they?" Nihilus probed.
The swordsman began to stand, "What the hell are you getting at?"
The amethyst-haired man nodded comprehensively, "You feel angry, don't you? Even now. Nobody ever stopped to help you. Why didn't they stop? Why didn't they care?"
Cyrus gritted his teeth and seized his tormentor's lapels, "What kinda stupid mind game are you playing, you bastard?"
"I'm not playing," Nihilus answered measuredly, "I'm... impressed. And for once, I feel like... Like I'm speaking to someone who understands."
The leaf-green-haired man released his grip, "Little fancy kid like you? Growing up on the streets. No way, I don't buy it."
"My parents were killed in Walhart's purge almost two decades ago. I fought, I stole, I ate dead rats when I had to," Nihilus glared into the other man's eyes, "You doubt my sincerity."
Momentarily paralyzed by this glare, Cyrus reconsidered and blurted, "Maybe not. No, no ordinary kid gets that look in his eyes. It's dark and sharp, cold and unfeeling, envious but arrogant... Yeah, that's the look of someone who's seen real hardship. Maybe you're as good as your word, kid."
"Then do you agree?" Nihilus demanded, "Do you feel... angry?"
Cyrus chuckled, then erupted into a laugh, "I don't feel much of anything, kid. Feeling is what gets you drugged and cut open for organ harvesting in these parts."
"So you never desired... to strike back?" the amethyst-haired man contributed.
Cyrus's face changed again, "What're you saying, kid? Are you proposing we gut a few of those dandies in kind?"
"Sort of," Nihilus replied, unsure himself, "But... on a grander scale. What if... what if we could fix this? What if we could make people understand our suffering. They would be compassionate then, if we made them suffer like we did."
"How d'ya figure we'll do that?" Cyrus cocked an eyebrow.
Nihilus looked to each side, then bowed his head, "I hope you don't think I'm insane for saying this, but I see things. And the things that I've seen... an army, knocking down capitals the world over, sitting at the top and making the dandies, the nobles pay the cost of our suffering in their blood... People like you make me think they're possible."
"You may just be crazy," the swordsman chuckled, smiling broadly. Nihilus pouted. "But," he interrupted, "In all my days, I ain't never seen a boy that could even go toe to toe with me, let alone whoop my ass like you did, so maybe you have something going for you. Maybe."
"You're okay with that kind of ambiguity?" Nihilus cocked an eyebrow.
"Everything in life is ambiguity, guy. No use trying to fight the wind," the swordsman chuckled.
"So... are you as good with a sword as you are in a fistfight?" the amethyst-haired man wondered.
"Didn't I tell you?" his companion grinned, "I'm the best. Nobody beats Cyrus in swordplay. Nobody."
"Then I'd like to have you... accompany me, Cyrus," Nihilus offered.
"Look, you're a nice kid and all, but I don't really swing that-"
"Not what I meant. I think you can help me achieve what I'm looking for. And if you do, in return, you get the heads of as many dandies as you can bear to take."
Cyrus stared at the amethyst-haired man for a minute before laughing out loud, hearing it echo across the streets, "You know what? To hell with it. You got some balls, kid. I like your style. Let's do it."
"Thank you," Nihilus bowed, "you won't regret your decision."
"I better not," he grinned, imitating the act of decapitating his new acquaintance, "Now, if you're looking for an army, I do happen to know some good ol' boys who'd love nothing more than a good scrap..."
[*]
The march back to Rosanne was going to be a long one, no matter what steps were taken. Not only had there been the matter of burying the dead, but Duke Virion and his son the marquess had insisted on recovering the weaponry and armor of these fallen comrades, on the claim that loss of so much public spending would tank the small nation's economy and create a riot among the Rosannien citizenry, a risk that could not be afforded. Thus, with these labors completed, the exhausted company led by Robin, as well as the remainder of Rosanne's army all slowly trudged back toward Rosanne Keep. The hearts of Robin and company sank even deeper, however, for the knowledge that they would need to continue on to Ylisse even after the end of this journey. Seeing a haggard look in his father's eyes that reflected just such a deflated sentiment, Steven decided to engage him a bit, in hopes of lightening the mood, "I have so much work to return to once we halt this invasion and set things right... but it will be good to get home."
"You make it sound easy," Robin smiled, then turned his head, "Wait... you're thinking about working after this?"
"Well, I'll still have a job, won't I?" his son shrugged with a mirrored smile.
The Grandmaster shook his head, "Nothing but business for you, hm? You may need to lighten up a bit, son. When I was your age, my interests were... were mainly... um..."
Steven turned his head, trying to find the source of his father's confusion. And find it he did: Anna was walking a bit faster than the rest of the group so that she could be a few paces ahead of her husband. The silver-haired man was filled with compunction upon realizing that his mother's hips were sashaying in a very hypnotic and deliberate fashion in front of her husband, the intent of which was confirmed by a smirk cast over her shoulder when Robin's voice failed him. "Are you doing okay, Anna?" Robin smiled weakly at her.
"Just fine, sweetheart," she chirped back, straightening her hair with confident flicks of the wrist.
"Wow," Steven observed with tangible irony, cocking an eyebrow at his father, "I'm surprised you got anything done."
"As was your mother," the Grandmaster nodded, straining himself to keep pace with his wife and hook an arm around her. She received this gesture well, leaning into him comfortably.
"Steve?" there came a murmur from behind him. The orator turned to find his baby sister approaching, offering a little wave.
"Morgan," he smiled pleasantly, "Oh, do come here. It feels like it's been ages since we last talked."
"As I recall, that was partly a deliberate measure on your end," the redheaded thief folded her arms.
Steven scratched the back of his head, "Indeed, I won't deny my transgressions. I found it difficult to reconcile my desire to uphold the law with your willingness to violate it."
"There you go again," she rolled her eyes, "I'm not a serial killer, I just take from those who have more than they need."
"And give it to yourself," Steven replied, "How very altruistic of you."
"I'm trying to have a nice conversation here," Morgan growled.
The silver-haired man bowed, "Of course, of course. I'm sorry, we'll speak of it no more. Now, did you have an inquiry in mind?"
"I wanted to talk about dad," she answered.
"A favorite subject of yours of late, I'm told," her brother responded.
"Steve," she intoned that she was not in a joking mood.
Steven apologized again, "What was it, then? What about father?"
"I'm a bit concerned for his sanity, especially based on this latest venture," the redhead supposed.
"And you're sure this has nothing to do with the conflict of career choice you experienced some years ago?" the silver-haired man observed.
Morgan blushed, "I- how did you know about that?"
"He writes to me often, dear," Steven reported with a grin of confidence, "That, and I may just be psychic."
"Right, because sympathy was always your forté," the redhead pushed back.
"No need for pointless barbs, my dear girl," her older brother shook his head, "I'm only asking that you be self-aware."
"Ditto, Wordsworth," she countered.
Steven chuckled to himself, "You know, it really is good to hear your voice again. So nice to speak to someone other than those pudding-brained vessels of stupidity with whom I usually interact."
"And I'll confess," Morgan rubbed her shoulder, "It's nice to hear you call me 'dear girl' in that funny way of yours again. I greatly prefer it to 'thieving scum.'"
"Is there something funny about the way I say 'dear girl?'" Steven cocked an eyebrow at his sister.
She embraced him, "Not the point, Steve. Just say 'I love you, little sister.'"
"Quite," the orator blushed, "Your big brother loves you, Morgan."
"Good," she grinned, "Now, will you put me up on your shoulders and carry me around?"
"I imagine you'd be a trifle heavy for that," Steven put a finger to his chin.
Morgan frowned, "Wrong answer, Steve."
"She's smiling again," Robin observed simply, replicating the gesture, "It's not something I saw often, outside of her being in the company of that fiancé of hers."
"Was she really that stand-offish?" Anna wondered.
The Grandmaster frowned, "I doubt there's much love for me left in her heart. I understand. It saddens me, but better she be safe than die fanatically loving me."
"I'm sure we can find a middle ground somewhere between those," his wife supposed.
"You look beautiful," the Grandmaster blurted.
The redheaded merchant blushed, "Um, okay? I'm a total mess and that was completely unprompted, but sure."
"I recall being told that I needed to give more random compliments," her husband pointed out, "And I quote: 'It's cute and romantic, and your wife deserves the best, doesn't she? Unless you don't care about being nice to me anymore...'"
"That's a gross misrepresentation of fact," Anna rebutted, "you make me sound completely manipulative!"
Robin blinked, "Are you implying that's untrue? You tell me every day about the people you manage to fool into buying-"
"Shh," she applied a finger to his lips, "I'll let you in on a secret, tactician-boy: this is a test."
"Am I passing?" he hoped.
"I'd give you a 'D,'" she frowned, "but I'm open to extra credit assignments."
He pulled the merchant in close and kissed her, cupping her cheek and stroking her hair. "I love you, Anna. I'm so thankful to have you back," the Grandmaster concluded as their lips parted.
"'B+,'" his wife scored behind red cheeks.
"What's an 'A?'" he inquired.
"First letter of the alphabet, looks like an upside-down 'V' with a line connecting the two segments-"
"Anna."
"That's my name, don't wear it out."
Tears lined the Grandmaster's eyes, though he fought to hold them back, "Gods dammit, I missed you."
"You have no idea," she embraced him, "Do you know how hard it was to be without you?"
"Well, I imagine a lot of jars were left unopened..."
"I hate you."
They kissed once more.