She wasn't a thief.

It was simple logic, really. Thieves stole things. That was the definition. If you never stole things, you weren't a thief. And her father, a man who really should know if anyone did, told her something very important when she was growing up.

"If they don't catch you, it isn't stealing."

Words to live by. She learned everything from her father. From how to tell a dirty joke to why you could never trust the mad bastard of an Exalt up north to how to make a quick exit when a whole country is out to kill you in a fit of religious mania.

But then he became a thief. And it wasn't safe to be around him anymore. Still, she took his body down when everyone else was gone. Burned it, like he'd always said he wanted. Then she resumed her honest living.

An honest living paid quite well, if you were good at it. She could see the ways people moved, the patterns of the city, and where to go if you wanted to make sure no guards would stick around to label you a pickpocket. She had few friends, fewer people who she held in anything resembling trust, but she was alive. That was what counted.

Then one day, a group of Grimaleal clergy were a second too fast, saw her path a little too well, and then she was as much of a thief as her father.

She would be worse things, before the end, but being a thief came first.

Half an apocalypse later

Easy… easy…

Pop!

Morgan sighed. There went her last lockpick. Gaius made it look so easy, too.

Being a master thief sucked.

"Morgan, what are you doing?"

It sucked more when your mother caught you doing it.

"Hahahaha. Nothing?"

"It looked like you were breaking into your father's footlocker."

Morgan turned around.

"Even if I was, I'd only be trying to break in. And if you try and don't succeed, it's like you didn't do anything, right?"

Lucina smiled.

"If that was true, there would be no such thing as an attempted assassination. And my father would have no excuse for why we're here. Why were you breaking into Robin's locker?"

Morgan shrugged.

"Wellll, your anniversary is coming up. I mean, the first one where dad's not… kind of dead for it."

"I know that, Morgan. But that doesn't explain why you were in your father's private supplies. Were you checking if he had a gift you were looking at already?"

"Err… no. I was thinking about stealing something and hoping he'd forget he ever had one, so it would something it was guaranteed he'd like…"

"Morgan."

"But then I had a better idea! I know EXACTLY what I can get you and dad. Or, I guess what you and I can get dad since I'm going to tell you, and it won't be a surprise then, so I can't do that."

"What's that?"

"Memories! I mean, I get by without them on natural charm and sunny optimism, but dad doesn't even have as many as I did. So, I'm trying to track down grandma. I thought dad might have some notes that could give me someplace to start looking."

"We're too busy to hunt down one woman across the entire world, Morgan. Even if she is…"

Lucina's voice caught a little.

"Even if she's still alive."

Morgan smiled.

"I thought of that! Well, except the dead thing. Didn't want to think about that possibility, so I didn't. Grandma's smart. She had to be, since evil grandpa… wasn't, and dad had to get it from somewhere."

"I'll admit Validar wasn't the most intelligent opponent…"

"I was kind of embarrassed for him. You know, when he wasn't trying to kill us. But that's not the main thing! Grandma would need to find someone to hide her, and since we know it wasn't grandpa or Basilio, she'd have to go here."

Lucina looked at Morgan and sighed. Morgan shrugged. Well, she didn't have to convince everyone that she was right. She only had to prove she was right!

...Which would be easier if mom was willing to help, which meant she had to convince her she was right. Right.

"Morgan, I'm not sure…"

"Please, mom? I know how I felt about not remembering you. And dad has to feel the same way. Well, not about you, I mean he has good memories of you, which is good because you're the best mom in…"

Lucina sighed again.

"I'll try to help, Morgan. I just don't think you should get your hopes up. Which is why we aren't informing your father of any of this."

"I wasn't doing that already. Because, you know. Surprise. Kind of a thing about gifts."

"That's probably for the best."

"Yeah."

Morgan scuffed her feet across the ground.

"Um, mom? One more thing."

"What is it, Morgan?"

"Do you have a lockpick?"

At first, it wasn't so bad.

She had a roof over her head. Food. The finer things in life. Everything she had to fight for was given as a gift. Not many thieves were that lucky. To put it bluntly, not many thieves were still alive. All because they saw her eyes.

She'd never seen her right eye. It was a small thing, really, but her father said that she should hide it, so she did. Even from herself.

But she could only hide it so well under torture, and as the beatings stopped the second they saw her eye, she didn't feel too bad about showing the world whatever it was. Now she was better off than she had been in years. They'd even brought mages in to heal her scars, which was only fair, considering that they gave her the set in the first place.

Then they brought the man who beat her into a courtyard and asked what she wanted to do with him.

...It had been a joke when she said it. It wasn't nearly as funny when she saw it happen. If she had to render a verdict, she wouldn't say it was funny at all. At minimum, it wasn't so much "ha ha" funny as "laugh so you don't break down sobbing at the rampant madness of the human condition" funny. But she didn't say anything then, because if they would do that to one of their own, Grima only knew what they would do to her if she made trouble.

Most of the clergy stayed out of her way most of the time. They only appeared when she needed something. Someone spilled soup on her dress once. She never saw him again. When she asked, one of the others said something about profaning a holy thing, and that she need not trouble herself with the details.

She was 'above such things'. Which explained far more than she wanted to know.

There was only one regular. A man, about her age. Odd looking, and probably warped by dark magic, but his skin was a pleasant shade of ash, and he was sweet enough when he talked to her. Even if it was an act, even if the itch at the back of her brain was right, she needed someone to talk to, and he more than filled the need.

It was a good life, if you could avoid thinking. A shame she never could.

Robin's head was deep in his hands when Lucina arrived, and his groaning was audible from the next room over.

"Robin?"

He looked up.

"What is it? Have all of the delegates murdered each other?"

"No."

"Damn."

Robin sighed.

"That would have made my life much easier. I don't suppose they choked on their own egos either."

"No."

"Well, I have another wonderful few days in front of me. I'm sorry that I ruined our anniversary like this, but your father needed…"

Robin sighed again. He shouldn't have agreed to any of this. He shouldn't have let CHROM agree to any of this. So there was a power struggle in Valm now that Walhart was dead. So they needed a neutral party. That's what the Voice was for. No need to drag Ylisse into the negotiations.

And of course, as a TACTICIAN, he should have remembered that personal wasn't the same as important, and just because a couple of old friends made a request didn't mean you had to listen. To top it all off, as a man, he should have remembered that he had an anniversary coming up and he wouldn't want to drag his wife and daughter halfway around the world into the middle of the dullest and most agonizing political conference he'd ever seen. (Then again, every previous political conference had Basilio and Flavia in the middle of it, and say what you would about the pair of them, they weren't the type to let things get dull.)

But no. Here he was, here Chrom was, and they'd just have to deal with it.

"Your father needed us here, and now we all have to deal with it. I'm sorry."

"I was just going to tell you Morgan would like the key to your locker. I understand if you would prefer…"

"It's fine. I packed it expecting her to break in anyway. I'm just glad she's asking."

"Err…"

Robin collapsed against the table and waved his left hand in the general direction of the key.

"Of course. It's on the desk."

Lucina picked up the key and stopped in her tracks.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything. Virion's on edge because no-one wants to recognize Roseanna as a real power, so he's puffing himself up more than usual, which isn't endearing him to anyone. Say'ri isn't here because of the revolts three months ago, so she sent one of her retainers who is insistent that everyone remember Chon'sin's contributions to the war effort, and doing her level best to sweep every bit of collaboration on their end under the rug when she isn't arguing with the representatives from the other dynasts. Valm's interim government is already complaining that their borders took too much of a bite, and asking too many questions about the 'rumors' that Walhart survived his run in with us. And that's all before we factor in the three competing priesthoods, the cult of personality Walhart left in his wake, the five confirmed assassination attempts, and the fact the current administrator of Valm refuses direct contact with 'any of Naga's puppets'."

He would also say he was a poor excuse for a husband, but Lucina would never let him get away with it.

Lucina smiled.

"You returned from death itself. I doubt a few bickering nobles…"

"They already make death look like a promising alternative."

Robin shuffled to his feet.

"What are you and Morgan doing? I could use a distraction."

"Err… nothing. Nothing that you need to concern yourself with, dear."

"I hate to say it, but it sounds like you're spending too much time around Morgan. You used to be better at lying to me."

Lucina smiled again.

"Not a talent I was proud to cultivate."

"I'm not saying I miss it. All I'm saying is I'd like you to tell me what's going on."

"Then it wouldn't be a surprise."

The words spilled out in a rush. Robin smiled.

"I'm not an easy man to surprise these days. Tell Morgan she has her work cut out for her."

"I… will."

"Is there any trouble with the guard rotation?"

"There don't seem to be any serious problems. I did think…"

Lucina looked down at the key in her hand.

"I should bring this back to Morgan. I took some notes prior to this. If you would like, we could go over them after…"

Robin nodded.

"That sounds perfect."

Lucina leaned in for a quick kiss before heading out the door. Robin took a step back towards his desk.

"I love you."

Lucina looked back and smiled.

"I love you too."

Robin smiled. It was cliche, of course. That didn't make it any less true.

"I love you."

It was a lie, of course. She could smell it was a lie from a mile away. But telling him it was a lie wasn't… wise. Not given the circumstances.

"You don't know how happy it makes me to hear you say those words."

Also a lie. She smiled when she told it, tried to swallow all the fear. His cult, the Grimaleal, protected her, fed her, clothed her when it came down to it. They also could kill her at a moment's notice. They were not the kind of people that she wanted as enemies. She'd seen death before, and it wasn't an appealing prospect. So, she toed the line, said what they wanted her to say, and tried to ride the tiger.

For what it was worth, they seemed to need her. Need wasn't love, or anywhere close to it, but it could substitute in an emergency. She read enough to know that need was fuel for more marriages over the years than love, and sometimes worked just as well. You didn't kill the things you needed. Didn't toss them to the wolves, or bleed them out in the alters, or do the things to them she saw on dark nights when no-one was guarding the halls. For all the talk of Grima's cleansing of the world, everything she saw of his cult just made her soul more polluted. Maybe that was what they needed her for. A focal point for all the world's ills. After all, a thief was already damned. Who would worry about a little more on her conscience before she died? Validar was probably a volunteer, marrying the damned thing (Another word fit, but she couldn't bring herself to apply it to the case at hand. The nagging voice haunting her at night did it often enough without her help.) as some holy ritual to ensure all his evil would go with her. Creating a 'pure and faultless vessel' for their damned god.

They followed the choreography after that. A crude mimicry of all the old romantic rituals, between a man who felt less and less human, and a woman who couldn't bring herself to care even when the world came crashing down around her. Anyone with eyes could see that it was a sick joke on both of them if they looked, but the church was telling the world about the happy couple, such a model for the world's hopes, and anyone outside it was too busy looking north at the armies on the border. Wars and rumors of war. No time to ask if the bards were lying. (The bards were always lying. But sometimes they were just lying about the facts, and that was alright. Other times, they were lying about the spirit of things, and that was where the trouble came from.)

He married her, in time. She didn't even bother with a token objection. In a world like hers, it was the best offer she was likely to find. She could starve in the street, she could die in agony, or she could have occasional tolerable sex with a man she could pretend to love for the crowds while ignoring him the rest of the time. Not really a choice.

It was a lovely ceremony, or as close as you could get considering the classic Grimaleal style. The bodies (and she didn't like to think where the church found the bodies) were perfumed and clothed to pass for living, the curses were more for unease than actual pain, and the whole thing took place at the Dragon's Table beneath an open sky. The place felt… she didn't believe in the gods. If they were real, they wouldn't allow this kind of madness in their names. But it felt holy all the same, a soothing dream of ice before the world burned her again. It was a long time since she felt anything like joy, a long time since the world felt like it had anything for her but a slow incline towards the grave.

It was the first time she could understand what people saw in religion. If she didn't know better, (and if she hadn't been beaten to the punch) she would have built a temple on the spot.

But the gods were fickle, even if they existed. She never felt that way again, never saw a reason to live beyond living once the marriage proper started. Validar wasn't cruel. Wasn't kind. Wasn't anything. The acts were purely mechanical. Her life was mechanical.

And then she found out she was going to have a child. And then everything was much, much worse.

Lucina winced. Well, there was one thing to be said for the delegation. At least Morgan couldn't make things any worse.

The Valmese consul's fists dented the table.

"And we're expected to trust our safety to the damned Ylisseans?"

Chon'sin's ambassador sipped her tea without looking up.

"We have trusted our lives to those who proved honorable in the past. Ylisse, although their 'Exalt' is a savage oaf, has proven their word valuable. Their soldiers can be trusted to hold off any… misguided loyalists."

The Valmese consul glared.

"LOYALISTS?! I can't believe anyone, let alone one of Yen'fey's traitors would have the audacity to accuse my people of such underhanded dealings!"

Chon'sin looked at her tea.

"You made the accusation yourself."

"I know what you mean by…!"

Chrom buried Falchion in the table.

"Gods! Can you act like adults, or do I have to find a nursemaid?"

Chon'sin sipped her tea in silence. Valm turned to face Chrom.

"Oh, feel free. I'm sure your father left another bastard lying around for you to hire."

He nodded towards Lucina. She winced.

Robin meant well. He always did, one of the things that she loved about him. And it was a clever solution, which was also his standard and another reason she loved the man. It was just a shame he couldn't find a better story in time.

There were worse things to be than a genocidal monster's abandoned daughter, of course. The two best men in the world had fathers who were much better off dead, and there was no way to give proper credit to her own father without raising questions no-one was equipped to answer. A disquieting rumor in back alleys would give something to anyone who wanted to ask and explain why Chrom had no comment on a woman who shared his brand and could wield the holy falchion.

But the Valmese consul had no decorum, and then when the rumor was in the open, people took Owain, Cynthia, and Morgan into account. Before long, the former Exalt was a joke in every tavern, the 'holy crusader' who couldn't resist a roll in the hay. Given the typical arc of these things, it would get worse before there could be any recovery, and the history books would remember his infidelity with all his other sins.

Chrom's hands gripped Falchion tighter.

"My family isn't the issue here."

"I'm sure. If one of your god-tainted little brood was here, you'd fall over yourself to hand them the world."

Chrom's knuckles were white. Lucina looked down. Her hand was already on Falchion. Chrom sighed.

"If you're trying to get me to run you through before the end of the night, I'm sorry, but its been months since I stabbed anyone at a diplomatic meeting, and I'd prefer not to break the streak."

Valm scowled.

"How generous. Do you have any other wisdom from on high?"

Chrom's grip slacked, but his hand stayed on Falchion.

"You're a damned cur. Now that we're all done stating the obvious, the woman whose honor you just insulted managed to defeat Walhart in open battle. If she can't protect you from an assassin, no-one could short of divine intervention. And given what you've said about Naga in the past, I doubt she'd rush to your aid. Now, where were we?"

"Rice wine trade routes."

"Good. I know nothing about it. I'll leave the two of you to try to kill each other, and your guard to keep you both alive until you have some deal that you hate more or less equally. Gods, I could use a drink."

He ripped Falchion out of the table and nodded to Lucina.

"I'm sorry to leave you to this. Please don't kill them."

"I would never!"

Chrom smiled.

"I won't blame you if you change your mind."

He chuckled as he left the room. The two ambassadors glared at each other. Lucina looked past them to the walls, and tried to think like an assassin.

Robin hadn't chosen the venue. You could tell that just by looking at a map. There were hundreds of potential lines of attack, even ignoring the possibility of just tossing a hex or two at the guests and watching them erupt into a plague of locusts. It was a deathtrap waiting to happen, and if no-one died it would be a minor miracle.

Oh, they did what they could, of course. Morgan had spent several hours putting up basic traps against outside intruders. Noire was on alert for the smallest hex. Robin had set up patrol patterns to discourage any kind of funny business. They'd even enchanted the windows against arrows. But in the end it came down to the bodyguards on duty to keep everyone alive.

Lucina had years of experience watching for assassins. The Risen and the Grimaleal alike were never fond of honorable warfare when they had any alternative. At the same time, her father wasn't the kind of man to hide from a challenge. It made for more than one knife aimed at his back. Of course, the one positive on that front was the knives were almost always aimed at Chrom's back specifically. She knew who to watch, and someone could cover for her when she was otherwise occupied. Here, there was no way to know who would snap and go after who, or why.

She'd done well so far, on reflex if on nothing else. Stopped two attempts of five on her own, and aided with a third. But one slipup could ruin everything. She watched the room. Watched the windows, watched the door. Watched the Valmese consul get up and OPEN the door. Sweet merciful gods he couldn't be that stupid.

"Ah, good. I was afraid I'd have to find food for…"

He couldn't think that was a servant! The man carried himself with too much arrogance. MARIBELLE would have said he was stuck up. He was either an assassin or a spy, and the glint of steel up his sleeve gave a suggestion as to which. Lucina was halfway across the room. The Valmese consul turned and slammed into the ground as Lucina shoved him aside.

"WHAT IS THE…"

Lucina didn't respond. She was too busy dealing with a dagger in her left arm. She picked up Falchion with her right. The pain was a distraction. The pain was irrelevant. She'd dealt with much worse.

She'd also fought much better. She'd fought armies of thousands, men that could sweep through nations like hellfire without slowing, women who commanded the elements, even a god. A man with a knife wasn't much trouble.

Soon, he was dead on the floor and Lucina was wrapping her injuries with her sleeve. The Valmese consul was panting in terror. Chon'sin was still drinking her tea. Lucina turned towards Valm.

"I hope you weren't injured? We have a few priests…"

"It was true. It was all true."

Lucina tilted her head.

"Pardon?"

"They said Naga's wrath struck down Walhart. I never believed them. Had to be poison, or a lie, or something else. Not a man or a god that could stand against him. But you…"

"I'm nothing without those standing beside me."

"The wrath of the goddess spared me. What…"

Lucina coughed.

"I'm certainly not a goddess."

She did marry a god, but really. That was as close as she came. She looked to Chon'sin for relief, but the woman was still sipping her tea. Lucina was starting to suspect the actual tea ran out hours ago, and she was sipping from an empty cup just to look smug.

"If there's anything you need, anything at all…"

Lucina knew what she should say. What she normally would say. She was just doing what was required of her, what anyone else would do in her place. Asking for a reward would be banditry!

But, the man was offering. And if the favor wouldn't cause him any inconvenience, and would make Morgan and Robin a little happier, it could be excused, couldn't it?

Lucina decided to ask before she found a reason it couldn't be excused.

"There is one thing."

She reached into her pocket for a small sketch. Morgan found it in Robin's supplies earlier. As best either of them could tell, it had been one of the innumerable bits of sketch paper he'd carried with him the first day. No diary entries or anything else useful for filling in a missing past, just tactics, truly awful sketches, and a few notes that, without context, meant nothing to anyone. Some of them wound up in markets and left in the woods, more torn to ribbons in the first few battles. It was a miracle they'd found any of them.

This was a portrait of a woman. Not Robin's work, as you could tell it was meant to be a person, but it must have meant something if he kept it with him. Lucina felt a twinge of jealousy the first time she saw it. Whoever this was, they mattered to him before she did. They knew things about him she didn't, that she never asked the older Robin and would never know. But she shook it off. The man who mattered, the man her father found in the field, thought she was the most important woman in the world. Taking offense at him valuing any other woman would make her as obsessive as Tharja.

Then Morgan pointed out the mark in her half closed eye, and Lucina made the obvious leap. It was ridiculous to be jealous. It was more ridiculous to be jealous of her mother-in-law.

It wasn't much of a lead, of course. But she had the picture, and there was a chance he'd seen her…

Lucina pulled out the tiny, crumpled portrait.

"Have you seen this woman?"

She didn't expect anything. Even 'I saw her once. Well, saw her body' would have been more than she would dare hope for. Then again, she'd seen more than she dared hope for more than once before. What was another miracle after so many?

The man took the picture. Stared at it.

"I damn well should have."

"Oh?"

"She runs Valm these days. I'd be an idiot or a madman if I never saw who I was reporting to."

Of course. Now Lucina remembered what a miracle was supposed to be.

Surprising.

They called it a miracle.

It was always an abstraction before. A word that she couldn't see except as a lie of priests. No. Not even a lie. A lie was a reflection of the truth, something that could have been. She knew how to fall for a lie. Miracles were nothing but empty air and gestures in a vague direction 'beyond'.

Now, after years of emptiness and a loveless marriage, the word finally meant something

A miracle was a cruel joke of the gods.

She had a child. A son. For the first time since she became a thief, she had something worth stealing. He was brilliant, even at that young an age. Caring. Inquisitive. The world was a better place after he was born than it was before.

And then her husband told her he was delighted, and why. That this small, burbling, kindhearted little infant was Grima made flesh. That they would be the proud progenitors of the apocalypse.

It was disgusting enough to hear the story. It was much worse when she realized that he expected her to be happy about it. That she'd sat and smiled and lied so much that she was expected to be a willing part of any abomination, as long as it was in Grima's name. That she was a pawn, and her son was going to be the same thing, a twisted monster nodding and smiling as the world turned to ash.

She was damned. It was too obvious to even be worth noting, and any suffering that came from her decisions was, if not completely justified, acceptable. But her son was, for the moment, innocent. She made a decision then. The implementation took longer, of course, but from that moment, her son would be free of the gods or dead by her hand if all else failed.

She ran. No-one followed. No-one even noticed, it seemed. For the first few days, she thought the gods had mercy. Then she risked talking to another woman in a tavern and remembered what the gods thought of mercy. It seemed that the only reason she was still alive was that the cult of Grima had other concerns.

The Exalt was as mad as her father had said. A wind sweeping from the North, the breath of his god wiping away the world. Even his own men hated him, but they feared him more. Everything with the slightest taint of Grima, everything that didn't meet his obscene standards of purity would be destroyed. That was the mercy of the gods. That was what the world wanted for her son.

It was a better world when she didn't believe in such things. A world without gods was cruel by human hands. Human hands could fix it. But men and women were chaff before the gods, and the cruelty that shaped them would outlive the world. All she could do, all that was in her worth saving, was making sure one small child rose above the standards of his surroundings.

Years passed. They never spent long in one place. Never let anyone track them. She covered his hands with gloves to hide the mark, and did her best to keep her eyes to herself. Her son grew brighter and brighter. She played with him, taught him, kept him safe.

In time, he asked more and more about why they ran. She told him the truth, as best she could. He accepted it, which surprised her every time. He was a softhearted boy (Never softheaded, of course, she saw to that when his natural talent failed), but he understood what was meant for him. They'd hold it off as long as they could, run as far as they could, and hope they would die before they failed. That was all. It was more than a child should ever have to deal with, but he understood his life and took it without complaint.

Then again, his mother took her life just as easily, at his age. It was amazing what you could adapt to, if the need came.

Time passed. Her son found his first love. She never thought he was the type, but he was loved in return, and he was happy. She would be cruel to intrude.

She'd read the stories, after all. It never ended well when a mother tried to come between her son and war.

He mastered strategy after strategy. Learned everything his mother knew, and everything she could have known if she'd focused on tactics, and everything anyone around him knew. It was impossible to keep up, and near impossible just to stay close enough to give him a challenge.

They were happy. She hadn't thought they would be. Hadn't thought it was possible. But they were happy, for a while. She should have known it was a trap.

"Have we ever been to Ylisse?"

He was deep in an atlas, if she remembered it right. They were in an old, abandoned house by the sea, and he had been thrilled beyond rational comprehension that they left their books behind. She was just happy the local foliage was mostly edible.

"No. And you know why."

He flipped to another page, a diagram of a mountain pass. He'd already sketched archers and knights into the trees. At least, she thought they were archers and knights. For all his gifts, her son would never be an artist. Robin nodded without looking up from the book.

" 'The Exalt purged all of the tainted bloodline, first from the court, then from the streets, then he aimed to cleanse the world.' But he's been dead for years. And Emmeryn… she's different."

"She's a pawn of the gods."

Her son sighed.

"Chosen of Naga, etc, etc. But she's…"

He paused. His mother smiled for half a second. He thought he could hide his hormones, didn't he? Like she was never young. Like she couldn't read him as well as he could read a battlefield.

"She's not going to spare you just because you have a crush."

He blushed, red as a beet.

"She's different! Ylisse cut its standing military to less than a TENTH of previous estimates. She offered reparations to Plegia! They were miniscule, of course, and turned down as an insult, but no previous Exalt went…"

"The gods are cruel. They can also be subtle."

"Not that subtle. There was a minor schism in the Ylissean clergy over her declaration that any persecution of a citizen for accident of birth or 'tainted' blood was treason. And Ylisse could use a few tacticians. Even amateurs. Their best died or deserted, and without a major standing army…"

"You'd be a lapdog for Naga?"

Robin shook his head and turned the page.

"Well, I was thinking you could…"

"No."

"Or we can run all our lives. That's promising."

"We can fight the gods."

"We can die. You said as much yourself. More than once. Even the best tactician in the world has limits. Maybe, just maybe, we could survive if one of them sheltered us. But you want to scream at the heavens until a bolt of lightning kills both of us. Or maybe just you, so I can burn the world without you having to watch."

"What did you say?"

Her son was deep in the book again. She… said things she wished she hadn't. Things she tried not to remember. But they didn't speak again. Not that night. Not the next day, riding into town. Not during the fire, when someone saw her eye, and they…

She was lucky to be alive. But her son was gone, must have thought she was dead. Or hoped she was dead.

Just another thing the gods had taken away.

Morgan sighed.

It was much harder to find her father when she was looking for him. Classic paradox. When she just let things happen, whoops! There dad was, right around the next bend, or at her back in battle, or interrupting when she thought she could plan something second she started looking for him, he vanished into thin air.

Father was frustrating that way. Well, if he wouldn't show up, Morgan would just have to figure out what he would say on her own. She had to practice when he was… gone anyway. Why discard a skillset just as she was getting good at it?

She skipped over the first few minutes. No point in playing out all the stumbling around and trying then failing to keep secrets from dad.

After a second, she decided to skip over the next few minutes as well. Really, she thought she'd be more on top of things!

Finally, she arrived at the relevant part of the conversation.

"What are you trying to tell me, Morgan?"

"Um, well, hahaha…"

"Morgan."

"What would you say if… if you met someone you hadn't seen in a long time. And they didn't remember you at all, but you were really close once, and you…"

At this point, Robin would scratch his chin. Morgan was fairly sure of that. Any predictive model worth its salt would agree with her. She'd sputter along a little more, and then father would have an answer.

"I think you have more experience with that than I do, Morgan. I trust your judgement. I usually regret trusting your judgement, but…"

And then she'd run off before she ruined the whole thing by saying too much. Perfect! She knew dad would have the answers! Or, that she would know that dad had the answers, which was that she had...

Morgan shook her head. Not the time. What mattered was that she had a pretty good guess as to where her grandmother was, and she wasn't wasting an opportunity. Well, she knew where her other grandmother was and had for over a year now pretty consistently, but now she knew where the grandmother that WASN'T in Ylisse was. Grandma Sumia was great, but she was a known quantity of great. A set value for great. Dad's mom was an unknown. She might be the best grandmother ever, which would fit with dad being the best dad of all time, or she could be really bad at it. Even Tharja levels of bad at it.

Really, she would be doing her father a favor by checking things out first. She could set his expectations, see what grandma was like around people that weren't family to make sure any nice behavior wasn't just faking things, all the basics! Yes, mother said they should approach this carefully, but any tactician could tell you that a slow approach with insufficient information could be just as dangerous as charging in.

Morgan slipped through the corridors, past every trap and guard patrol. It wasn't as difficult as it could have been, considering she helped design most of it, but she was nearly caught more than once. She felt prouder every time it happened. If she couldn't get through her own security, who could? Well, dad. Obviously. Mom, possibly. But third place was still good enough for a medal, and she still had time to catch up. For now, she could note the gaps, and close them on the next revision. She smiled a little more. It also meant she had an excuse if someone caught her! She really would need one if she slipped up. Probably should have thought of that before she started on the whole thing, but better late than never.

Eventually, the last guard slipped past to another part of her route, and Morgan was at the door. Not many people had actually been in to see Valm's current reigning monarch, and even fewer of them were people she trusted. Enough witnesses to be fairly sure she was still alive. Not much else.

Well, fortune favored… Morgan, mostly, judging from past experience. Morgan slammed her knuckle on the door.

No response.

Well, she was technically a bodyguard, right? It was important to everyone's security that she have access to anywhere, at any time. And, if someone didn't respond, she had to investigate. For their own safety.

Really, she was being helpful and charitable.

The lock on the door was even worse than the one on father's locker. If she kept at it much longer, she'd get caught, and have to explain everything, then she'd have to explain everything to father, and there'd be an international diplomatic incident, and she'd have to explain everything again, and there wouldn't be time to get anything done.

She could also try blasting the door down. On the one hand, it had all the risks of getting caught on top of violation of privacy and destruction of property. On the other hand…

The other hand was already crackling with lightning. It had to go SOMEWHERE. Why not put it to productive use?

The door agreed, and politely ceased to exist. Morgan stepped past it.

She had been expecting something… nice. Admittedly, Sumia set a high standard for grandmotherly, with the smell of fresh pie in the air and the feeling of love hovering near every accidentally knocked over vase or tapestry. But this didn't even earn a passing grade.

The walls were covered with the insane sprawls of string and notes dad put up when he didn't get enough sleep, there was an awful portrait of Walhart, and a lot of food spilled over the floor. The centerpiece was a combined shrine to Grima and Naga that Morgan would have described as 'desecrated' if it looked like it had ever been… crated. And in the back corner, a hunched over woman, sleeping. Morgan stepped closer.

The face seemed about right for the picture, give or take a decade, a bad angle, and the world's most infamously spotty memory. Morgan stepped closer.

"Hi!"

The woman on the ground spun to face her, then crawled back.

"Guards!"

"Don't worry. I'm here already. What do you need?"

The woman who was probably her grandma grimaced.

"One of Naga's blue haired assassins seems to have broken into my room, blown through every defensive ward, and is now staring down at me with a sword at her side. Can you help me with that?"

"Huh. That's odd. I made sure when designing the patrols…"

Morgan slapped her head.

"You meant me."

"Yes. Either kill me and get it over with, or leave. I won't bow, and I won't grovel."

Morgan shook her head.

"I did not plan this family reunion as well as I thought. And, to be fair, I thought I was pretty much making it up as I went."

Her grandmother's face twisted.

"Family reunion?"

"Yup. Hi! I'm your grandaughter, Morgan. Probably, I mean. Err, I know I'm Morgan, but… you do have a son, right? Because this could get really awkward."

Her grandmother's face froze in shock.

"Morgan."

"Still here. Still my name."

"He remembered."

"Possibly!"

The woman smiled.

"He even mentioned my name to one of your mercenaries before you killed him. A nice touch."

Morgan of Ylisse sighed.

The really sad thing was that this wasn't even close to the worst family reunion she'd been part of.

For a while, she thought of what she would say if she met her son again. How she would make things right, how he would be so thrilled to see her alive that he'd realize she was right. That no matter how wrong this word or that had been, how much she had hurt him without meaning it, that he had been a fool to think for a second Naga's followers would give him a chance.

For a while, she lied to herself. But her son either thought she was dead or wished she was, and he'd fall alone. There was no hope in it, no peace in it, nothing but a little shielding from the world, and she'd resolved to deal with the truth as best she could a long time ago.

The gods stole everything but her life. She would keep it as best she could, as long as she could, and spit in their eyes when they came for her soul. Simple.

The details changed from year to year. The continent, how she found, earned, or stole her daily bread, other minor things. But none of it mattered. She was alive. The gods were alive. She could sustain the first, but nothing would change the second.

Then she arrived in Valm. Valm was different.

It was in the air on arrival. A distinct lack of incense in the holiest of seasons, no songs to the gods, and a hatred she could feel to her bones. The place was set before she heard the first word.

It was a good word, too. A mountain of a man, riding the first horse she'd ever seen that would be fit to carry him, promising the same thing she'd dreamed of in the dark. She thought it was impossible. Madness. And here he was, telling her she would live to see the day. Some of the townsfolk cowered back. Muttered something about the Voice, or a Mila festival, or other rot. No-one dared step forward.

They had to see what she did. They would be blind if they didn't. Perhaps they thought the new world was only for men like the one on the horse, that they had no place in remaking the world, only in enjoying the fruits. She would have to show them by example.

She stepped forward and promised her service. The rider turned. Stared her in the eye.

And laughed.

She stood still.

He turned to one of his officers, smiling (the last time she saw him smile) and said to find a use for her. If one of the chosen of the gods was against their hold on the world, who would argue in their defense? The age of gods was over, and this was his herald.

She smiled. For the first time in too long, she had a calling.

Time passed. She was tested and trained. Stole and spied and mapped the paths of the world, knowing at every step that they could win. That they would win. Soul after soul opened to the truth. Nation after nation fell before the might of justice. Even The Voice of the accursed goddess of Ylisse was silent, knowing that the voice of humanity would drown her out if she tried to spread her lies. A few claimed they fought for freedom. They lied as well. What greater freedom could there be than freedom from the gods? Anything lost in the exchange was a pittance.

She dreamed then. Dreamed of the glorious return to Plegia, of finding her son, her Robin, and showing him that she defied fate and bought them a new world. He would fall beside her. Perhaps he would replace Walhart's disgusting current excuse for a tactician. She could tell that he wasn't a true believer. That he would betray them to the gods with half an excuse. But Walhart left the man alive, and Walhart showed her the light. She would never question his judgement in public.

Then the glorious day came. A fleet of ships, launched for the continent of Ylisse.

Not one ship returned. The more superstitious started to mutter that the gods could be delayed, not denied. She collected the storied. Passed them to her superiors. Prayed to whatever was left in the ruins of the gods they would repent and live to see the truth.

Then a fleet returned, the ships of her homeland, bringing fire and death. The Exalt (a new one, another man of war. She knew that her son had been a fool to think Ylisse would change) stood on Valmese soil, promising to destroy all she worked for. He only had a small army. They couldn't stem the tide. But they still cost too many their faith. She stopped reporting the stories. Loss of faith was punishment enough on its own. The soldiers who fell to it didn't deserve what followed when the word spread.

The army from Ylisse slaughtered on. She recognized the feints. Pegasus knights would harry a target here or their, pulling the army away so that the finest of the Ylissean soldiers could destroy a target with minimal risk. (It was strange to see the armies of a god so careful with lives. Still, they had few to start with. Perhaps it was just caution in a strange land). Even when their allies fell away, even when their hope should have been lost they pressed on. Whole armies fell to pieces in their wake.

The stories spread. They had a tactician in their ranks, an unmatched genius. One man, turning the course of a whole war. If he could be removed, the rebellion was as good as ended. The world would be set right. Perhaps the Exalt would even surrender. (Privately, she hoped he wouldn't. It would be good to see him beg before he died.)

She volunteered to remove him. Begged, really. She had to prove that the last sand from Plegia was off her boots, that her homeland meant nothing compared to the world. She wasn't as experienced a killer as some, but they were needed elsewhere. And they couldn't hide as well as she could. A lifetime of practice went a long way.

She found the camp. Passed the sentries. Found a tent positioned to observe late in the night, and slipped in. Her eye burned as she passed through the roof onto the rafters, signs of some ward burned in blood. A man and a woman slept below her. The woman was another cursed child of the gods, cut from the same cloth as the exalt. The man…

The man looked like her son. She paused. No. She froze. That was the last joke, wasn't it? Killing her son, destroying only reason she'd fallen into this damned life, that's what her dream needed to survive. She weighed the balance. Considered.

"Are you meant to be here?"

She almost jumped out of her skin. A man in a general's armor, gods only knew how she missed him, was in the rafters beside her.

Before he could ask a second question, she was running. Before she could ask herself how in the hell a general could slip past her attention she was gone.

She didn't return to her post. A failure didn't deserve to see the glory of the Emperor. A weak puppet of the gods, too infatuated with their designs to do what needed to be done, too weak to even reject her new goals before some forgettable guard made her choice for her. If she saw an opportunity for redemption, of course she'd take it. Until then, she'd lick her wounds and hide her shame.

It was easier than she thought it would be to hide. The Exalt's armies didn't burn as much as they should have for his goals. If she didn't know better, she'd say the gods had gone soft since his father's time. Even the voice of Naga failed to slaughter the unbelievers in bulk. She assumed they were trying to sway the hearts of the populace. Sweep them from the true path until they could afford to show their true colors. The real shame was how many people were falling for it. Even accusing Walhart of atrocities, when he only did what had to be done!

Then she found the latest thing he was called to.

Apparently, he needed to die. The empire was fallen, the nations were in chaos, and Valm was left to its own devices. When she returned, the old guard were dead or had abandoned the dream. She was shoved to be a figurehead, a target for the vengeance of the Ylisseans when they returned. Everything was turned to ash again. Of course, nothing was so bad it couldn't be made worse.

One morning, Grima appeared in the skies. She thought she knew gods, but her nightmares were nothing compared to the reality. The thing that was once her son burned the oceans and the land. The dead stalked the land for years, but now they were inescapable. The end she'd been promised at his birth had arrived, in spite of her best efforts. There was nothing she could do but laugh.

Then he was gone. The god was gone, and the mark on her eye with it. The Voice returned to brag of her victory. Oh, she chose her words carefully, the monster, but the message was the same. Naga's strength was supreme, look to the gods and fear brief mortals. Time passed. She demanded tribute. Oh, it was couched in terms of 'diplomacy'. 'Unity'. A 'new spirit of peace'. But she knew what it was about. She attended, but she refused to show her face. They would kill her once she stepped too far forward, end the last symbol of resistance. She accepted it. But she wouldn't go easily.

And it all came to this. The child of an Exalt, stealing her name and soon, her life. Once, she would have been angry. Now, it almost felt right.

Robin could feel it in his bones. Something was wrong.

He knew disaster too well to miss it. He closed his notebook, shoved his chair into his desk, secured his equipment, and ran down the halls.

Straight into his daughter, running in the opposite direction at double his speed. Robin slammed into the ground. Morgan, driven to outperform her father in all things, followed her visit to the ground with a full speed crash into a nearby wall.

Robin groaned. At least he had a rough idea what was wrong now.

Morgan was already on her feet.

"Err… sorry, father."

"Sorry *oof* doesn't mend bones, Morgan. Why were you running through at full speed?"

"You remember what we talked about earlier? About memories?""

"No?"

"Riiight. I just thought about what you would have said."

Horrible scenarios rushed through Robin's head.

"Was… was it 'why did you smuggle the ENTIRE JUSTICE CABAL here'?"

"No! Dad, I've been taking this seriously! Err… mostly. Usually."

"Then why are you running down the halls at top speed at three in the morning?"

Morgan rubbed the back of her head, then her eyes lit up.

"Right! Happy anniversary, dad! Mom should be there already."

"You dragged Lucina into this? I know you meant well..."

"Well, she's there too, but… just wait. This. Is. Great."

Morgan grabbed Robin's hand and dragged him to his feet. He groaned again. Morgan winced.

"Uh, take it easy? Sorry about running into you again. But come on come on come on!"

"Morgan, a god couldn't kill me. Please, stop trying."

"Daaadddd."

"I'm up."

Morgan tugged on his arm, walked him past the guards and the rooms full of sleeping dignitaries. She was smiling, as usual.

"This is going to be SO great. Trust me. This is the best anniversary…"

"Morgan, this is the first anniversary present you've given me."

"So, even more the best! Come on!"

Robin's feet dragged on the floor. It didn't feel like it had been that long since he could burn the midnight oil with the best, and Morgan dropped off to sleep by midnight. Funny what a little time dead would do to a man.

He came to the door for the current Valmese governor, or administrator or… whatever they were calling her. From all he'd seen, Valm's government had taken enough of a beating from Chrom's attacks (well, the attacks Robin planned, but Chrom was at the forefront of enough that Robin felt more comfortable giving him the credit) that all the usual contingencies were in shambles. Then again, just killing Walhart left it in shambles. That was the problem with dictators. They were never polite enough to leave you a way to keep their countries from falling apart once they were gone.

Robin considered sending a note next time. Not that it would do any more good than the offers for peaceful negotiation, but it was the thought that counted.

Then he noticed something odd about the door. Or, to be more precise, the lack of a door.

"Morgan?"

"What?"

"The door is gone."

Morgan looked at the frame, and a look of realization swept over her face.

"Oh, right. That was my fault. Sorry. But when you see what I found, you'll totally understand. I promise! Really!"

Robin shot a glare at his (wonderful) daughter and stepped over a pile of ash that was once a door. Inside, he saw Lucina holding a woman about Flavia's age in an armlock.

"I swear to Naga, I mean you no harm! I just…"

Lucina looked up.

"Oh. Hello, dear. I'm… sorry that this is so poorly prepared."

She turned back towards the woman in the armlock.

"Now, if you could just be polite for a moment…"

"Polite. To a hired assassin."

Lucina grimaced.

"Polite towards your son."

The woman looked up, and something at the back of Robin's mind clicked. The eyes were worn, her face was a mess, and it was hard to see in that light, but the woman looked like Morgan. Or… gods. She looked like the face in every mirror he'd ever passed.

"Mother?"

"Robin?"

She had been wrong.

She didn't know what about. The gods, the universe, the nature of time. But now she knew that somewhere, somehow, something was kind.

Admittedly here and now a psychotic with exalted blood who refused to return her name was tossing confetti in her hair, but the only claim she admitted to was that the world could be kind. No-one said it was perfect.

(Author's note: With this chapter, we cross the big 100K marker. Sorry it was delayed so long. I can only hope it was worth it.

I wanted to do something with Robin's mother. I mean, she's kind of important to the narrative, being the main reason Robin/Daraen/Reflet/Butts/Insert Name Here is around to do the heroic wanderer thing instead of a brainwashed pawn of an evil cult, but we don't get much to work with. She married Validar, then stole their kid once it was clear what all was going down. Kinda left me curious what kind of person is willing to go to the altar with someone who couldn't read villain any harder if he was carrying a length of rope and a railroad track who'd still burn her whole life once the kid comes in. Seems like that'd be something on the brochure about why they were having a child in the first place.

Initially, I was toying with just doing the prequel stuff, but it felt a bit wrong to have the whole story come to that set an ending, and I figured I'd kinda miss writing the regular cast. The basic frame of Robin having to deal (a little) with the attempts to keep the Valmese continent from erupting in flames again seemed like a decent frame for the present day action to contrast with the flashbacks.

As for making her follow the party line vis a vis Walhart, well, I figured somebody who'd seen both the cult of Grima and Chrom's father's little rampage up close would be a bit down on the whole 'gods' business. I hope I sold it well enough.

Finally, I should thank/apologize for ripping off (delete as appropriate) Dane Namor for the idea of having Robin name his daughter after his mother. It's one of those simple ideas that just makes sense. At least, it stuck with me well enough. Here's hoping I didn't butcher the idea, then. Or if I did that I did it subtly enough that no-one notices.

And that's it for today. Hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading, and always remember to tip your server. I know that doesn't have much to do with this particular story, but it's good advice in general.)