March 29th, 1820, Rolfsen Estate, Daines-Horse Basin, Burmecia.
18:00
"They're breathtaking, aren't they?" Wulfweard asked.
Reluctantly, Fratley stole a glance at the crooked cherry tree; Its pale flower clusters were in full bloom, making it look like a fluffy earthbound cloud.
"... Yes, sir."
"Do you know what makes them unique?"
"... Their daintiness, perhaps?"
"Their transience," the old dragoon corrected him, closing his eyes and drawing on the ethereal perfume of the garden. "They're just like life itself; sublime, yet fleeting."
"... Why are you telling me this, sir?"
"Because these flowers have something fascinating to teach us," the knight replied. "Look at them; they know how scarce their time is... yet they choose to selflessly invest it into making this world a little less hideous."
The blond warrior lowered his gaze and remained silent for a while.
"... Helping others is the only thing I've ever wanted... yet I always wind up hurting everyone I love," he finally said. "Now the kingdom is divided, we've become fugitives, and by some cruel whim of fate, I'm still breathing."
"Hmph... I don't remember raising you to be a coward, boy."
Fratley craned an offended glare at his former instructor.
"I betrayed you and joined the man who murdered our king! Your friend!" he blurted out with a broken voice. "Why did you risk it all to save a piece of scum like me?"
The old knight plucked a single white petal off the breeze and entrusted it to his student as if it was the most valuable treasure in the world. Astonished, Fratley stared at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief, but the dragoon dispelled his doubts with a nod of his snowy head.
"Huh?! Y-You can't be serious..!"
Wulfweard smirked, amused by his student's reaction, and continued contemplating the cherry tree.
"One day I may not come back, boy... we need to be ready."
"B-but what about Astrid, or Bryn, or Sigfred?" Fratley stammered, his body language becoming increasingly frantic. "Heck, Sigrunn would make a better successor than me!"
"Astrid's position in the council is critical to organize a proper resistance. Sigfred and Sigrunn are too brash, too young for the job, and Brynhild is too much of a follower to lead," the old dragoon listed. "As powerful as Freya may have become, we can't let the fate of our people rest solely upon her shoulders. We need your strength and experience, Fratley... someone has to make sure the flame stays alight no matter what."
An awkward silence grew between the two as the blond knight absentmindedly fidgeted with the petal in his hand.
"So it's true..." he muttered, a knot slowly forming in his throat. "She will actually do it..."
"... I'm afraid she will."
Fratley's slouch deepened, and the colonel picked up on it.
"... You still love her, don't you?"
The younger dragoon averted his face in shame.
"Whatever feelings I may harbor do not matter anymore, sir."
"I understand…" Wulfweard replied, leaving it at that. His lips inadvertently curled into a melancholic smile, and Fratley decided it was his turn to ask the awkward questions.
"With all due respect, master... why are you smiling?"
"Oh..! Um..." he hesitated, surprised. "I was just thinking about... uh..."
His student snorted, earning himself an irate glare.
"Sorry, sir, it's just so... unusual to see you acting all flustered," he said, sheepishly waving his hands. Driven by perverse curiosity, he pushed his luck even further. "... Were you thinking about Lady Astrid, perhaps?"
"That's none of your godsdamn business, soldier!" the old dragoon barked, poking him with a claw for emphasis.
"O-Okay, just kidding..! Sorry, sir..!" Fratley blurted out, reverting to his habitual politeness.
"And stop apologizing before I send you back to Ulrich with a huge pink bow on your head!"
Master and apprentice exchanged amused stares and burst into laughter at the ridiculous imagery. Thunder growled in the distance, snapping them back to reality.
"Hmm... that might prove inconvenient..." Wulfweard commented as the scent of incoming rain started filling the air. "I really hope Queen Garnet doesn't get caught in that storm..."
The younger knight huffed in disgust, bitter resentment twisting his ever-affable expression into a deep scowl.
"... What's the matter, boy?"
"Nothing... only that she wouldn't have to worry about the weather if she had bothered to get here in time."
"Hmm... you're right... it's not like her to be this tardy, however..."
"Tardy?" Fratley squawked, glowering at the colonel. "I'd rather say disrespectful!"
Wulfweard gave him an unreadable look. He wasn't in the mood to argue, but if he was going to designate him as his potential replacement, he needed to make sure they were at least on similar wavelengths.
"... You really hate her, don't you?"
"Of course I do! Nothing good can be expected from Brahne's child!" the knight boomed.
"... Yet we owe her our lives and freedom," Wulfweard pointed out.
"Pfft... Alexandrian propaganda," Fratley riposted. "She knew she couldn't keep us under control for much longer, so she withdrew and called it liberation. Besides, she once abandoned Freya to die out of cowardice, so it's safe to assume that her exploits have been greatly embellished."
"Oh, you mean like the time you left her to fend for herself against a freaking Eidolon?" the old dragoon retorted, and his apprentice recoiled as if a snake had bitten him.
"How can you possibly say that?!" he exploded, utterly offended. "I was clearing a path for the survivors to escape!"
"And Garnet was helping Freya's loved ones flee from her own mother," Wulfweard stated, finally cornering his student. "See? Cementing your worldview on half-truths will only lead you down the path of injustice."
"... That still doesn't change the fact that Puck made us weak, dependent on her... charity to survive," Fratley grumbled, folding his arms. "We used to be a nation of conquerors... Father Berlioz's chosen children, dang it! Look at us now! Dragging ourselves through the mud, eating the crumbs that fall from our masters' table..."
"Would you rather go back to perpetual war, then? Just to quench your thirst for glory?"
"Well... n-no, but..."
The colonel sighed.
"Listen, boy... I know what you're going through..." he said dejectedly, his sudden change in tone surprising his pupil. "You were raised to be a warrior, just like me and my parents before me... but in this new, mist-less world, people like us seem to no longer have a purpose."
Fratley hung his head in silent, defeated agreement.
"... Albeit flawed and naïve, King Puck had a wonderful vision... a peaceful, industrialized kingdom, where nobody would have to become a killer to thrive," the colonel fondly reminisced. "That's why he was excommunicated... branded a traitor."
"Master... you do realize that straying from the Allfather's teachings like that could make Fólkvangr forever unreachable for our people... right?"
"Yes..." the old dragoon answered, visibly conflicted about what he was going to say. "... However, in this new global order, a nation that only produces slayers makes little economical sense. We need to stop obsessing about the afterlife and start building an actual future for our children."
"Um... Master Wulfweard," Sigrunn chimed in, stepping out of the hideout in travel clothes. "Sorry for interrupting, but it's past time we left."
"Oh, thanks Siggie. I'll join you in a minute," he answered.
"Sir... is this absolutely necessary?" Fratley asked, guilt and fear relentlessly gnawing at his heart.
"Disappearing now could leave the Resistance in a pretty bad spot," the old knight explained, resting a hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "We need to make sure our ideals aren't stained by our personal failures."
"I... I'm sorry, master..."
"Don't be. Just stop ruminating about the past and start fighting for those who can't defend themselves," Wulfweard said as he left. "That's what we, Dragon Knights, were always meant to do, Sir Fratley."
March 29th, 1820, Royal Palace, Burmecia.
18:00
"So... what now?" Ulrich finally asked.
President Bishop leveled a pensive stare at him.
"We need a scapegoat, and we need it now," she answered, icy, calculating eyes glistening in the lamplight. "Didn't you say last night that one of your enemies was involved in the bombing of a dreadnought?"
"I said he was probably involved," the chancellor clarified. "We don't have enough evidence to prove it yet."
Margaret let out a sigh and reclined on her couch.
"Don't worry, sister, the Jägers have been working on it non-stop," Ulrich added. "If someone can find a connection between the attack and Sir Wulfweard, that's them."
"I sure hope so..." Margaret stated, tiredly rubbing the spot between her eyes. "I'm still trying to understand how and when did this operation go awry..."
"Hmm... maybe we got a little greedy with Lindblum..." the Dragonslayer ventured. "Cid has proven a way more cunning adversary than Garnet."
"Still... had things gone according to plan, he would have been too late to do anything," Bishop countered. "How on Gaia did those illiterate brutes figure out the inner workings of our Neo-Waltzes?"
"Well... according to our agents, the king's sister was staying at the castle when the invasion began," the usurper recalled. "Do you think she had anything to do with it?"
"Ah, yes... I remember that elusive little hermit..." the Trenoite said. "She's a lot more interesting than her brother, that's for sure. I've always wondered who she really is."
"She seems to live somewhere in the Forgotten Continent, but nobody has been able to follow her home," Ulrich commented. "How does she survive on that cursed wasteland, at that?"
A realization suddenly hit Margaret like a hammer.
"Isn't it obvious, brother?" she excitedly answered. "Let me put it this way; her ship is absurdly fast, even by our standards..."
"Yes, but what does that have to do with..?"
The Dragonslayer blanched under his thick cinnamon coat, a look of alarm appearing on his face as he began to see the bigger picture.
"No way..." he mumbled. "Could she have ties to..?"
"... Lord King?" Bishop completed his sentence, a dangerous smile creeping up her visage. "Think about it; a mysterious young woman of uncertain origins shows up in an impossibly advanced aircraft, and suddenly Alexandria knows how to counter weapons the world had yet to see in action."
Ulrich gasped.
"That would also explain why Treno lost the Succession War sixteen years ago!" he exclaimed, splintering the wooden coffee table with his fist. "That bitch..! Do you think she knew about our plan?"
"Hardly," Margaret answered. "Had she been aware of our strategy, Alexandria's army would have stormed our hideouts right away. No, no, no... something else happened here. They had intel on us, true, but it was obviously incomplete."
"Perhaps someone sold them the blueprints..." the Burmecian theorized.
"Maybe. That still doesn't explain how did they crack our encryption," Bishop answered. "Anyway, there's clearly a mole among our ranks, and we need to do something about it ASAP."
Knock, knock, knock...
"I'm busy right now!" Ulrich shouted.
"Lord Chancellor, you need to see this," a deep, raspy voice answered from the hallway.
"Gunnar..?" the Dragonslayer muttered as he headed for the door. The commander of the Jägers, Burmecia's special operations unit, was waiting for him outside.
"God kväll, sir," the soldier uttered, solemnly bowing his head. Despite his advanced age and Ulrich's tall, muscular frame, he easily towered over him, looking more like a Gnoll in dragoon armor than a Burmecian. The giant knight produced a paper envelope and extended it to the chancellor. "I apologize for the interruption, but we have successfully completed our assignment."
"I knew you wouldn't let me down, Gunnar," Ulrich answered, opening the package and pulling out a report. As he skimmed over it, his lips slowly curled into a victorious grin. "... Are you positive about this?"
The ironclad colossus nodded his head once again.
"Alright, then... this is what I need you to do..." the Dragonslayer said, a deadly glint in his eye.
March 29th, 1820, Palace Square, Burmecia.
20:00
Contrary to popular belief, Burmecian funerals were often joyful events. Bards were hired to sing about the deceased's exploits as the mourners danced, feasted and (though it had largely fallen out of practice since the Reunification) sacrificed beasts in the Allfather's honor.
It was logical from their point of view; those who followed Lord Berlioz's teachings and bore the coveted Mark of the Dragonslayer were all but guaranteed an eternity of bliss at his realm. Heretics, pacifists and failed warriors, on the other hand, received far quieter burials due to the uncertain fate of their souls.
Puck's funeral was certainly a humble one.
Walking in silent procession among Puck's followers, Sir Wulfweard and Sigrunn scanned their surroundings for signs of danger. The first thing that caught their attention was the conspicuous absence of Queen Garnet and Regent Cid; President Bishop was in fact the only foreign head of government at the event, and the two Partisans could hardly bear the little, satisfied glances she occasionally stole at the royal catafalque.
"... Do you think something bad happened to them?" Sigrunn whispered in her instructor's ear.
"I really hope not..." he replied.
"Look at the diplomats... they have no idea what's going on!"
Indeed, the Alexandrian and Lindblumese dignitaries were exchanging confused, uneasy looks.
"They are being deliberately kept in the dark," the old knight theorized. "Ulrich must have established some sort of information blockade..."
"... What is that psycho trying to hide..?"
"Whatever it is, it must be huge..." the old knight answered. "This is worse than I expected."
"Umm... master?"
"Yes, Sigrunn?"
"Big fucking trouble at three o'clock..."
The elderly dragoon sneaked a glance at the incoming mountain of muscle and smirked.
"Hmph... interesting choice..." he commented in an amused tone, much to his apprentice's bewilderment.
"Interesting choice...? That's freaking Gunnar Ironhide coming at us, sir!" she panicked."What are we supposed to do now?!"
"Relax. He won't start a fight in the middle of a crowd," her teacher reassured her. "Now pull yourself together and let me do the talking."
"Yessir..."
"Wulfweard, min gamlevän!" the giant exclaimed as he caught up to them. "Mind if I join you?"
"Gunnar, my old friend! It's been a while!" the dragoon replied, affectionately patting the Jäger's back as if the Mist War and all the tragedies that ensued hadn't turned them into bitter enemies.
"It sure has!" Gunnar answered, switching his attention to Sigrunn. "Hej, Siggie! I can't believe how much you've grown!"
"Um... thank you, sir..." she stammered, feeling as if Death itself was staring at her.
"I'm sorry for your loss," the giant said. "We may not have agreed on most things, but Puck deserved better than this. He was a Spear of Berlioz after all."
"Indeed..." Wulfweard sighed.
For the rest of the walk, Sir Gunnar doggedly stuck with the Partisans, making his purpose abundantly clear despite his jovial, yet nostalgic banter.
"Remember that time we saved that lost private on Qu's Marsh?" he would ask his former squadmate, much to the latter's annoyance. "What was he called, Ryan?"
"Raegar," Wulfweard answered, indulging Gunnar's rambling out of a lack of options.
"Raegar, yeah! Gwahahaha! Poor kid... the Qus sure are terrifying when they're angry!"
"M-hmm..."
The procession continued for another thirty minutes until they reached the Glade of Kings, Burmecia's royal graveyard. Once Puck's catafalque was placed over the funerary pyre, the jolly Jäger stopped blabbering and started praying, much to the Partisans' relief. In a way, Wulfweard appreciated Gunnar's charade; he knew only one of them would live to see the sunrise, but it made him oddly happy to pretend they were still friends.
The ominous blare of mythril horns echoed across the plains, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. Ulrich stepped out of the crowd and knelt in front of the pyre. There, he prayed for the late king's soul under the watchful eyes of the assembly.
"Oh, stop embarrassing yourself..." Wulfweard thought, rolling his eyes.
After a brief moment of silence, the chancellor completed the ritual and stood up.
"People of Burmecia!" he shouted. "Today we are gathered not only to mourn the loss of a great leader, king and friend..."
A dragoon in ceremonial uniform suddenly approached him and whispered something in his ear, eliciting a look of pure shock and horror from him.
"What the hell..?" Sigrunn muttered, squinting in a futile attempt to read his lips.
The knight then gave the chancellor a telegram and the politician started reading it in stunned silence. After a few tense seconds, Ulrich leveled a troubled stare at the crowd and awkwardly cleared his throat.
"Um... before continuing, I would like to extend Regent Cid Fabool of Lindblum and Queen Garnet Til Alexandros of Alexandria our deepest sympathies, as word has just reached me that an unidentified terrorist group has just carried out a failed attempt on their lives, killing several people in the process."
The assembly immediately exploded into a cacophony.
"This is scandalous!" a plump Lindblumese diplomat exclaimed. "Why haven't we been informed first?!"
"Mr. Zorin, please calm down! The information is too recent!" the Dragonslayer answered, holding up the message. "This comes straight from North Gate!"
"Preposterous!" the Alexandrian ambassador retorted. "Queen Garnet and Regent Cid were supposed to arrive in Burmecia hours ago! How come we learn of this only now?!"
"Mr. Friedrich, I assure you I know as much about this incident as you do!"
"You better be telling the truth, Chancellor Fritjofsson!" Zorin hissed, threatening him with a finger.
Ulrich's swift, cunning eyes scanned the multitude until they met Sir Wulfweard's gaze. Both dragonslayers held each other's stare for what felt to them like an eternity, and the old knight knew from that simple contact what his next move would be.
"Before we jump to conclusions, please let me tell you something, Mr. Zorin," the chancellor said. "As you surely know, one of our military airships was bombed two days ago, resulting in the deaths of thirty-five Burmecian soldiers."
"Son of a bitch..." Wulfweard thought, trembling with rage. Sigrunn shrank in her place, horrified by the consequences of her failure.
"... Do you believe both incidents are linked, Mr. Fritjoffson?" President Bishop intervened.
"Indeed," Ulrich affirmed with rehearsed conviction. "We're already working on finding these criminals, Your Excellencies, and you can rest assured; once we catch them, justice will be done."
Sir Wulfweard lowered his head as applause rose from the crowd. Gunnar placed a hand on his shoulder and offered him an understanding look.
"Is your boy okay at least?" he asked, almost in a whisper.
"What..?"
"Stop playing dumb, Wulf. I've gathered enough evidence to summarily execute your student three times over," the Jäger stated. "Don't worry, though... I'm not here for her."
"... You're going to frame me for the attacks, aren't you?" Wulfweard muttered, letting out a wry chuckle. "You used to be better than this."
"Sacrifices must be made for peace," the giant calmly stated as the ovation died down.
Ulrich carried on with his speech, but the two old wolves were too absorbed in their standoff to even care anymore. Eulogies were given, promises were made, and the Partisans only remembered about the funeral when a group of clergymen set the pyre ablaze with blinding white fire, a sacred technique derived from the mighty Dragon's Crest.
"Farewell, dear friend..." Wulfweard thought as distant thunder improvised one final gun salute for the monarch.
"May the Allfather welcome him with open arms..." Gunnar prayed, much to Sigrunn's confusion. She didn't know what to make of him anymore.
Eventually, the flames died down and so did the ceremony. The storm coming from the east finally reached the Glade of Kings, and everyone but Wulfweard, Sigrunn and Gunnar hurriedly returned to the city. A hooded stateswoman passed the Partisans by as she left, unable to conceal the worried look on her face. They ignored her to avoid blowing her cover, but the Jäger with them immediately figured out what was happening.
"Herregud! Senator Astrid, Wulf?" Gunnar guffawed once he was sure they were alone. "Don't you think she's a little young for you?"
"What the hell are you talking about..?" the Partisan asked in disbelief.
"Cut the crap, pal, you're just hurting my feelings now," the Jäger pressed on with a knowing smirk. "I guess it's safe to assume she'll come back with reinforcements..."
"... So this is how we're going to play, huh?" Wulfweard growled.
The giant's smile deepened.
"Think of it as... motivation..." he answered. "Hey, kiddo."
Sigrunn glared at him.
"There are four of my men waiting for you out there, one covering each exit," he said. "Go west through the forest and stay away from the main road if you want to make it to the city in one piece."
"Why are you telling me this..?" she asked, incredulous.
"Consider it as my parting gift to your master... for old times' sake," the Jäger replied. "However, put a single scratch on one of my boys, and I'll tear you apart limb from limb. Understood?"
"What makes you think I'll abandon my master?!" Sigrunn exclaimed, swiftly drawing her knives.
"Simple; if you keep testing my patience, I'll make sure to capture you alive," Gunnar stated in a disturbingly cheerful tone.
Her jaw shuddered at the implications, but she refused to let him shatter her resolve.
"Siggie..." Wulfweard said, interposing himself between the two warriors. "Do as he says."
"B-But, master..!"
"It's an order, soldier!" the old knight barked, making her recoil in shock.
"... Yes, sir."
"Good girl..." Gunnar said. "Now leave. This is just between us..."
"... and it ends now!" Wulfweard snarled, baring his teeth like a beast.
Author's note:
... Aaand cue "I'm my own master now" from Metal Gear Rising! Gwahaha!
Please don't kill me, I swear I'll stop with the cliffhangers once I have a little more free time to write... fucking December.
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