IT BEGAN WITH A DREAM
The dream began.
The low, dull flickering of fading candlelight cast long shadows over the chess board. She stared down at it, watching as the shadows seemed to grow longer and larger in time with the ticking of a distant clock. As if the miniature castles and queens would, one day, span the lengths of battlefields. Then, as if to reassure her worries, she would blink, and the pieces and their shadows would seem no more than the game pieces that they truly were.
Across from her sat a featureless figure wrapped in swathes of inky, black fabric. No matter her attempts, her sight could not pierce the thick veil that flitted about the figure's visage. But, if ever her anxiety grew enough to worry her, the slimmest portion of the figure's veil would inch backwards, bit by bit, until it revealed the briefest hints of a calming, contented smile.
And so, the cycle would continue. The pieces upon the board would, ever so slowly, grow to the size of titans, only to scuttle back down to the size of mice. She would grow anxious, and the figure's veil would reveal only just enough humanity to calm her. And with each cycle, a single piece upon the board would move.
White knight to F3.
The acrid aroma of aged bourbon began to spill from unseen corridors. She suddenly came to understand that a half-empty cask of it had always sat in the far corner of the chess room.
Black pawn to D6.
Birdsong.
White knight to C3.
The distant pitter-patter of ran upon slated rooves. The rumbling of discordant thunder in her chest.
Black bishop to F5.
Blood, red as cherries. Spilling. From. A. Bird.
A shadow that writhes like a snake.
Silence.
The figure reached for the black queen. With a motion slower than sap, the figure placed it upon the board and smiled.
"Checkmate."
And so, the dream began.
The dream ended.
"Wow, Claude! What's the deal? I know Vahn said this place was a mess, but-" A feminine voice.
"Yeah, I'm beginning to think this might be a different thing altogether. I mean, look around. No Agarthan tech in sight." A masculine voice.
"Uh, wow. Okay. When're you gonna realize that it's rude to interrupt a lady?"
"When you stop stealing all the feathers off of my arrows."
Not quite conscious, the distant echo of bickering filtered slowly into her ears. Beyond the veil of her eyelids, the form of flickering firelight began to slowly take shape. Almost as if it had been frozen, she could feel the blood within her veins begin to churn once more. With the return of feeling in her fingers came the sensation of warmth and pressure. Of wholeness. The sharp clack of boots against stone began to grow closer.
She was so very cold.
"Look at this place, Claude! Centuries buried under rubble and dirt, and the torches are still in their torch… holding-things. If it weren't for the obvious lack of hyper-advanced doo-hickeys, I'd be convinced we'd finally found it."
"They're called sconces. And I dunno, this place gives me the creeps. Something about it makes me feel… out of place. Like we shouldn't-"
The bickering and the footsteps came to a sudden halt. In their stead, a sharp gasp pierced the still air, only to suddenly muffle itself. Unable to move even her eyelids, she could only wait for those that had, evidently, found her to come to their own conclusions.
When the feminine voice finally found its words again, they were no more than whispers. And still, they reached her. "Claude! What do we- What do we do!? It… is it alive? What is…it? Wait-" The sound of footsteps, though near-silent, resumed and continued to approach her. When they finally paused again, no more than a foot away from her, the one with the feminine voice gasped sharply once more. "…It- No! She's just like…"
Another set of footsteps approached, and the masculine voice finished the sentence, "…She looks like Rhea."
The pair went silent once more. This silence, though, felt somehow heavier. More meaningful. And it remained that way until she felt something sharp jab itself into her cheek before recoiling. Again, the feminine voice produced a gasp that grated on her ears, "Claude, she's… she's…"
In response to the feminine one's stuttering, she felt a hand find a place upon her cheek to prod. Eventually, it rested itself there. "She's… warm," said the masculine voice, "And look at all of this hair!" Then without warning, the hand moved from her cheek to her right eyelid, and the world returned to her.
As her eyelid was pried open, the dull flickering of firelight that'd managed to break the barrier of her nonexistent vision reformed into the thick flame of torchlight. The sudden light, seemingly brighter than anything she'd ever seen, sent her reeling. As if planks of an old castle gate, her bones creaked in protest as she rolled from the bed of stone upon which she had rested. With the clattering of glass upon stone, she fell to the similarly stone floor. In the same instant, the one that'd pried her eyelid open leapt back, and the sound of a sword being pulled from its scabbard filled the room.
The stone was frigid against her skin.
She awoke.
With a start, she leapt from her place upon the ground and her eyes snapped open. All at once, the room of the temple appeared in her vision. Two rows of grand, stone columns lined a moth-eaten, carpeted walkway from the doors to the stone bed she had just laid upon. Beyond the columns, rows of windows that lacked the light of day spotted the walls. And on the ruined carpet before her bed of stone stood two unfamiliar figures.
The first, and closest, of the pair had clearly seen the ravages of war. A thick scar ran along the man's olive-toned jawline and ended just above his brow. It cut its way over his left eye, and the eye itself was murky, discolored, and unfocused. The man's other eye, however, was deepest emerald. His ashen brown hair was lined with deep streaks of grey that had already overtaken the thin chinstrap beard that ran along the portions of his jawline that'd gone unscarred. Evidently, he'd been the one to draw the sword, as he held at his side a beautiful blade of gold and silver.
The woman that stood just behind him, however, seemed far less war torn. Her pink hair had been tied up into a thick bun, and both of her similarly colored eyes had escaped any form of damage. Aside from the small scar on the bottom of her chin, her features bore no blemishes or marks of any sort. But the long metal haft of an unseen weapon that rose from behind her told her all she needed to know about the woman.
Desperately tearing her gaze from the pair, she looked towards the ground at her feet. Though the light was dim beyond the bed of stone, she could still catch of glint of something glimmering in the shadow. Without thought, she dove for it, but she found that her legs had given out before she could finish the task. With a surprised cry, she went crashing to the ground, nearly doming herself on the gemstone that she'd leapt for.
She hit the ground hard. All the air she'd managed to gather in her aching lungs left her in a single gasp, and the gemstone went clattering away from her on the ground. As if stirred by the trauma, a trillion different aches in every recess of her being flared to life at once. Her muscles, already worn from the little use they'd experienced, locked in place, and she found herself struggling to remain in control of her body. From beyond the bed of stone, she heard familiar footsteps approach her.
"Great, she's knocked herself out," the masculine voice said.
"No thanks to you, genius. I mean, really? 'My name's Claude! Why, yes, I do enjoy peeling back the eyelids of every stranger that I meet. How could you tell?'" the feminine voice said.
The masculine voice replied with something else, but the light around the periphery of her eyes had begun to fade, and sound had started to go with it. Slowly, her muscles seizing, the darkness began to creep back into her sight.
And then the dream began again.
The dream was different.
They were safe, for the moment. It would not last. The doors of Mount Prism's temple echoed with each fresh surge of the shadows that grew outside. Morgan watched blankly as each dull thud threatened to rip them from their hinges. Watched blankly as the sound of scurrying, cursing, and arguing echoed behind her.
Something took hold of her wrist, tight enough to cut off the blood flow to her hand. It wasn't enough to rouse her from her stupor.
"Morgan."
Nah's voice was low. Threatening. That alone was a rarity for how seldom the small girl deigned to grace them with her emotions, but it was enough to get Morgan to angle her head towards her.
Nah pursed her lips, then gently tugged on Morgan's wrist. Her free hand moved to point towards the altar at the far end of the room. One of the few places within the temple that hadn't yet been consumed by the tide of shadow outside. "They need you, Morgan. Lucina knows the ritual, but-"
Morgan tore her hand free from Nah's weak grasp. Turned back towards the door. Back towards Owain and Yarne as they struggled to hold it closed. Her wrist ached from even the light hold Nah had taken, but it didn't hurt enough to stop her fingers from absentmindedly fingering the ochre gemstone that hung from her silver necklace. "…help her, then," Morgan muttered, her brow creasing. "You've talked more with Naga than I ever will. You know that."
Something closer to fury flashed in Nah's eyes, but she didn't move to reply. Instead, she spun on a heel and stomped back off in the direction of the altar. Morgan breathed a curt sigh, fingers still working away at the necklace she wore. The sense of wholeness that came with the act was all that grounded her to reality. It was the only thing that was truly real in this singular, horrid moment.
The only thing that she enjoyed in life since Mother had died, all those years ago. Since Father had gone and killed her.
The doors bulged inward yet again, and this time they did not return to the entryway. Metal groaned and hinges snapped. The doors began to crumple inward. Odd, that the windows had not shared a similar fate. No matter the rotted bodies that blotted out the sun, not one of the glass panes had formed even the slightest crack.
As Morgan quietly stalked forward, she found it fitting that Naga's blessing upon the temple would be so temperamental. So thoughtless.
One of her hands moved to grasp Owain's shoulder, uncaring of the sweat that'd started to bead on his brow from the strain. He could not risk a glance at her for long, focused on keeping the doors from falling as he was. Even still, his words were shaken as he spoke. "Morgan! Keep back and go with the others! By the might of Misseltain, none will keep us from this most sacred of rites! Even if mine hand must claim my body as tender, the flame that burns will purge the dark from this place! You must succeed! For all of us!"
Morgan stared at the fresh tears budding in Owain's eyes. Practically smelled the fear as it wept from his shoulders. Her lips pursed once again, and something foreign began to flicker in her chest. Something she hadn't felt in a long, long time. Since long before this war had stolen away all that she had ever loved.
Protectiveness.
Her eyes flickered towards Yarne's taguel form. Corded muscle bulged against fur as he shoved all of his mass against the rightmost temple door. Even with all of that power, the door still threatened the cave inward.
She sighed.
Even Morgan didn't know where the cherry blossoms came from when she adopted her true form. She and father had studied it, mostly out of curiosity. It had stopped after he'd betrayed them all, of course. She had no interest in curiosity after she'd vowed to kill him.
Morgan's large, emerald-scaled claw took hold of Owain with ease. He yelped with shock as she tossed him further into the temple, though Yarne practically collapsed the moment Morgan shoved him aside. He'd reverted back to his humanlike form before he hit the ground.
Morgan was larger than Nah would ever be, doubly so in her true form. Stronger. Sometimes, she cursed that fact. Cursed the onyx hue the scales of her underbelly possessed. Wept at the thought that Grima's foul blood would always be with her. A reminder of the scorn that nearly all of her allies often gazed at her with, when they thought she wasn't looking.
She reared back onto her hind legs, then slammed her foreclaws into the doors. The wood around them cracked, though held beneath her weight. With a mighty flap of her thick, leaflike wings, they began to creak back into their proper place. It was almost an insult, the ease with which she could keep the tide behind them at bay.
Though her slitted eyes did not dare to turn away from the oaken doors, she heard Owain as he rushed to retrieve Yarne. He called another of his inane phrases towards her, but all of Morgan that could care about such words was gone. Her blood boiled in her veins, screamed in protest as Grima and Naga's essence warred within her for control. Her hackles rose and her fangs ground against one another.
And there it was again. That honey-thick voice in the recesses of her mind. That sweet, comforting call.
"There you are, dearest daughter," Grima cooed. Like molten sugarcane injected into her spine, she hissed as pain and pleasure both threatened to consume her. The only thing that tethered her to sanity was her rage. "I stand impressed, as always. In truth? I do not know whether to be proud or furious. You are stubborn. Or stalwart. To wait until the end to unleash your blood? You trust those children overmuch."
As she always did, Morgan remained silent. Knew that even a word of response could be enough to rip any semblance of control away from her. She focused all that she was on holding those doors shut, even as the reason why she did slipped away from her. Gouts of onyx dragonflame slipped from her nostrils. Charred the oaken doors black.
"Oh, but you are strong. My daughter, indeed." A formless sigh of feigned sadness. "But things are at their end, Morgan. I'm certain you realize that now, after all this time. There are no more final stands to be had. No other hovels to hide in. This is where my- No, our new world begins." Grima was not here. Was likely still held at bay by the final vestiges of Naga's blessing. She knew this, and she knew it well. That did not stop her from feeling the claw that clutched her maw. Did not stop it from stroking her scaled cheek. "This is the last time I will offer you a place in it, daughter dearest. Turn and kill the children, or you will die alongside them."
"Morgan!" Lucina called from behind her, voice hitched, breathless, and elated. "It- It has worked! The portal is open! Come, it is time to leave!" Something tugged at her hindleg, something with nearly enough strength to have her toppling over. Her eyes swiveled down to risk a glance, then locked with the hopeful eyes of Nah's smaller, draconic form.
"Time to choose, Morgan."
She exhaled softly, more of that onyx dragonflame flowing out of her nostrils. Her fanged maw opened, scaled flesh curling to form guttural, twisting words.
"Fuck you."
Her hindleg rose, then slammed into Nah's form. Morgan turned in time to watch as she sailed unconsciously through the air and into the swirling, azure gate at the other end of the temple. She glanced over the shocked mass of her allies - her friends - as they looked upon her with that same suspicious glare they always had.
Her tail swept out, knocking over one of the many pillars that held the temple up. Without its support, the whole of the structure began to shake precariously. With a final glance to Lucina as she stared on in confusion, she turned back towards the doors and stepped away.
The doors collapsed inward.
The shadows surged.
Morgan moved to face them.
AN:
Hey, all. I'm sure I'm not alone in loving both Awakening and Three Houses, then finding funny similarities with time travel in both of them. I really want to tell a story that melds both of their themes, and I hope that I can accomplish that through this. Some creative liberties will, obviously, take place here considering that Fodlan and Archanea aren't normally connected in any way.
Consider this chapter a prologue. Normal chapters will be longer.
See you next time,
Dust.