#No thoughts head empty only [Grima] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

essays-for-breakfast · 3 years ago

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Summary: It’s like waking up from a dream. Fog wafts at the corners of my vision, and the taste of sulphur sits all across my mouth. But this is no dream. The blood on my hands proves it. I have killed Chrom.

Author Notes: This Fire Emblem Awakening fanfic contains spoilers for the Future Past DLC and all of Awakening. It is about as dramatic as the summary suggests. Read at your own risk.

It’s like waking up from a dream. Fog wafts at the corners of my vision, and the taste of sulphur sits all across my mouth. I reach for my head to squeeze the aching out of my temples, but it only worsens. Each labored breath I draw in drives another needle into my head.

What happened? Didn’t Chrom and I face off against Validar?

As one!

Yes, Chrom said that when he raised Falchion. The thunder magic prickled on my fingertips, and like we have done a hundred times, we charged. This elusive hope of destroying Grima’s darkness once and for all drove us forward. And then… what then?

The fog refuses to lift from my memory. If at least the stench of blood would disappear, then maybe I could formulate a concrete thought, a strategy to help me remember.

Someone laughs. The sound rings through my skull. Menacing. Triumphant.

Despite the large vaulted ceiling, the room seems to shrink and leaves me with no air to breathe, no taste to wet my chapped lips with except the cursed iron tang of blood. Not mine. The aching exists only in my head, and although my muscles respond with unusual sluggishness, I can drag myself from the cold marble and to my feet.

Validar’s disgusting narrow face has vanished; the throne at the head of the hall sits there abandoned. The enemy defeated? The battle won?

This does not taste like victory. A quietness enwraps the pillars and marble tiles, the quietness of a tomb, devoid of the cheers of my comrades, devoid of the clangs of combat even. Only this single voice laughs.

“Chrom?”

Speaking worsens the pain. The fog attacks my vision with full force. Darkness coats my eyesight, my focus breaks. I clutch my head, press my fingers against the skin, and stumble. Soon my skull must burst under the pressure.

A curse? Likely. A last parting gift from Validar, assuming he did in fact die.

But where is Chrom?

When my gloves slide across my temples in another futile attempt to stifle the aching, they leave behind a slippery sensation. The tang of iron increases tenfold, and I retch.

Blood on my hands. Not mine. But not Validar’s either.

I turn. Despite the headache that attacks my inner balance and tilts the floor like a Plegian war ship in a storm-lashed sea, I turn.

It’s like waking up from a dream. The fog retreats, the puzzle pieces click together, and absolute clarity allows me to witness what I have dreaded to see all throughout the past years, the sight born from my worst nightmare. But this is no dream. The blood on my hand proves it.

Grima laughs.

I scream.

Our voices are one and the same.

I drop to my knees next to Chrom, breathless, dizzy, robbed of all logical thought. No, please. Anything but this. I had so many strategies to avoid this scenario, so many plans written and crossed out in the light of a lonely candle, so many hours spent studying – all for nothing. My hands are cold.

In the far distance and yet right beside me, the Fell Dragon Grima laughs. He allows me to search Chrom’s body for signs of life, and he relishes in the cries with which I again and again and over again call out to Chrom. My heart throbs. His remains silent.

With empty eyes, he stares at the ceiling, and maybe he is looking for the future that will now never be. I claw at his cape, hammer against his breastplate, press my mouth to his to transfer breath and life from me to him. He remains still. From the wound at his side drips blood, but the stream runs thin; there is no longer a heartbeat to supply the body. The flesh around the wound is scorched and smells of burned skin.

This isn’t your fault…Promise me you’ll escape from this place…

His face comes back to me, twisted in agony. But not the slightest feeling of betray hardens his gaze as Chrom falls. His hand still expects to find mine.

This isn’t your fault…

Liar. The grisly outcome of my deed stares me in the face. The traces of thunder magic still flash across Chrom’s wound from time to time, in synch with the breath of its spellcaster. My breath.

“CHROM!”

I shake him. He cannot hear me. He is gone.

It’s over. Everything. If this were a chess game, our side has lost their king. The very reason to fight. But one of our pieces landed the killing blow, kicked the king from the board, and now cries over the loss with a voice that grows weaker every minute. Without Chrom’s hand to wield Falchion and banish Grima from this world, what hope is there?

None. I have no strategy to turn the tides of war this time. No trick to shake out of my sleeve to dazzle the enemy. I am the enemy.

“I’m so sorry.”

My words fail to call him back. Nothing will reach him now, not my hands, not my screams, not my pleas.

The stench of smoke mingles with the omnipresent odor of blood. Fires crackle outside, the abhorrent breath of the castle grounds below the Dragon’s Table.

The Dragon’s Table, yes. Where Chrom and I were supposed to fight the last battle and end the war, rid this world of Grima once and for all. As one!

And I was naïve enough to believe him.

My legs tremble as I stand, my chest constricts as I swallow another lungful of the toxic air. Still I stumble towards the balcony windows to the right. If I look at Chrom for longer, the last embers of my strength will die down. Grima’s whispered mockeries already grow louder. My hand leaves behind a bloody sign as I grip onto the pillar that frames the exit to the balcony. Still I stumble forward.

Sparks tumble across the clouded sky. I have to shield my eyes from the bright orange raging out there, but I force myself to look.

The castle stands in flames. Everywhere I turn my eyes, fires are consuming buildings, structures, hopes alike. The battlement where I have stationed Virion is a pile of crumbling stones. There, the yard where I ordered Sumia to hold open a path to retreat has vanished in a storm of flames, and the tips taste the nearby houses, hungry to devour them too.

I claw at the pillar, but the stone offers no support. The Shepherds have scattered. How many share Chrom’s fate? I hate myself for thinking of the statistics of my loss. For thinking of the people down there, my comrades, as pieces on my chessboard for a heartbeat.

How presumptuous to think this chessboard was mine to begin with. All this time, I only played Grima’s game. I was, I still am his piece to control at leisure.

He cackles as I reach this conclusion, but it is my voice with which he laughs.

I make another step towards the chaos below. Stone crumbles, the fire roars, the wind tears at my coat as if to drag me with it. How long before I lose control again? How long before I kill another one of my comrades, Lissa, Lucina, every last member of Ylisse’s bloodline to ensure Grima’s permanent victory?

I make another step. From the balustrade of knee-height, pebbles rain down, and they clatter as they strike the buttresses of the palace wall on their way. A long fall yawns below.

“I’m so sorry.”

Grima hisses. He tugs at my muscles, he assaults my mind with burning daggers, attack after attack against my fickle mental walls. My ancle creaks, then snaps under the pressure of the tug-of-war I play with a god. One leg gives in, but it’s alright, I have reached the edge.

You told me we were two halves of one whole, didn’t you Chrom? But with one half gone, the other has no purpose anymore.

Before me, the castle aches under the fire. Behind me, the man who pulled me to my feet and gave me the strength to walk lies dead. I have all but one strategy left.

I’m so sorry, Chrom. I have to break another promise I made you.

Grima howls, his claws tear at my mental walls, his fiery breath scorches and corrodes and devours my body from the inside, and my weak survival instincts scream at me to give up to end this pain.

But I refuse to listen.

Grima roars. “NO, YOU FOOL!”

I make the last step.

It’s like spiraling into a nightmare. Grima’s heart is still beating. It hammers against the bruised ribcage and sounds the drums to announce my final failure. Grima’s chest rises from the unforgiving cobble stone that should have killed him. And when he draws in a breath tasting of dust and ash and doom, his laugh returns and he raises his hand towards the dark clouds to squish the entire world in his fist.

I want to scream. But I have no voice.

I want to pray. But to whom? To Naga? There is no point in trying. Despite the shattered legs and despite the broken ribs, I am alive. Or rather, Grima is alive.

With the hand that used to be mine, Grima follows the contours of his new face.

“Yes,” he says, “now you finally realize what a fool you were to resist me for this long. A noble attempt to alter the future. But your little stunt will not change the inevitable. What do you think, how much time did you buy your pathetic friends? A month? Maybe two? You actually thought you could sacrifice yourself like the last Exalt. Pitiful. What was her name again?”

Emmeryn.

“Well, it makes no difference either way. You couldn’t even do that right. This body will heal. And if I have to knit together every bone and every muscle with dark magic, so be it. Unlike you, I can take my time. And when the right moment comes, I will devour this world.”

I huddle in the small corner of this body that still belongs to me. I cannot move. Darkness wafts to all sides, and the Fell Dragon encircles me, an amalgamation of massive wings and greedy fangs that swallows me whole.

Grima knocks against my makeshift fortress. “What, you don’t want to annoy me with senseless curses? Not even one of those pretty phrases about hope you Shepherds like so much? It almost seems the only thing you managed to kill with your little trick is your fighting spirit. Ironic.”

The darkness pulsates, and I sink into it.

“All the better,” Grima says. “Then we can finally become one. Let me devour you, my sweet vessel.”

My vision is fading. The view Grima and I used to share is slipping from my grasp, and soon the dancing sparks are nothing but a memory. The sounds of distant war echo out. I no longer feel the rough stone pressing against my back nor the needle stitches of agony whenever my broken legs twitch. This sensation, every sensation now belongs to Grima.

The game is over. The pawn has played its part. In stupid ignorance it walked among the chess pieces from the other side, believing it might fight and love as one of them. But the dream is over, the nightmare has dawned, and the pawn has returned to the hands of its master.

Why delay the inevitable any further?

Come on! That’s no reason to give up!

Chrom, you liar. Two halves of the one whole – then why won’t you let me follow you?

I huddle deeper into my corner. Chrom’s voice rings all the more loudly. How strange. Despite the shadows all around, he is still here. Maybe this goes on for only a moment, maybe the month of reprieve has already passed, and Grima destroyed the world without my notice. I have lost my sense of time.

Giving up becomes my best strategy, my only strategy.

No. You’re more than this. You’re stronger than him, I know it.

But I killed you, Chrom. When you counted on me, I was too weak to resist. Besides, you are an illusion of my consciousness, a fabrication stitched together out of memories because the real you lies dead at the Dragon’s Table. I have no more strength to stand and fight. My hands are cold.

If I were in your place, you wouldn’t give me up so easily. This isn’t the end. Grima thinks you’re defeated, but you only stumbled. Prove him wrong. Fight back.

I cannot move. My legs are awfully far away, and all around me drift Grima’s shadows. But from somewhere in this darkness, a hand reaches out to me. It cannot be real; this too belongs to a memory. And yet, the hand waits there, the familiar fingers invite me, a light in the dark. I hesitate. But I could never refuse a request from him.

Despite the shadows and despite the faint rumble of Grima’s heartbeat, I grab onto the hand, and a strong arm pulls me to my feet. I stand.

Chrom smiles. This smile of confidence and understanding, the smile that makes you believe in yourself almost as much as you believe in him. That’s more like it.

And as his fabricated face fades into light, I can see with my own eyes.

The sparks still flutter across a smoke-darkened sky. Grima is still waiting for one of his underlings to drag this body to a healer. Bit by bit, he crumbles pebbles in his fist.

I move my thumb; a pebble slips from Grima’s grasp, clacks onto the cobble and hops out of reach.

Grima growls. For a moment, his suspicions are raised, and the poisonous shadows around his arm pulsate. But he thinks nothing of it. A momentary clumsiness allowed the pebble to escape, nothing more. The wielder of Falchion is dead, and no pathetic bond between him and the former owner of this body prevents Grima’s absolute control over these hands, hands that will soon spill the last drops of Ylisse’s exalted blood.

Or so Grima thinks.

Purple bursts of dark magic emerge to my right, and out of them steps Validar. The burns covering his arms hinder him little as he bows to his master. Not even the satisfaction of his death remains; that too was snatched out of my grasp. With a hand practiced in alchemy and curses, poison and murder, Validar sows Grima’s vessel back together. He repeats the procedure many times, first on the steps before the Dragon’s Table, then in the dungeons underneath his palace. His abhorrent face bends over me as he breaks bones back into place. A most loyal servant to Grima.

And as this body heals, Grima awaits the day where he can finally begin his conquest. The wielder of Falchion is dead. Soon the month of reprieve ends. By then, Grima rarely wastes a thought to the former owner of his body.

But I stand. I don’t know for how long I will hold on, nor do I have a way to tell if my efforts will amount to anything at all. But terrible odds have never convinced the Shepherds to quit the war, right, Chrom?

I stand, and I will fight. Against the strings that bind me, against my cursed blood, and against fate itself if necessary. Let me fight my own small war against a god.

The battlefield of our war has more in common with a prison. Shadows and blindness construct the walls of this prison, and for long stretches of time, I hammer against the barricades without finding a way out. But sometimes, Grima’s shackles loosen, the walls fissure, and a hole opens for me to peek through.

Then I can see.

I see the deserted fields of Ylisse, dried and poisoned until no seed of corn can hope to sprout from this soil. I see the floods of undead wash into villages and castles alike and tear them to pieces. I see my comrades fight, and I see them fail.

Each sight drives another dagger into my core, and sometimes I cannot bear to look anymore. Then I sink back into my prison and allow Grima to direct his most valuable chess piece whichever way his bloodlust drives him.

But these phases never last long. A voice, far stronger than Grima’s whispered mockeries, urges me to devise a new strategy and do better next time. Again I stand, and again I fight. And sometimes Grima wallows in the despair of the people at his feet, he relishes their hopeless struggles, and in his self-confidence, he forgets to lock the doors to my prison for me to slip through.

Then I can move.

A slight turn of the wrist here. A delayed burst of Grima’s destructive breath there. A missed attack from time to time. Never much, rarely enough, but these actions are my small victories in the war against a god.

I can prolong Frederick’s life for five seconds before a lightning bolt tears through his chest.

I can restrain Grima’s hand long enough for Cherche to say her goodbyes to her husband.

I can buy Lissa the time to save her son.

Grima curses each time, his rage sends tidal waves of dark magic through my veins and burns me from the insides until flames instead of shadows make up the walls of my prison. Then I perform a tactical retreat and leave the battlefield to him for a while. He tramples a few villages in my absence. With a sick grin, he lets lighting sparks burst about his fingertips, unmatched and undisturbed. A false sense of security lulls Grima, makes him careless, and when he lowers the barricades of my prison, our war resumes.

He hunts down my comrades. One by one until no one remains.

He hunts down their children. Again and again they slip through his grasp, and I allow myself a relieved breath. Validar vows time and time again to satisfy his master’s wishes, but the children escape his traps and outrun his assassins. A nervous twitch befalls Validar’s left eye whenever he brings news of his most recent failure to his master. Grima’s patience runs thin. I cannot deny my satisfaction whenever Validar struggles for excuses.

His forehead all but kisses the marble floor. “I’m inconsolable, master.”

Each of Grima’s steps likens to a burst of thunder as he traverses the length of the hall atop the Dragon’s Table. The darkness floating around his figure reflects onto the polished pillars, and Validar twitches.

“I’m getting tired of your excuses,” Grima says. “How difficult can it be to capture a handful of children?”

“They have capable allies…”

Grima silences Validar with a wave. “All I ask is for the head of Chrom’s daughter. Does such a simple request outclass your abilities?”

“Your wish is my command, master, and I will not stop until you are satisfied. Have I not placed the heads of countless other Shepherds at your feet? And haven’t I thought up the trap that killed Chrom and gave you your vessel? The child cannot hide forever. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I shall hope so.”

“But… is she truly that important?”

“Fool. The exalted blood runs through her veins. And each day you fail to capture her is another day she might perform the Awakening ritual. Need I remind you that this ritual is the only threat to my eternal reign?”

“I have hidden both the Fire Emblems and the gemstones with utmost care in the most impenetrable Plegian fortresses. The child will never obtain them, you have my word.”

“Your word is no longer enough.” Grima stops in front of Validar. The latter fails to uphold eye contact and drops lower on his knees. Grima comments the display with a chuckle. “Tell me, Validar, how many times did I order you to bring Chrom’s daughter to me?”

“Master, I—”

“And have you even once brought something to show for your supposed devotion to me? All these pitiful humans you have tugged away in your dungeons, and not one of them has spilled where she is hiding? Either your torture methods have rusted or… Or your heart’s not in it.”

Validar’s eye twitches. “Never, master, that could never be the case. I’m only loyal to you.”

“Yes, that’s what you like to tell me. But I believe defiance runs in the family. It’s like an illness tied to your blood. Like a weed that keeps infesting the garden no matter how often I cut down the trees. The owner of this body is resisting me even as we speak. Although I must say, the resistance is rather lacking when your life’s the only one at stake.”

“I have no ties to my traitorous child! My life only belongs to you.”

“Indeed it does.”

Grima lunges forward and grabs Validar’s face, squeezes a little. Stifled gasps for air fill the hall. Validar doesn’t even think to defend himself.

I cannot deny my satisfaction.

“The blood connection between you and the former owner of this body gave you power,” Grima says. “You were quite useful for a while. And let’s not forget that without your generous aid, Chrom would still be alive, and this body might have remained beyond my grasp. But I have a tool that serves me better than you ever did. We are almost one. All it needs is a final nudge in the right direction.”

“Please, I can still be of use!” Validar cries. His hands try to loosen Grima’s grip in vain.

“Oh, you will be.”

I stare at the man who fathered me. His skull creaks under my fingers. All I feel is satisfaction when the thunder magic blossoms in my palm.

“The reward for your efforts,” Grima says.

“For Chrom,” I say.

Our voices are one and the same.

Lighting illuminates the farthest corners of the hall for a moment. The burst can be seen all the way in Ylistol, and whispers of a bad omen travel between the handful of soldiers on the battlements. When the brightness fades, so does Validar.

The heap of ash before my feet soon scatters with the wind howling from the balcony.

This does not taste like victory. But what does it matter at this point? I sink into the darkness, enwrapped by the Fell Dragon’s wings. My body is cold.

The net tightens. The end approaches fast.

Grima’s eyes turn to Mount Prism. The ash of burnt grass crumbles under his boots, and where waterfalls used to bathe the mountain in gentle mist, now the stench of the undead fills the air. Ylisse’s remaining forces have fought valiantly to protect Naga’s sanctuary. But Grima has armies to command and discard at will, and the lightning bolts tearing through these poor, blue-clad soldiers leave them no choice but to retreat.

I can only watch.

When Grima descends from Mount Prism, the deed is done, and Naga is dead. A little of her light remains, a sprinkle of magic in the muddy ponds amidst the hills, but it is not enough to enable the Awakening ritual. My war has amounted to nothing.

Grima knows this. I know this.

But the same cannot be said about all of Ylisse’s fighters. Although at this point the mere thought of resistance equals folly, and although Grima proved his unmatched power when he killed Naga, one brave moron jumps at Grima from behind when he is climbing down the steps below Naga’s crumbling sanctuary.

The sword strikes the back of Grima’s skull, and even I, from the depths of my prison, hear the dull echo of the impact, the shock that tips Grima’s sense of up and down.

I thought it impossible.

And yet, for a moment, Grima commands neither his surroundings nor this body. His permanent victory, a moment ago so certain, is escaping his claws, and I almost dare to hope that at last I can trade Grima’s darkness for a different, final one.

Of course, the moment ends long beforehand.

With an inhuman roar, Grima whirls around and seizes the attacker by the throat. He kicks himself free, lands lightly on his feet, and charges Grima a second time.

“Brace yourself, evil doer,” he says. “This time you shall not escape my steel.”

The sword in his hand dances and twirls through the air, whirrs with the call for Grima’s mortal flesh, and against any other opponent, he would have succeeded. Here he slices Grima’s coat, there he scratches the skin underneath. But a few sword slashes, no matter how well timed, are no match for a god. Thunder crackles, darkness erupts from Grima’s body and scorches what little plant life has survived the poisonous steps of countless undead. The burst rips the lonely warrior from his feet. Blood drips onto the steps. As he struggles to stand and as he throws a last, unrelenting glare at Grima, I recognize his face.

Owain.

Lissa’s son.

He has aged, has almost reached adulthood, and the years on the run from the undead has hardened his features. But I still see the boy who cried out silly attack names as he challenged his cousin Lucina to stick duel. Too young to throw his life away. Yet he does exactly that.

“This is for my parents,” Owain says and pounces.

Grima has no mercy. The surprise attack to his skull still upsets his balance, but this trifle will hardly stop him from devouring his prey when it came so willingly to the slaughter. Flames encircle the battlefield, sparked by Grima’s destructive breath. Owain advances, one flawless technique after the other, but when he fights this battle alone, when the air becomes impossible to breathe and his opponent is a god, how can he hope to succeed?

The door to my prison stands ajar; Grima’s focus rests on the battle outside. Maybe I could intervene and prolong Owain’s life by a minute or so, maybe even offer him an opening to escape.

But I only watch and taste the sulphur all across my mouth. This war is already over and lost. Why delay the inevitable any longer?

The flames burn higher, Owain staggers, stumbles, and the next burst of magic will kill him. Grima raises the hand that used to be mine… when a throwing axe collides with the back of his skull.

Everything tilts. My prison walls shatter, and Grima’s howls ring from all sides, furious, disoriented. I can no longer tell to whom this body responds, in one moment Owain’s surprised expression reaches me with full clarity, and in the next total darkness collapses over me. Inigo dives into the circle of flames, or so I think, a second axe readied for the throw. My veins burn as Grima’s shadows leak from them; again darkness instead of sight. I squeeze my head, or maybe Grima does, and surely Brady and Yarne are no more than specters amidst the tumbling sparks as they help Owain back to his feet.

“You guys…” Owain’s voice sounds far away amidst the storm raging in Grima.

“Idiot!” Brady punches Owain’s arm. “You wanna die here?”

“That wasn’t part of the plan!” Yarne’s eyes dart across the raging fires. “But, err, can we please discuss this somewhere else? I can already hear the undead.”

“No,” Owain says and struggles out of Brady’s grip. “We can finish Grima! Once and for all.”

“Forget it,” Inigo says. “I’m too young and, frankly, too charming for that kind of sacrifice play. Besides, we have a different mission, in case the blow to your head made you forget.”

Brady nods. “Lucina is counting on us to find the stones. On all of us.”

“But—”

“I said forget it! And if I have to knock you out and carry your sorry skin all the way, you’re not dying today.”

“Guys?” Yarne points at me – or at Grima. No, it is Grima. The shadows that so often waft around this body pulsate, he writhes, I dig my nails into my temples, a soundless cry hangs on these lips.

“Do you think he’s going to explode?” Yarne asks.

Brady coughs against the smoke. “I’m not waiting here to find out.”

“My, my,” Inigo says, “and all that trouble just to save you from your own stupidity.”

“Then why did you come?”

“A bad habit; my parents were Shepherds just like yours, you know. Now do me a favor and move those feet.”

Owain takes a last look over his shoulder. “I almost had him.”

“Sure you did.”

As these words echo out, the four figures vanish within the smoke screens, alive to fight another day. No thanks to me. But I have no time to form apologies. The throbbing in my head persists, worse than ever, Grima roars, and out of every pore his shadows seep outwards until my skin stands aflame with agony.

I want it to end. Desperately.

All of it.

Grima screams, I scream, and in a tidal wave that sweeps across Mount Prism, a wave to overrun the stooping trees and extinguish the fires, in a wave that leaves no ant alive Grima’s darkness breaks from his vessel. The taste of sulphur disappears.

Then it is over.

I still breathe. And in some corner of this body, Grima breathes as well. A disappointment, no doubt. But for the moment, Grima has exhausted his magic, and the net around me hangs loose. This body is wholly mine for a short while.

I owe Owain my thanks for this brief sip of freedom. Because as I take in the air, even though the stench of the undead tarnishes the taste, even though my throat burns with each gulp, I have time to realize my newest failure.

My lack of initiative almost ensured Owain’s death. Just another drop of blood on my hands, sure, just another name on a growing list. Another helpless stone in Grima’s path, kicked aside without a second glance. And yet, someone came to save Owain despite the impossible odds. Naga’s death decided the future, a future entirely shaped by Grima’s dark wings. No hope and no salvation wait at the end of this nightmare. And yet…

I wander across the mountain slopes. The trees are leafless, and winds howl through their broken crowns. The breeze cools my aching limbs, the blood on the back of my head dries. I kneel down amidst a burnt meadow, and when I stroke away a covering of ash, patches of green reveal themselves. A few grass blades have survived. They shrink under my touch, but they are alive nonetheless. I feel the fine contours under my fingertips.

This is where I find Tiki.

She looks the same as when I last saw her, before the battle at the Dragon’s Table. Although she must sense Grima’s darkness flowing through my veins, she comes closer, and her steps stir clouds of ash to expose the living grass underneath. In the rare sunlight peeking through the clouds, the green teems. One could almost think we have travelled back in time before the war conquered this hillside.

“Naga is dead,” I say.

Tiki lowers her gaze. “I know.”

“You should go and warn Lucina. I don’t know how long before he – before I make it to Ylistol. I’m sure she has people she wants to say goodbye to.”

“You make it sound as if the fight were already over.”

“It’s not?”

“Not for Lucina. She has Chrom’s determination. You more than anyone else should know how far such willpower can take you. Even in the face of impossible odds.”

“I thought you might say that.” I try to recall Lucina’s face from when I last saw her. The young girl with the scraped knees, all too eager to follow her father into battle. How many years have passed since? I have no answer.

“She reminds you of him?” I ask. “Of Chrom?”

“Yes. It’s easy to believe her when she talks about hope. You should see her friends look at her with awe. They would do the impossible for her.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Whenever we suffer a defeat, she nurses their fighting spirit back to health through her words alone. I think I’ve been roused by her speeches once or twice myself.” Tiki smiles. “Lucina has this look in her eyes you only see once in a millennium. This warmth amidst all this strength. Marth had the same eyes. In her devotion to her task, she resembles him.”

“She’s been that way since the first day Chrom put a wooden sword in her hand.”

“And still, in her quiet moments, she reminds me of you.”

My fingers have no hopes of nursing the wounded grass stems underneath my palm back to health. I was never good with plants. I leave it to someone else to secure their future.

“If that’s your attempt to reassure me,” I say, “you need to change your strategy. Marth, yeah, maybe he could have fixed all this. I still remember how you compared me to him all those years ago. Quite the ego boost to be compared to the legendary hero king. Quite the impossible expectation to meet.” A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “You made a mistake. The same one Chrom did.”

“I don’t see a mistake. You are here now, aren’t you?”

“And for how long? It’s over. Without Naga, Lucina can’t perform the Awakening ritual. Grima has won. I just did my very best to help him along the way.”

“Then your strategy is to give up?”

“There is no strategy. Not this time. You don’t know half of what I did. What I failed to do.” I bury my head in my hands. “I’m so tired…”

“I understand.”

“Hard to believe.”

“What else would you expect from someone who has lived for three thousand years? This isn’t the first time I have to say goodbye. But I hope it can be the last.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I forgot. You were connected to Naga, weren’t you? Connected in a way I probably can’t even begin to understand…”

“Yes, in a way we were connected. Through me, she influenced this world. But although I sometimes acted in her interest, I didn’t let our connection control me. When I compared you to Marth, that was me and me alone. And I stand by my words.”

I rise to my feet to meet Tiki at eyelevel. My legs are heavy. “Why me?”

Tiki smiles. “I don’t have an answer to everything. But Naga’s death isn’t the end of all things. Victory is still in reach. We are still here, aren’t we?”

“For what it’s worth…” I pause. A strategy takes shape in my head, no, less than that, an idea not yet ready to sprout. “You said it yourself, you two were connected… Her magic lives on in you…”

“You know what that means?”

“It could actually work…”

“It will. But I have a favor to ask of you first. We need a new sacred ground so that Lucina can perform the ritual.”

I gesture at the scorched trees and ashen slopes. “Mount Prism doesn’t meet the criteria anymore, I figured as much.”

“You cannot simply wish for a sacred ground to appear. Magic, even magic as powerful as Naga’s has rules to adhere to. I would not ask if I knew a different way. And I’m afraid you will hate me for it.”

I frown. But the pieces to the riddle are all there, and Tiki’s face spills the answer. Disgusted, I take a step back.

“No! I can’t go through that again!” I stretch my empty palms towards her. “What you’re asking – forget the impossible logistics of it, I won’t even entertain the idea. Anything but that. I couldn’t even hide myself behind excuses, that it’s Grima’s doing, that none of it is my fault – if I do that…”

“It would be you and you alone.”

“And you call that victory?”

“I call it a favor. And a small step towards victory, yes. It’s not a burden I would like you to carry, but you are the only one who can. When the time comes, you have to be ready.”

Tiki exchanges a glance with me. I know. And I nod.

“One more fight,” I say.

“One more fight.”

Tiki turns and leaves. With her, the last glimmers of Naga’s magic seem to dissolve, carried away by the wind that brings heavy clouds and once again the stench of the undead. Shadows creep in my periphery, they twist and they grow, and I sink back into my prison. My body is cold. And then it isn’t my body at all, and Grima regains control.

The net tightens. The end lies ahead.

Grima drags this body to Ylistol. Clouds gather around the familiar towers, heavy with impending rain. How wonderful the blue shingles shone when I first walked through the marble archways of the city. Little of that splendor remains. Holes disfigure the walls like battle scars. I refuse to calculate how many lives the Ylissean forces offered to reclaim these ruins from the undead. While her comrades search Plegia’s fortresses for the five gemstones to complete the Fire Emblem for the Awakening ritual, Lucina waits alone in the halls of Ylistol. Unprotected. When she dies, the blood of the Exalts dies with her, and Grima’s reign will find completion.

I struggle. More than ever before, I throw myself against my prison walls, I curse and I beg and I dig my nails into the shadows, everything I didn’t do for Owain on Mount Prism. But my shackles hold me tight. I am no more than a pawn. And Grima pulls this pawn towards the royal chamber.

Lucina has grown to resemble her father. The likeness to Chrom almost pains me more than what these hands will do to her. The sword underneath Grima’s cloak jingles when he steps into the light of the chamber’s chandelier.

Lucina whirls around. “You… How did you get in here?”

No fear. Like her father, Lucina faces her undoing without fear.

Tiki stands next to her, bathed in what little light the candles offer. I exchange a glance with her. She knows. And she nods.

Then Grima wrestles back control, and in the blink of an eye, he reaches Lucina. Orange flares dance across the blade as he aims for the killing blow. The taste of victory prickles on his tongue, and drunk from this sensation, he loosens my shackles. Only a little. But enough to twist my wrist by a degree or two.

The blade tastes flesh. Blood runs down the ridge and splashes onto the floor.

Lucina screams.

The slash that should have killed her cut through Tiki instead. This time my hand guided the blade. I have no excuses. Only unheard apologies. As Lucina cradles Tiki in her arms and presses her hand against the fatal wound, Tiki looks up to me. Not to Grima. To me. Again she nods. And I repay the gesture. When the time comes, I will be ready.

Grima lingers in the shadows of the chamber for a moment longer. Lucina’s pleas while Tiki says her dying words spark a sick grin on his face, and he runs his tongue across his lips as if to savor the taste of the appetizer before the main course. He knows I’m watching from the depths of my prison.

Sparks of thunder magic swirl about his fingertips as he raises the hand that used to be mine.

“What pretty tears.” Grima’s voice rumbles through my head. “It’s a shame Chrom didn’t have the time to weep for you this way. And how alike they look… What do you think, shouldn’t father and daughter finally reunite?”

“She doesn’t matter,” I say.

The shadows around my prison walls pulsate. As Grima leans in, the pressure rises. “Is that so?”

“That’s why you struck down Tiki instead of her, right? Naga is dead, her Voice is dead – the exalted blood has become useless. You followed the most tactically sound path. Tiki’s death ensured victory.”

“Victory, yes.” Grima tugs at my shackles, iron-fire pain shoots through my mind, but I make no sound. “But would you say it was my victory?”

“Rather our victory.”

“Oho? Then are you finally willing to become one?” Grima laughs. “Not that it matters now. You already belong to me. The single purpose of your birth was to become my vessel. All your struggles in the end only led you back into my grasp. What an exhilarating feeling to finally become whole, wouldn’t you agree? It may have taken you a few years, but here you are, finally accepting the inevitable. Do you think Chrom would weep for you now if he had to see what you became?”

“I wouldn’t know. He’s dead.”

“Indeed he is. Thanks to you.”

“I only served my part.”

“And how beautifully you played that part. Worthy of my best pawn. Maybe even worthy of a reward… a chance to escape this prison and this world altogether. Isn’t that what you want?”

“You’re offering me freedom?”

Grima tugs at my restraints, and I writhe, soundlessly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I still have uses for this body. It’s true, I like the idea of letting the girl mourn the last remaining person of her father’s world. She cries such pretty tears. But I like the thought of devouring her so much more.”

“Because she inspires hope in the hearts of the people.” I pause. “Like her father. Once she’s off the board, you will have won the game.”

“…Yes. I see you haven’t lost your passion for strategy. A most… useful quality. Of course, the hope she elicits in the hearts of her followers, that is the reason why I want her dead.”

“Of course.”

“Then you know why I still need this body. My generals should have gotten rid of the other children by now. I would have disposed of the four pathetic fools back at Mount Prism, but so much the better. Now they will meet their end with the stones almost at reach. Their screams are so much more delightful when there’s still a flicker of hope in them. But Chrom’s daughter will die by my hands. I will watch the light leave her eyes when I cut her open with these hands until the exalted blood runs down the steps of Ylisstol’s throne room. Then and only then will I have won the game. You won’t deny me the satisfaction, will you?”

“I will be ready to do my part.”

“Good,” Grima says.

And with a snap of his fingers, the chamber vanishes, and this body teleports many miles north, to the ash-covered top of Mount Prism. Grima’s new throne. The rolling hills below ache under the boom of uncounted boots as legions of undead march south.

“Yes, you will do your part,” Grima says as I sink deeper into my prison where I can neither see nor move. Only listen to the rumble of war. “Because you want it to be over. I’ve seen through your little game. You never wanted to accept me as your master, that was just a lie to get me to promise you a way out. You would never become one with me. Not willingly. Your dead friend spoiled you with his pretty phrases about friendship and comradery. Like a stupid child, you listened to him until you believed the lies. But you can’t fight the inevitable for long. Serving my command is all you can ever do. You’re mine. I move the strings, and you follow. Now dance a last time for me.”

Nothing but shadows and a greedy dragon exists. My world is cold.

The net tightens. The end has come.

Smoke swirls around the battlements of Ylistol. Far below, hundreds of undead tramp towards the castle walls, clawing at the stone as if to raze the building itself. Lucina stands atop the commotion, Falchion in hand and ready to fight against the odds. The howling winds fail to weaken her battle stance. Her opponent is none other than Grima.

The Fire Emblem and the singular gemstone Lucina’s comrades have obtained help them little to win this fight. Against the might of a god, Falchion’s light pales. Against Grima, Lucina’s trust in her friends cannot endure. Her three comrades jump in as her shield, but neither their attacks nor my struggles prevent Grima’s deathly breath from sweeping across the battlement and corroding their skin and spirit until all four of them balance on the brink of death.

They sway and clutch their sides in an effort to rise back to their feet. In each of them, I see my comrades, the friends who have died, the friends I have killed. Chrom’s determination continues to glister in Lucina’s eyes. Even as she spits blood.

I hammer against my prison walls, I scream and I lunge at my master, but I have neither voice nor hands to fight with. Grima barely notices my pathetic attempts. He will relish to squish these four nuisances under his thumb. Already his laughter echoes across the cloud-laden sky. His hunger burns through the veins that once belonged to me.

I stand, and I fight, but it matters nothing. How foolish to think I could revolt against my master. How foolish to believe I had a chance to win the war against a god. Without a hand to pull me to my feet, how can I hope to stand?

Tiki made the mistake to trust me a second time. Chrom made the mistake to forgive me. Now I will repay them both by killing Lucina. And then Grima’s victory will be complete. Maybe then, at last, he will have no more use for his best tool.

Lucina stumbles. Her hands hold onto Falchion in vain. Soon it will all be over.

The darkness whirling at the edges of my vision grows.

I sink into the depths.

Ceaselessly.

A flash of light illuminates the battlements. But it is not my thunder magic as it plunges through Lucina’s chest. When the light weakens, Grima’s laughter has died. Even the growling undead have fallen silent.

Amidst the torn battlefield stands Chrom. Heroic, alive, the most magnificent of mirages. His comrades, our comrades, the people I thought dead form up behind him. Often they look younger, a little different, but the will to fight reflects onto their raised swords and lances all the same. Chrom extends a hand towards Lucina, and with the smile of confidence and understanding, the smile that makes you believe in yourself almost as much as you believe in him, with that smile, he helps his daughter to his feet.

I don’t know how. Nor do I care.

He is here.

That’s all I need to know.

And as Grima curses, and as the undead scale the walls, and as Chrom rallies the knights and mages and friends under his command, I find the strength to stand. I couldn’t save Chrom last time. But now I have the chance to do better. Now I will keep my promise.

Let the war resume.

Grima fights a battle on two fronts. Chrom and his comrades slice through his army; undead go up in smoke left and right. Swords jingle, flames erupt, and bowstrings hum until not a single opponent remains on the battlement. Grima grinds his jaw, but he can only watch as the Shepherds tear his certain victory apart. So far, he doesn’t worry. The other gemstones are still missing, Mount Prism is far away, and if all else fails, his magic will tear these pesky humans apart before they can perform the Awakening ritual.

But his strategy doesn’t work out.

Mine does.

Chrom slays the last undead in Lucina’s path. No more than an armlength separates us. And as Grima prepares to strike him down, his hand remains frozen. Grima curses, but he has no hands to strangle Chrom with and no vocal cords to cast a spell.

My voice, not his, calls out to Chrom. “I can’t bear to watch you die again. I won’t. Promise you’ll escape from here… please.”

Surprise flashes across Chrom’s face, a hint of recognition. “I know that voice…”

His hand reaches out more out of reflex than any conscious decision. He will fight all the harder now. That’s the kind of man he is, no matter what dimension he comes from. But you’ve done enough, Chrom. Your half of the work is done. Let me handle the rest.

I raise my hand as if to wave. The magic prickles at my fingertips. And in the light of my teleportation spell, Chrom disappears.

The strength he gives remains.

In his stead, Lucina approaches Grima. All according to plan. Against the impossible odds, her friends arrive with the remaining four stones, and together they complete the Fire Emblem. Tiki’s spirit reappears as intended, bathed in Naga’s glow. Blinding light particles twirl about the battlement, and the smoke recoils. Even Grima feels the divine magic blossoming underneath his feet, in the chamber in Ylistol where in ignorance he struck down Naga’s Voice, and for perhaps the first time, panic squeezes his dark core.

He struggles and writhes, he threatens and curses, but he has lost the war. I stand triumphantly.

And it is I and I alone who nods to Lucina. “I’m ready.”

Falchion glows, a light that captures the entire battlefield. In Lucina’s hands, the sword fulfills its purpose. The dawn of a new day breaks through the smoke and chases away the last shadows clawing at Ylisstol to allow a glimpse at the future yet to come. It looks promising…

Grima dies alone. His best tool has long since severed the connection.

It’s like spiraling into a dream. White wafts at the corners of my vision, and the taste of a meadow of sweet cow parsley overwhelms my senses. Soon the white grows to swallow everything. But there is warmth too. A touch, a laugh, a helping hand, a group of people united around a camp fire amidst a sea of tents.

When a hand reaches through the white this time, two halves become whole.

#fire emblem #fire embem awakening #fe fanfic #fe robin #fe grima #possessed robin #fe chrom #the future past dlc #my writing #this is way too long for tumblr #oh well

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theindigoflirt · 3 years ago

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Speculative Fiction

> starter for @raikuroji

A machine that connects to other worlds.

Different histories.

It’s with this thought circling around his head he enters the city. Eerie silence only amplifies the implications of Aeschylus’ oh so casually dropped revelation. Inigo doesn’t blame the part of their group who opted to find their own way into the city—he wishes them luck wherever they are. (Hopefully they’ll find an escape route. The ease at which they entered the city pricks at his nerves.)

Dancer barely notices the nondescript figures walking with their heads down on the opposite side of the street. This machine…time travel without a dragon? Or is it something else entirely?

The good part of him, the one that only wants to make sure people never grow up the way he did, wants to destroy the machine. If it falls into the wrong hands, who knows what kind of destruction can be wrought?

Selfishly, he wants to know. A time, a place, a world without Grima. The carriage would have made it home to Ferox without incident. He would have cried because he missed his friends, begged to go back for just one more day.

He could have been a Champion, or a famous dancer, or, or, or.

One gloved hand sweeps pink bangs away from his face. Of course he’s wondered what life would look like had his entire childhood been different. Spent countless hours on the empty marches between wastelands imagining it, and it rarely brought any comfort.

Shiro walks a few feet away, face cloudy. Inigo falls in step with him, extra aware of keeping his footfalls light in this strange place. “These lights are starting to give me a headache,” he says quietly.

#event thread: speculative fiction #support: shiro #UnlockedWesternFaerghus2021 #nearly posted this on the wrong blog oops

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scarletaire · 4 years ago

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homeland (Chapter 4)

A/N: This is the chapter I’ve been most looking forward to and most nervous about to write! I’m excited to finally put it out into the world ❤️

Fandom: The Folk of the Air

Genre/s: Contains Fluff, Slight Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Smut

Rating: E

Tags: Post-QON, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Protective!Cardan, Bewildered!Jude, Jude and Cardan discuss the Undersea, but they get a little Distracted

Description:

Cardan’s eyes flash open.

“Why?” he repeats, and Jude feels the power shift between them. “Don’t you remember, wife?” he croons. “It was the Undersea who stole you away from me.”

And Jude has only enough time to think, danger, before he lunges at her.

or:

Cardan and Jude work on removing their armor. Taking off this particularly stubborn piece happens in varying states of undress.

Links: Masterlist | AO3

Jude wakes alone to an empty room.

The first thing she notices is that she’s in the royal suite. Someone has laid her out on the giant silkspun bed and folded the covers gently over her. She’s been stripped of her clothes and returned to the nightgown that she slept in.

The second thing she notices – her head is killing her.

She struggles into a sitting position and immediately regrets it. There is a cold ache at the base of her skull, and it radiates up into her skull without mercy the more that she tries to move. She has to catch her forehead in her hand because it’s almost impossible to keep her head up. Her muscles feel sore, like she’s just finished a brutal sword match with five of Grima Mog at the same time.

Has she been poisoned?

Pressing the heels of her palms over her eyes, Jude tries to think through the fog of pain. She runs through the list of poisons that she once upon a time routinely fed herself in order to bargain immunity. She comes up worryingly short: it isn’t wraithberry, because the speed of her pulse when she presses her fingers to her wrist is normal, if a little slow from slumber. It isn’t blusher mushroom, either, because paralysis should have set in by now. And the fact that she woke up from sleep at all refutes the possibility of deathsweet.

Her body aches, her head is pounding, her blood is cold underneath her skin despite all of the blankets, and more than anything, she’s pissed.

It’s either someone failed spectacularly at poisoning her properly, or whatever it is, it’s something completely new.

And new means that she has no immediate plan for it. New means that she’s just as helpless as anyone else.

All she has consumed up to this point came from the food tray she ate from before she set out for Insear. That immediately rules it out because then that means that Cardan should also be –

Her thoughts screech to a halt.

Cardan.

She told Cardan about kissing Balekin in the Undersea.

And then she’d – blacked out.

Jude’s mind races to recall his reaction. Was he angry? Insulted? Disgusted? But just like with the poison she draws a blank. Her memory of that moment is too foggy to sift through, and she is left wondering if she’s made a mistake.

She needs to talk to Cardan. She needs to talk to him now.

That’s when Tatterfell comes bustling in.

She takes one look at Jude, her black eyes roving over her undressed form, and tuts. “You should be ready for the revel.”

Jude attempts to sit up a little straighter, but it only makes her grit her teeth when her head swims. “Where is the High King?”

“It appears he has stepped out.”

“Out?”

Tatterfell shakes her head. “He left in a hurry. The night’s revels are about to begin. Perhaps he went to check on preparations.”

“Of course. Preparations.”

If the imp is put off by Jude’s monotone responses, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she motions for her to take her place in front of the mirror. Jude makes her way over, but her body is sluggish and slow to respond. She clenches her fists and pushes herself out of bed, refusing to show any weakness in front of her old attendant.

“Anything will do for tonight,” Jude says, nodding at the closet. The last thing she cares about right now is what she’s going to wear. Her mind reels with all the things she needs to say to Cardan, with all the things that he could say to her. She’ll find him at the revel, and then they’ll… talk.

“No matter.” Tatterfell’s voice is inscrutable. “Your garments have already been provided for.”

With a flourish, she unfurls the dress that she is carrying over her arms. It’s styled after a peacock: plumed feathers of royal blue and vibrant turquoise make up the bodice, and a fall of shimmering, night sky fabric makes up the skirt.

Despite everything, Jude’s eyes go wide.

This time, there is no sleep-softened husband to help her into her clothes. No soft looks from beneath eyelashes. No lingering touches. Instead, Tatterfell unlaces the discernibly negligible back of the dress, and looks up at her impatiently.

When Jude steps into it, the soft tips of the feathers kiss her bare collarbones, and the iridescent skirt flows down close to her legs; it spreads out where it reaches the floor, the multi-colored hem fanning out to mimic the way a peacock spreads its plumage.

The effect is extraordinary. Elaborate. Extravagant.

It has Cardan written all over it.

“Troublesome affair, this Insear business,” Tatterfell remarks, pulling Jude’s hair up into a high ponytail. She’s extending the ends of it with lengths of gold-tipped feathers that spill like a peacock’s crest down her back.

Jude’s head is now twice as heavy, and her headache now twice as powerful.

It takes far more effort than it should to respond. “I expect that after tonight it won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Yes, I should very well hope so. For the king’s sake.”

The comment is odd, but Jude’s too weary to mull it over. The way the dress bares her shoulders and arms does nothing to ward off the chill on her skin. Tatterfell clucks at the gooseflesh as she begins the finishing touches of makeup and bodypaint.

“Woe the constitution of a mortal,” she mutters under her breath. It seems that the honor of attending to the High Queen of Elfhame is not enough to rid her of her conservations. “Just today your sister snapped at the servants and commanded that all meals be delivered to her rooms. Complaining of swollen feet and an aching back, of all things.”

“Yes,” Jude says, dryly, “I suspect that’s what being eight months pregnant will do to anyone.”

Tatterfell is unfazed. “She says to tell you she’s sorry to miss the revel. But she sends her well wishes to you and His Majesty.”

Looking in the mirror, Jude thinks of the way Taryn’s features have swelled and changed while carrying her child. It’s all entirely too easy to imagine the changes on herself, because they look so much alike. But as Tatterfell finishes dusting shimmering blue and turquoise powder over her eyelids and cheekbones, then her collarbones, and her wrists, the comparison ends abruptly.

The woman looking back at her in the mirror is unearthly – untouchable, in her own way. She does not look like a nauseous, fatigued human. She looks like the High Queen of Faerie, with her dress of majestic feathers and glittering stars.

The only thing missing is her king.

If he wanted me to wear something he picked out, she thinks to herself, settling her crown on top of her head, he should’ve helped put it on me himself.

Well. That means that she’ll just have to show him, and make him regret it.

_______________

The revel is in full swing when Jude arrives.

The crowd of Folk clap and bow and part to make a path for her, and she gets her full glimpse of Cardan’s Insear peace revel for the first time.

He’s outdone himself. The high ceilings of the ballroom are a mastery of golden lanterns and strings of deep blue roses. No branch goes unadorned, no vine left empty. The whole room is effused with soft, enchanting light, the revelers plied with glasses of bubbling, aquamarine liquor. Even the moss on the walls seem to glow with serene luminescence. This is no space for fighting or hostility. A peace revel, through and through.

And it’s with a jolt that Jude realizes that the room, the decor – the gold, the blue, the turquoise –

It matches her. It matches her dress.

Here, in this revel that Cardan has crafted, she completely and wholly belongs.

Something trips in her chest. It might be her heart.

Jude turns her head immediately toward the throne, where she knows he’ll be waiting. The gravity in the room shifts the moment Cardan comes into her field of vision, and she finds herself tilting in his direction without even thinking. It is disconcerting, how easily he pulls her toward him. She can’t tell if it’s because he wields the power of all of Elfhame or because she’s hopelessly in love with him.

Tonight he wears a cape of ebony feathers and silver chains; dressed head to toe in black, he is the stark midnight contrast to her. He looks every inch the king she made him. His smile holds more promise than a knife.

Jude straightens her back, ignoring the soreness in her limbs and the ache in her head. He wants her to come to him? Fine.

But he’s already getting up from the throne and walking away. The tips of his black curls disappear into the crowd while she stands there, frozen.

He walked away. He turned his back on her.

The fury is icy in her veins. The feeling is close to embarrassment if she were being truthful with herself, but in this moment, she can’t care enough to think about it. She stalks after him, as gracefully as she can amidst the crowd of revelers watching her every move, and she ends up following the tail of his feathered cape all the way up to the secret door behind the throne. Jude sweeps aside the curtain of evergreen and storms inside.

The room has been altered only slightly for the revel. There is the same couch pushed up against the far corner, but the ceiling has been painted over in golden constellations to match the glowing lanterns outside.

“Interesting choice for a meeting place.”

The voice comes from behind her, and Jude moves on instinct. The knife comes from the holster on her ankle, and it gleams silver under the ivy-filtered moonlight as she turns on her visitor, shoving him roughly against the mossy wall.

“I was wondering where you were keeping that,” Cardan says, idly.

“Cardan,” Jude hisses. “How did you sneak up on me?” She hadn’t heard him approach at all. Just how badly is the poison affecting her?

He raises an imperious eyebrow, looking far too comfortable for someone with a knife to his throat. “Must I remind you, I am every bit a part of the Court of Shadows as you are.”

She grits her teeth. “I was supposed to be following you.”

“Yes. And then I decided to follow you instead.” Now both of his eyebrows go up. “I didn’t foresee that you would pick here of all places, what with the revel and all, but I can’t say I’m not intrigued.”

“Stop deflecting.” Because that’s exactly what he’s doing, isn’t it? With his easy posture and the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. She sees right through him, but not enough to understand why there’s a mask in the first place. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Something shutters in his expression, the edges of his amusement going the slightest bit duller. “No, Jude. You’re the only thing I can’t run away from.”

She presses him harder against the wall. She’s too tired for any of this. Her body aches. Her head hurts. She doesn’t have the energy or the patience left for another one of Cardan’s moods. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But instead of answering, Cardan hooks his ankle behind hers and pulls her stance out from under her. Jude loses her balance, and he uses the momentum to swing her around and press her against the wall. She’s too dizzy to fight it, the sudden movement making her head swim.

Her knife falls to the ground, cushioned by the soft, grassy loam.

His smile has returned. But it’s the one he hides behind, the one that she thought she was seeing less and less of when it was just the two of them together. Something cold settles in her stomach the moment she sees it.

“Shall we play a little game, darling?” he croons into her ear.

“This is no time for games,” she snaps.

“Oh, I disagree. I think this is the perfect occasion.”

“Cardan.”

“Want to know what the game is?” His voice has gone deadly soft. “It’s called, ‘Show me how he touched you.’”

Jude goes very, very still.

He pulls back just enough so that he can gauge her expression. So that she can see the hard emotion in his eyes as he looks her over. She gets the uncomfortable feeling that it’s something she should recognize.

Her first thought is that he is being facetious. She searches his eyes for any trace of drink or drug. She finds none. This is no jest. He is being entirely, unlaughably serious.

And not for the first time when it comes to him, Jude finds that she is the tiniest bit afraid.

Cardan closes the scant distance between them again, bracing an arm against the wall by her head. He doesn’t trap her physically. No, it’s much worse. He traps her by the promise of his proximity, a promise that she could gorge herself on and never get her fill.

And that’s what she’s most afraid of, really. Not him. But what she’s willing to let him do to her, if only he would come closer.

“This is all I could think of,” he murmurs, “watching you during the revel. You can never make it easy for me, can you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s not a lie.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. You have a way of doing that to me. Making me suffer with nary a forethought.”

“Cardan –”

“Tell me.” His voice is so steady, so calm. Too calm. “Did he come close to you, like this?”

As he speaks, his other hand comes up to rest on the wall as well, so that he is holding himself above her, their bodies merely inches apart.

She doesn’t respond.

“It’s easy,” he says, gently. Almost kindly. Jude doesn’t believe it for a second. “I’ll make a guess, and you tell me if I’m right. Is this how my brother approached you?”

Whatever she thought would come out of her confessing the truth about Balekin, it definitely wasn’t this.

“Answer me, Jude. Play the game.”

A short breath escapes her. “No.”

“No?”

There’s a hidden question there, and Jude realizes her response must have sounded like a rejection. She could stop this game if she wanted to. He’d let her.

But now that it’s started, now that she has him right here, in front of her, she needs to see it through. He’s saying something with his eyes and the tense lines of his body that she should have been able to decipher by now, and she has never been able to deny him. Even now, when this whole thing feels like she’s being handed a winning card that she doesn’t know what to do with, she will take everything that she can get.

She raises her chin. “No, he didn’t approach me like that.”

A slight furrow in his eyebrows, almost imperceptible, there and then gone just as quickly – it’s the first real reaction she has procured since the revel began.

“I see,” is all he says.

His hands drift lower against the walls until they are level with her waist. He’s not touching her, but she can almost imagine the feeling of them settling on her hips. “Did he put his hands on you to pull you closer?”

Jude tries to keep her voice steady. It doesn’t work as well as she wants. “No.”

He pauses. It’s difficult to see his expression, because he’s leaning down to speak in her ear now and all she can see is the mess of his black curls. She wonders if he’s trying to tell if she’s lying.

“All right,” he says. “How about here?” One of his hands finally leaves the wall, rising until the backs of his fingers are a moth’s wing away from the swell of her cheek. “Did he touch you here?”

“No.”

His fingers drift lower, wandering down her jawline to the sensitive skin of her neck. He’s still not touching her. His thumb hovers at the pulse point fluttering under her skin.

“And what about here?”

Jude closes her eyes. “No.”

She can hear Cardan breathing, long inhales and deeper exhales. It’s gotten louder the longer this game went on. This game, Jude realizes, that he is trying very hard to hide behind. This game that is perhaps instead showing his hand. Little by little. She just wants him to look at her. She wants to see the emotion in his face, devoid of any artifice.

His hand poises over her collarbones, and she can almost feel the heat of his skin on hers, bared by the open collar of her dress. She wants to arch into him, close the distance that he won’t. The phantom of his touches is a physical thing she feels in the pit of her stomach.

She waits for the question. But this time it doesn’t come right away, as if he is afraid to even ask it, as if he doesn’t want to hear the answer. Jude has to wonder at his hesitation now. “Did he –”

Jude cuts him off, because there is something she realizes she should have made clear from the beginning. Something that she can’t believe she has waited this long to say. It seems they both have a long way to go until they are rid of the games they have grown so used to. Until then, she will meet him on this chosen battleground.

“No, Cardan.” She steels herself beneath him, and reaches up to take his hand, suspended in the air, in her own. He stills. Their hands drop, intertwined, between them. “The answer will always be no. He didn’t touch me. Not like that. Cardan, he could barely stand to kiss me.”

He says nothing, and Jude barrels on.

“He thought I was under a geas,” she explains. “No one knew that I was resistant, not him, not Orlagh. It was my choice to pretend. I had to, or they’d kill me. Towards the end, Balekin told me to kiss him the way I kiss you.” She’s never told anyone this before. “I think… I think he wanted to know something. Something about you.”

Abruptly, Cardan steps back.

Jude gets her first good look at him since the whole revel started. And she is stunned to the raw, blazing emotion written plainly in his face. His mask is gone now. Any hint of a carefully crafted smile has been replaced by the hard set of his mouth. Any fickle amusement in his eyes has been burned out by something more powerful. She watches, pinned to the wall, as a muscle ticks in his jaw.

Jude is struck by the ominous feeling that they’ve reached a point of no return.

Something like self-preservation kicks in, making her straighten her spine under the force of his emotion. “I don’t regret it. I did what I had to.”

It’s only a beat later that she understands, on some level of animal instinct – saying that has just made it worse.

Cardan snaps.

It happens so fast – and Jude is already so lightheaded – that she finds herself falling against the couch in the far corner within the dizzying blink of an eye. She hits the cushions, the high velvet back of the couch engulfing her.

Cardan looms over her, planting a knee into the cushions between her legs. “You say that like it’s supposed to make me feel better,” he snarls, and, oh, the way his voice shoots through her blood. His hands are clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white.

Jude fights against the protests of her aching body and struggles to sit up. “I don’t understand.” Cardan doesn’t let up, dropping to his hands and knees above her. She sinks back into the ridiculously padded armrest at her back, glaring. His mouth finds its place beside the shell of her ear.

“Jude. You know me better than that.” One hand curls against the back of her neck, and she jumps at the feel of his touch, searing hot against her clammy skin. He angles her head closer as he speaks. “I am neither good, nor gentle.” His voice lowers into something rough around the edges – Jude is surrounded, overwhelmed by the sudden nearness of him. “And I do not forgive.”

Cardan’s mouth descends upon hers.

It’s not the kiss that she’s been waiting for ever since they got interrupted in their bed. It’s not the kiss she would have received from the one who had dressed her so gently, so carefully after they woke.

No. This is something else entirely.

Cardan kisses her like he would kiss an enemy: hard, calculated, every move bearing specific intent. He is demanding something from her with the insistent press of his lips, and she can barely keep up.

Pinned as she is under the warm weight of his body, Jude can only kiss back in kind, the worthy opponent she has trained herself to be. When he presses her back against the cushions, she licks at the seam of his mouth. When he hooks one of her legs around his hips, she tangles her fingers into his hair, desperate with the urge to retaliate.

He groans into her mouth.

But as her mind begins that slow, familiar slide, Jude is struck by the feeling that this kiss is a battle she’s not going to win. Because she’s finally starting to understand a little of what he’s telling her.

It’s in the lingering pecks on the corner of her mouth in between searing kisses. It’s in the way he cradles her face even as he’s pulling her roughly closer. It’s in the way he’s holding on to her, hands fisted in the shimmering fabric of her skirts, even though she’s already wrapped tightly around him.

She thought, all this time, that he was angry with her. Furious. Outraged.

She’s not so sure anymore.

They break apart with the same abruptness with which they came together. She knows it now, this kiss has changed something, chipped away at the final vestiges of whatever mask he was hiding behind.

“Jude.” Her name is a barely veiled plea. “I need you to indulge me something.” That’s when she hears it, that first crack of something fragile breaking in his voice. She feels a tender thing, right there behind her ribcage, unfurl at the sound of it.

“Of course,” she says, immediately, without thinking. “Anything.”

A sigh leaves Cardan’s body. She could have sworn it looked like relief.

But then Jude is swearing for a different reason, because Cardan is now suddenly moving down her body. The breath gets caught in her throat.

“What are you doing?”

“Let me take it away,” he says, voice muffled by her collarbones. “Let me burn away the memory of him. Of the Undersea.”

It takes longer than it should for her mind, honeyed by his kisses, to catch up. She rears back a little, but he’s already leaving a trail of wet marks over the exposed tops of her breasts. “Cardan. The revel. We don’t have time for this.”

His head bows under some strong emotion. The feathers on her dress stand out stark against his dark head. “How dare they,” he whispers. “How dare they use you–” He sends a growl of frustration into the skin of her neck, resuming his path downwards with fevered determination. “I couldn’t do anything then.” He punctuates his sentence with a bruising kiss on the soft spot right underneath her ear, and she squirms. He’s touching all the places he’d asked her about during their game. “Let me do this now.” Another kiss, his lips leaving a wet mark above the crest of feathers between her breasts. She arches into him without forethought. “Indulge me this. I beg of you.”

And this is what gives Jude pause. Because Cardan never begs.

When he reaches down to hook her right leg over his shoulder – when he presses another hot, open-mouthed kiss on the sensitive, tender skin of her ankle –

Jude groans, throwing her head back. It’s an acquiescence and a surrender all at once.

Cardan makes quick work of the silk underwear beneath her dress. It’s gone before she can even protest, lost to the grassy carpet beneath them, and swiftly forgotten. Her husband begins a new path with his mouth, trailing lips and tongue now up the length of her leg. First past her ankle, then up to her bare calf, littering his way with featherlight kisses.

When he gets to her knee, Jude is a mess of anticipation and rumpled blue skirts beneath him. All aches and chills are forgotten. Eyes alight with dark mischief, he traces the tip of his tongue against the fold of her knee, with the barest hint of suggestion, taking his sweet time.

“Cardan,” she says through gritted teeth. “No more games. Just hurry up.”

She is rewarded when he abruptly turns his head and sucks a searing bruise into the inside of her thigh. She jolts, the heel of her foot digging into his shoulder, and he has the nerve to chuckle.

She stares at the swollen curve of his lips, the traces of peacock blue dust on his cheekbones, the way he’s kneeling before her now as if in reverence, and wonders if he was created for her own destruction.

It certainly feels that way when he finally lowers his mouth and seals his lips over her.

Jude falls back against the cushions with a soft moan, muffled against her palm.

Out of all the things they have done, it is somehow this that brings out some semblance of shyness in her. As if she can’t believe how much she enjoys it – but, of course she enjoys it, because Cardan’s mouth has never been anything but wicked, his fingers anything but clever. No, it’s that she can’t quite believe how much he enjoys doing it to her.

And damn him if he doesn’t get her every fucking time.

He presses his lips to the wetness at her entrance, and Jude swallows the next gasp that threatens to leave her lips.

“None of that.” She feels his breath, hot against her slick flesh, when he speaks. She almost whines at the interruption. “Let me hear you properly.”

“Cardan, the revel.” Her words are more breath than actual words. “They’ll hear.”

As if in response, Cardan licks. One long, luscious stroke up the length of her. Opening her up. Making her feel him, right where she wants him. When he reaches her clit, the tip of his tongue flicks over it, the pressure intense and then gone again just as fast. Her whole body jerks, as if the pleasure is a force like an electric shock up her spine.

“Let them hear.” A slow grin spreads his lips, shinier now than they were moments before. “Don’t you want them to?”

The thought that anyone can come in at any moment and see the Queen with her skirts pushed up to her hips, and the King kneeling before her with her legs thrown over his shoulders – well. It sounds like the exact kind of danger that Jude thrives on.

“I –” But she doesn’t get to finish her sentence. Cardan pounces on the hesitation in her voice and sucks her clit into his mouth. Jude’s spine leaves the cushions, her hands fisting in his hair for anything to hold on to. Another moan would have left her mouth as well, but she’s determined not to give him the satisfaction.

She’s not sure how long she will last.

“One last game,” he says, eyes burning. “I’ll touch you in all the places my brother didn’t –” His thumb continues his work while he speaks, rubbing slow, steady circles that are both too much and not enough “– and in return, you’ll let me know how good you feel. You’ll let everyone outside this room know if that’s what it takes.”

This, she learned early on, is something that Cardan has always known more about than her. And the more time that he has spent learning her body has only proven to her how little she stands a chance against him on this particular battlefield. It is one of the few things that she can never begrudge him for being better than her at.

Even now, when he’s wielding it against her, she can’t begrudge him a thing. How can she, when he returns his mouth to her clit and sweeps his tongue over her so perfectly – fast, even strokes across the entirety of it, exactly the way she likes it, as if he means to evaporate the ghost of Balekin’s kiss with every flick. How can she, when he swirls a fingertip at her entrance, nudging it inside just enough so that she can feel the barest of stretches, just enough so that her hips immediately roll trying to get more.

Time melts away after that. Jude’s head is thrown back against the couch, and stars fill her vision, the myriad of constellations painted on the ceiling blurring together into specks of glitter and gold, disjointed and effervescent like the pleasure coursing through her body.

She can barely remember the cold depths of the Undersea. There is only his touch, skin warmed against skin, and his mouth, his lips, his tongue, hotter than anything she’s ever felt before.

“You like this a little, don’t you? Knowing that the entire kingdom is out there waiting for us.” And as if on cue, the music swells as the revelers begin another dance, their cheers audible through the thin mossy walls of the room. “They’re right outside, Jude. Do you think they’ll hear it when you come?”

Her answer is a whimper. She passed the point of words a long many moments ago. The sounds are escaping her mouth with more abandon. He’s done his best to wear her down, and it’s working far too well.

She can feel something immense building tight in her belly. She’s a tiny bit afraid of what it took to get her here. She’s a tiny bit afraid of how little more she needs before it all comes crashing down.

“Do you want to know what I was thinking about when I saw you walk into the room tonight, wearing the dress I handpicked for you?” The sound she makes is less a query and more of a plea for him to continue, whether it’s speaking or ruining her with his mouth, she’s not entirely sure anymore. “I thought to myself that the Undersea will live in nothing but fear, for all the time that you draw breath. And then I thought about how their fear will never be good enough for you.”

He times the next swirl of his tongue – the hardest one thus far – with a perfectly placed flick of his finger, hooking behind her pubic bone and pressing up against that spot that makes her feel like bursting. And it’s over.

Jude comes with something that’s very nearly a scream, if only she weren’t digging her teeth into the back of her hand. Her toes curling. Her body writhing. It builds and it builds, like an earthquake ready to rend her world apart.

She returns to herself only to find that she’s thrown her arms up over her eyes: it’s blessedly dark and uncomplicated behind her eyelids. She finds that she’s a little embarrassed by how strongly he’s made her come. It’s slow work lowering her arms and peeling her eyes open, and when she finally sees him, she’s struck to the bone by the intensity of his gaze.

Even though she’s the one that’s just come all over his mouth and hands, he’s the one that looks like he’s received something he doesn’t deserve.

Cardan leans over her once more to smooth down the fall of her skirts, to fix the positioning of the feathers on her chest. Without thinking, her arms come up to wrap around his shoulders and to bring him closer but then – he’s pulling away.

“I knew the dress would suit you,” he says, eyes burning with something unsated, lips swollen and shining with the evidence of what he’s done to her. “You were never one to hide your true colors.”

And then he stands and walks away.

Again.

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Chapter Visuals:

Moodboard.

Inspiration for Cardan.

(The artist is @nanfe on Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram.)

Inspiration for Jude’s peacock dress.

(Context: I want to be Tessa Virtue when I grow up, but it’s unfortunately not going to work out because one, who am I kidding, and two, I pulled a muscle just watching this, so suffice to say an Olympic career is definitely not in the cards for me. Still, this video takes my breath away, and bonus, the song arguably fits Jude really well, too.)

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[End Notes]

I wrote this chapter intending it to mirror that scene in Chapter 15 of The Wicked King (you know which one I’m talking about). I also tried to play with the canon idea of Jude being an “unreliable” narrator when it comes to understanding Cardan. As with all things, she doesn't make it easy.

Would love to know what you think! ❤️

P.S. Why, yes, that is a Dark Shadows (2012) reference.

#jude x cardan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #tfota #tfota fanfic #jurdan #jurdan fic #jurdan fanfic #The Folk of the Air #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #tcp #tcp fic #twk #tqon #fic: homeland #zita writes

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yukiwrites · 4 years ago

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Sothis, Loathing

Thank you so much for the support as always, @xpegasusuniverse! I hope you like it!

Summary: In Askr, there were many stories of Heroes who had fought against Dragons of Destructions back in their own worlds, to the point that at least one out of three people had come from a world threatened by an evil dragon. Sothis felt the presence of one tailing her as she and Byleth went to look into their circumstances...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

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Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Having a physical body was more exhausting than Sothis remembered; if she had any memories at all, though.

Not counting the pesky Golden Deer poking at her patience at every waking moment, there was also the issue of walking with your own two feet to move from place to place. Never would Sothis think that she would’ve preferred to be a non corporeal being if it meant never having to stomp her bare foot on the cold stone again.

Of course, it wasn’t as though she actually had to stomp on the floor, but not stomping wasn’t an option, especially whenever she felt irritated, so the goddess could always be seen wearing a scowl unbefitting of her small stature. She crossed her arms as she and Byleth headed to the library as it had been their custom for the past few days.

Commander Anna and the Summoner had made it seen through their actions that the books in Anna’s office weren’t privy to the heroes, so it fell on Byleth and Sothis themselves to research their circumstances. Unexpectedly enough, there were many books that hailed from Fódlan in that strange, almost mystical, library. It looked like the size of a small room from the outside, but spammed rows and more rows of bookcases as though they headed ad infinitum.

Once they entered, Byleth immediately made eye contact with Robin, the ylissean tactician.

“Oh, Byleth. Reading again today?” The white-haired man smiled politely, nodding to his fellow researcher.

“Yes. Literature from my own world hasn’t been helpful so I wanted to broaden my scope.” The Professor replied with a business-like tone, making Robin nod in agreement.

“Mhm, mhm. I, too, read many books from other worlds while looking into my own, so I can give you a few recommendations if you want?”

“That sounds wonderful.” Byleth concurred, stealing a glance at Sothis as though she was a child getting in the way of adult’s talk.

She squinted once their eyes met, as though she could read his thoughts. “Even if I possess a physical body at the moment, it does not mean that our shared mindscape is empty, you fool.”

Perhaps it was because Sothis was a non corporeal being from the start, but Byleth found it difficult to access their mindscape once they reached Askr, so hearing her confirm that she had access to his thoughts to some degree only made his smile grow.

He patted Sothis on the head as he chatted away with Robin, picking up the tactician’s suggested books before heading to an empty table. The three of them sat there -- Byleth and Sothis on one side with Robin opposite of them -- as they discussed the similar topics of their worlds as well as other interesting connections.

Robin tried to insert Sothis into the conversation from time to time as well, but she only rolled her eyes and pretended not to hear him, wanting to have nothing to do with a conversation borne out of pity.

It’s here again, Sothis thought with annoyance as she felt a piercing gaze burn a hole at the back of her neck,. She had felt someone observing her movements the day after they had arrived, wondering what they could possibly want from a goddess that’s probably not even the one they had in their world.

Narrowing her eyes, Sothis looked back from her seat, seeing the tips of a fluttering cape -- or cloak -- disappear behind a large bookshelf.

She then jumped onto the floor from the tall chair, landing without a sound as Byleth checked on her with the corner of his eyes. She tapped on his hand before leaving, as though signaling him that she would be close.

Nodding, Byleth simply let her do as she pleased and kept talking with Robin.

The only sound following Sothis was the low hiss of her long dress dragging behind her calm yet rushed steps towards that revolting presence she had felt observe her.

The moment she reached the bookshelf, she crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side, most likely to make herself sound imposing although she could barely reach people’s chests with her short height.

“State your business at once.” Sothis commanded with the authority of a goddess towards the malevolent aura that surrounded the man Sothis had just been with back at the table: the presence wore Robin’s face and body like a cloak.

“... Why are you so chummy with your vessel?” Grima’s distorted voice sounded from deep within Robin’s throat, making Sothis narrow her eyes even more at the disturbing question. Sothis stole a glance at the table, confirming that Robin and Byleth were still chatting away.

“You are not making any sense. Vessel?” She turned her gaze to this revolting individual.

Grima, who had been slouching by the bookcase, stood straight as his scrutinizing gaze observed the little girl in front of him. “I have been watching you and your vessel for the past few days, but it is truly an incomprehensible sight, so I’ve had no choice but to ask. Why are you forming bonds with him when all you’ll do is overlap his ego with yours?”

Sothis’s eyes shook and she almost forgot how to breathe. “What manner of nonsense are you speaking of right now? It is indeed true that we are here in search of ways to separate ourselves but- for me to take over a body that isn’t mine?”

The man surrounded in a dark aura took one hand to his chin in thought as he observed the girl in silence. After a few seconds, his eyes slowly widened as though he had come to a conclusion. “You truly have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Enough with this play with words!” Sothis seethed, somehow remembering to keep her voice down despite stomping her foot hard on the wooden floor.

Shaking his head, Grima peeked at the direction of the table, watching as another vessel that was made specifically for him laughed as though his future wasn’t set in stone. He slowly opened his mouth to speak. “I, too, suffered from memory loss after taking over this body -- I still have gaps in my memory, so I’ll let you in on a good piece of information, from one god to the other: that man you’re so attached with, he’s even more twisted than this flesh I wear.” Grima placed one hand over his own chest. “You managed to make a meat-puppet that was capable of thought while infusing him with your own power as his center.”

Everything Grima said flew right over Sothis’ head, making the girl blink in confusion. However, Grima continued.

“For me to be able to inhabit this body, I had to wait a millennia for the right vessel to be born. Countless years I waited for the right combination of blood and darkness to gather in a human so I could wear him to unleash my power to the world.” Grima spoke nonchalantly, as though they were talking a stroll. A devious smirk grew on the corners of his mouth. “But this? You managed to accurately craft a jar of flesh and blood with the minimum of free will necessary to make your take over as smooth as possible. It is inspiring -- perhaps the next body I inhabit will be crafted to perfection just so I don’t have to deal with that buzzing ego that never seems to go away.”

The tips of Sothis’ fingers grew cold at the sheer absurdity of what she was hearing. Her heart beat wildly inside her chest -- something that would be impossible were it not for Askr’s magic -- which also made her recall some long lost memories.

They were simple glimpses of what once was, and immediately disappeared from her memory as she grasped them, like dust to the wind. She felt like the darkness of those who live under the ground was shaking her very being into remembering something vital to her sense of self.

Each time she saw it, she forgot it immediately. Only the vague and unsettling sense of foreboding engulfed her like a wave.

“Do not-” her voice shook, “do not compare me to servants of the darkness like you filth!” Sothis’ shoulders trembled, though not by fear nor self-preservation.

She was angry.

She was furious.

That entire speech hit her the wrong way, making the girl want to stomp on that bug who wore Robin’s face.

Grima, however, threw his head back in a low, mocking chuckle. “Servant? I am the lord. Wherever I step, darkness follows.” His sharp gaze pierced into hers, as though they shared a battle of wills.

That made Sothis open and close her fists lest she used the draconic power inside of her to obliterate that lowly being that dared to suggest that she- that she did something so inhumane!

“Besides, it is fruitless to direct your anger at me; the deed is done and the meat-puppet grew into a fine specimen ready for the overtaking.” Grima pointed at Byleth’s back, accurately pointing to the place where his heart would be. “The center of your power is there, you need simply to call upon it.”

Angry as she might’ve been, Sothis felt compelled to look at the direction the finger was pointing. She gasped once she noticed something she had never paid attention to before.

Perhaps it was because she and Byleth had shared the same body, so it was a different issue to be able to pinpoint something within one’s shared body and when looking from the outside. Sothis could see that Grima’s finger pointed straight to the center of Byleth’s body; to the place that his heart should’ve occupied.

She felt a power akin to her own in there -- no, it wasn’t merely ‘akin’, but identical! She could feel as though a piece of herself was there, right inside Byleth’s heart.

Or perhaps, it was there in place of his heart, as the core of his entire being.

When had she left that power there? Was it the reason why Byleth had been so apathetic the first time they met?

Loathe as she was to trust Grima’s words, Sothis couldn’t help but feel that what he had said was true: Byleth barely had had an ego before he started teaching. He also had the power of a god sleeping inside of him.

Perhaps the anomaly in this case was Sothis appearing in his mind instead of overtaking his body right away as Grima suggested.

She had heard about Grima from Robin during their constant meetings in the library, so Sothis was aware of how a god could descend onto a human being of their choice -- but to think that Byleth seemed like a fabricated being that would only serve as her medium to the world?

That felt wrong. No, that felt terrible.

Was Sothis this kind of person before she lost her memories? Someone so terribly calculating that they would make an entire new body from scratch and imbue it with some power before being allowed to take over it once the time came?

Sothis was confused.

She felt repulsed by Grima’s acts, but since there was not much for her to go on regarding her and Byleth’s situations since it all already happened, there was nothing Sothis could do apart from keep on researching.

Robin wasn’t even the only proof of a god descending on a human’s body in this world, either, so the more Sothis thought about it, the more sense Grima’s words made. But she refused to even think that he could have been right at some point, not wanting her own self to be someone she loathed.

Noticing the horror in the girl’s eyes, Grima simply took a few steps back to hide beneath the shadows, ever observing these new players that had come to this immense play that was the world Askr.

#fire emblem three houses #feheroes #fe3h #fire emblem heroes #byleth fire emblem #sothis fire emblem #my writings #yuki's commissions

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iturbide · 3 years ago

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More Crest Control Edelgard in Heroes

(CheeseAndCake here) I just want to let you know that the CC!Edargard art is amazing, and it works as both a thank you and a bribe. Here is the accepted bribe’s payment! More Crest Control Edelgard in Heroes snippets have been delivered! Enjoy!

(Also, Me? Shamelessly inserting my headcanon that Almyra uses non-gendered language? It’s more likely than you think.)

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It’s only after a long, tense, chat with the Crèche Guardians that Edelgard allows herself to relax on the bench in the dining room, and return her dagger to its hiding place. She left it on the table where both parties could see- and neither could easily grab- as a sign of good will, which for the most part seems to have worked.

The previous conversation wasn’t pleasant in the slightest, but it was something she needed to hear, and the distrust is warranted, since her past- and alternative- selves are here as well.

Considering what they might have done, she’s surprised she wasn’t set on fire the moment she entered.

Most of the castle is empty by now, aside from the occasional hero on patrol, which suits her fine. The silence gives her room to think.

She doesn’t know how long she sits on the bench to process the meaning of the words said- each of them have their own cultures, their own beliefs, so many reject the title of god, some find it holding a different meaning, some- the dragonkin aren’t one collective unit- which isn’t surprising, but somehow still hard to grasp- they’re people.

And Edelgard refuses to leave this dining hall until she finds the idea at least slightly easier to understand.

If it takes a while, and the Guardians are willing to talk again while she’s still processing, the least she can do is make sure the conversation’s on neutral grounds so it doesn’t feel like an invasion.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because when she wakes up, the sun is just starting to rise over the horizon, which is surprising, since she usually has night terrors, but Askr apparently has heroes that can control dreams, so it might not be that strange.

She’s just glad she removed most of her armour before approaching the Crèche, and that this place is apparently safe enough to fall asleep without armour.

It’s only when she feels a small tug on her dress and looks down that she realises she’s not alone.

She looks down, and sees a very sleepy child with pink hair under the table. The child holds her hands out, and makes what she assumes to be an ‘up’ gesture.

Slowly, carefully, she picks up the child and paces her on the bench, and the child’s face scrunches before she moves onto Edelgard’s lap.

It’s only when the child looks directly at her face and cheerfully says “I’m Fae!” That Edelgard see’s the young girl’s forehead, remembers her visit to the Crèche, and realises she has a dragon child sitting on her lap.

For a moment, she swears her heart skips a few beats. Even now, despite everything, the word “dragon” in her mind still conjures an image of a fairy-tale creature, and not a… person.

She shoves that disgusting line of thinking to the side, and forces herself to think of anything else. No bad thoughts around the child. Second thoughts are more important than the first.

The Grima’s were going to kill her.

Think. She talked to Claude about this in Fodlan, didn’t she? Humanising comes from learning about the individuals. You are sitting in a room holding a- an adorable, tired, child with pink hair. Ask the child something. Anything. What’s a good thing to ask a child?

“So, Fae-“ Calm, casual, voice. Gentle, good, “What’s your… favourite colour?”

She really needs to learn how to talk to children.

If Claude ever found out about this, she’s going to strange him with his own sash. She could practically hear him saying “It’s a learning experience, Edelgard!” In the back of her mind.

Fae blinks a few times and smiles up at her. “Purple!”

“Oh, because of your hair? You have very pretty hair.” She didn’t make a move to ruffle the girl’s hair, but she shifted into what she hoped would be more comfortable for the little one.

“No! It’s the colour of mama and papa’s wings!”

“That sounds-“ don’t panic, don’t panic, “- lovely. Did you get your wings from them?” -don’t panic. This is a small, fragile child, if you panic, she will cry. Think you your younger- don’t think of that, it will make you panic-

“Nope! Fae’s wings are-“ Fae yawns and stretches, before curling up against Edelgard’s chest, “-white! But! Fae still has feathers, like them!”

“They must be very beautiful.” This time, Edelgard makes sure to pat Fae on the head since she’s giving Edelgard the same look cats give her when they want affection. “Fae, did you stay up late to spy on your parents?”

Because if there’s one thing all children do, no matter what their backgrounds, it’s staying up late to listen in on your parents.

“Hmmm…” Fae blinks slowly, and wriggles to get herself in a more comfortable position. “Yep!”

And then Fae falls asleep.

Edelgard has no idea how to move without waking up the child, and she’s pretty sure at this rate, no matter what, the entire Crèche is definitely going to kill her.

“You look uncomfortable.” A new voice rings out, and instinctively, her right hand goes to her dagger and she tightens her grip on the child in her arms.

Edelgard glances at the man with long red hair, relaxing as she realises he’s one of the Crèche’s caretakers. “I have no idea how to talk to children.”

The man lets out a small, relieved smile, and sits next to her.

“Give it time. It will come.” He says casually. Then, he leans over the child in her arms, holds his hand out, and whispers, “Fae, come on, your mama and papa are going to panic if they realise you’re missing.”

Just like that, the small, half asleep, child practically falls into the man’s arms, and whispers “Warm.”

The man lets out a soft laugh and says, “I’ll be returning the little one to her parents. Thank you for looking after her. My name is Arvis.”

“It’s no problem. My name is Edelgard, though I’m guessing you’ve already ment several versions of me.” She nods in response as the man- Arvis- leaves the hall with Fae in his arms.

—————————————

The next Crèche Caretaker she meets is named Lyon, a soft-spoken man with purple hair and kind eyes, who volunteered to talk to her about the Crèche’s activities after he saw her listening to Emmeryn. Apparently, that was what convinced him she was serious about wanting to understand the dragonkin and change.

The conversation was mostly natural, talking about the children’s’ favourite fairy tales, their favourite games, so on and so forth, until Lyon spoke about his fallen self.

Because Lyon- and the entire Crèche, apparently- use future tenses for his fallen self, but the guilt she can see in his eyes is an entirely different type.

“You’re lying.” She says it softly with a sigh, but perhaps it comes out blunter than intended. It needs to be said, because if what that implies is true, then she needs to know. No, she doesn’t need to know, but it’s something that will haunt her if she doesn’t at least ask.

“Pardon?” Thankfully, he doesn’t sound offended, only cautious and curious.

“You don’t have the eyes of someone trying to fight their fate.” She explains, keeping her voice low, in case the former prince wants to keep it a secret, “Or someone resigned to it. You’re not from before you’re fallen self, you’re from after, aren’t you?”

Just for a moment, she sees a shadow pass over his face, and his eyes seem to become so much older and wiser. “…Yes.”

Hope is a dangerous, terrifying thing. It’s not something that Edelgrad believes in, but in that moment, it crawls through her stomach and into her mouth, and she can’t help asking, “Did death bring you peace from the Demon King?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember, but…” He smiles, sadly as he looks at her. He doesn’t comment on the question. He doesn’t need to, “I can hope.”

—————————————

It’s rare to see Claude- and of the Claudes- on his own, since she usually sees him with the Crèche- who she’s giving space to approach her, no matter how hard the waiting is- with the Grimas’ twins and the other tacticians, or with his Golden Deer, which she knows to stay away from, since most give her death glares she approaches.

So, when she sees one of the older ones alone, she decides to ask him for a game. His strategies are always interesting and versatile, and she finds herself missing the matches they would play in their spare time.

“Sun’s light warm you and wyverns’ sing, Claude, High Ruler. Would you be willing for a game of Shatranj?” She asks, giving her usual greeting as she approaches him. He’s standing next to an empty table big enough to fit the board on, and she knows he always carries a small set with him when he can.

for just a second when the words leave her lips, Claude’s expression perfectly matches a deer’s when it sees a hunter, and he slowly sits on the chair. His expression becomes a calm mask and doesn’t change, and that’s how she knows she surprised him.

Claude. Surprised. She doesn’t know what to do with the information.

“I should let you know, I’m not king yet,” Claude corrects, somewhat stained and somewhat gentle, as if he hasn’t completely thought his words though, “Brave me has that honour.”

Oh. Oh, that’s embarrassment burning in her gut, but she can’t take back her words. Ruthlessly she shoves it down. There are better times for shame, and this isn’t one of them.

“Oh? I never did learn how to greet a prince.” Do it. Ask. Implications give nothing. Shame in asking is worthless. Somehow, the idea that she would have been too ashamed to ask before gives her what she needs to push on, “Would you be willing to teach me?”

“Sure, it’s: ‘Heir of High Ruler’ if you want to be super formal about it, but most people just use ‘Heir’ for any child of a governing family.” She can tell Claude’s been caught off guard, but now that he knows where the conversation is going, he has it under control. “‘Wyverns’ sing’ is also only used after the person’s Rite of Challenge.”

“Ya-kessh?” She repeats, butchering the pronunciation.

“No, Heir.” It rolls off his tongue naturally, and Edelgard bites the inside of her lip to stop her frustration and embarrassment from rising. Not the time, not the place.

“Heir-ch?” She says, forcing herself to try again. She can do this.

“Heir.”

“There you go.” Claude responds with an easy smile. It’s not perfect, but Edelgard can practice later.

Edelgard rolls her eyes. She’s worked for Claude often enough to know that type of smile isn’t completely real. “The offer for Shatranj is still there, Claude, Heir, do you accept?”

“With joy, Edelgard, Ruler of Land and People.”

“I lost that title years ago, Edelgard, Commander, is as formal as I’m going to allow you to go.”

Claude’s smile becomes sharper as he places his pieces, and Edelgard allows herself to smile in return. This was going to be fun.

In the end, she loses, again, which really isn’t surprising. Against someone like Claude, it doesn’t sting that much.

______________________________________________________________

[AN: yes, Edelgard did 100% refer to the Robins as “the Grimas’ twins,” since she doesn’t really know their history.]

[On another note, how do you think the Bad End cast would react to CC!Edelgard? I’m not going to write anything for that, I’m just really curious.]

______________________________________________________________

#submission #cheeseandcake #fire emblem: three houses #fire emblem: heroes #dragon creche #crest control #i've read this so many times now #i really wanted to finish the duo hero art before clearing out my inbox #just to make sure i didn't lose momentum #but i keep going back to this and reading it #and i absolutely love how cc!edelgard is clearly still working on things #she's in the process of unlearning bad habits #and has to remind herself about the good ones that she's trying to replace them with #because yeah changing that kind of mindset is really hard #this kind of growth is incredible and i absolutely love all of it #from her pushing herself to ask claude about how to address a prince #instead of shutting down because she feels she embarrassed herself #or talking herself through interacting with a tiny dragon child #when she still hears 'dragon' and thinks 'inhuman monster'#it's just such good character writing and i love every bit of it #this is an absolute gift #so i'm definitely going to write some bad end interactions to cc!edelgard for you

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woahhiperson · 4 years ago

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Making a new au so here we go:

The ‘idk wot to call it yet au’

So Naga and Grima both have religions connected to them, but what if the Cult of Grima disbanded after Grimas defeat by the first exalt? So people stopped believing in Grima. Grima became another myth, another scary story to tell in the woods to unnerve people.

So Robin is born, but he has the same parents as canon. So he ends up with the right lineage and genes to be

The vessel for Grima!

But no one knows that.

Robin grows up as a tiny bean (his mom IS around and validar isnt a meanie because haha no grima to make all those issues and because i need robin to be happy this au might end up really angsty) and then he turns five or somethin and Robin begins to hear a voice in his head. At this age it is very faint, much like a whisper, and he tells someone, but they just tell him ‘thats your thinking voice’. Robin goes with that for quite awhile until he line 9 or 10 and he’s like ‘this aint my thinking voice’, cause 1: he has a thinking voice and this one is very different, and 2: this one doesnt even have his personality. So Robin once again tries to tell everyone and they deny it again (possibly trying to pass it off as an imaginary friend??).

Robin is frusterated but goes along with it. Time passes, and Robin is now a teenager. the voice gets louder and meaner and he still has no idea what it is. Then he turns eighteen. The voice is pretty much equal in volume to his own thinking voice, and its finally able to tell him “I am the Fell Dragon, Grima.” Now of course Robin is just like ‘what???’ So Robin tries to do some research. Robin is able to find one source, in a very old book. Robin reads of how Grima was ‘the god of destruction’ and how ‘he killed many people’. Robin is well, disturbed, and tries to ask the voice if it really is Grima. The voice tells him one thing: “I am the Wings of Despair, I am the Breath of Ruin, I am the Fell Dragon, Grima.” Robin is like: ok this thing might actually be in my head for some reason?? But he is also internally laughing because wile the voice was threatening, it was still quite funny to hear it almost repeat itself. Robin reads the rest of the small amount of information on Grima, and finds out Plegians used to worship him. Robin gets v e r y nervous. He IS plegian afterall. So Robin puts the book away and sits with this information for a while.

Grima continues to say the same thing, it seems only capable of saying that for now even though it used to berate Robin at almost every turn. Robin gets more nervous and tries to tell someone. Whoever it is, they laugh. They tell Robin that Grima is just a myth. ‘Its just a voice in your head. Don’t even worry about it.’ Robin is well, frusterated. He’s even a little bit scared. ‘The voice only keeps getting louder. What if it can take control?’ Robin begins to get paranoid. He tries talking to other people but they all don’t believe him, saying similar lines of ‘its a myth’. Robin feels a need to get to the bottom of this, and he is technically an adult now, so he ventures off with a small amount of gold to go find more information on The Fell Dragon.

He ventures around Plegia, but is unable to find much more information in the places accessible to him. And he even snuck in some places. He finds some buildings with Grima-like markings but they all seem run down and the few markings left were practically unreadable. All the places seemed destroyed on purpose, but destroyed long ago. (They were destroyed by the cult of grima for one reason or another, but robin dont know that) So since Plegia was lacking info, Robin decides to venture to Ylisse, because it seemed that Grima and Naga were connected somehow.

Robin is sttill unable to really find anything, and the people of Ylisse also denied Grima’s existence. Robin thinks there must be information somewhere, so he settles down in a tiny three room shack (he aint got that much money and hes currently more worried about Grima) with a kitchen, bathroom, and empty room. Robin sets up a bedroom in one half of the empty room, and uses the other half for research. He is able to get his hands on quitw a few books and tries to connect the information together. It takes a long time, and he gets little information from it. Robin starts to think that he’s going to need the more valuable history books and scripts for this.

So one day he is on his way the capitol, and is walking through a field. He is almost to the town when he stumbles and falls into the dirt. People find him and one person (yall all know where this is going) offers a hand. Robin takes it and is introduced to Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick. He learns that they are out all patrol and that Chrom and Lissa are royalty. Now this sparks a plan in Robin. He could try to see if they’d let him into the rarest history documents. So he asks and is shot down by Frederick, who is suspicious of someone just wanting access to such important documents. Chrom is like ‘Robin asked nicely so we should let him’ Frederick scolds Chrom for being too trusting. (honestly robin is kinda suspicious rn..) So they part ways.

Robin continues his search, and every once in a while, he’d find another small snippet of information. He begins to gain a reputation of ‘The guy with a weird obsession with Grima who believes the Fell Dragon lives in his mind’ and so people are a l i t t l e reluctant to give information. Robin is able to still get money through small jobs and stuff. Robin gets a little more disheveled as time goes by and Grima only gets louder. He meets Chrom on multiple occasions, and they eventually bechrom friends. Robin gets a ton of information written down and connected. But it still isnt enough.

Chrom can see how Robin is getting more frantic, and begins to worry. Robin brushes him off as he bechroms more secluded. Grima gets louder and is able to once again berate Robin. Grima begins telling Robin how no one will ever believe him and help him, how he’ll never be able to figure it out.

And so Robin goes to Chrom. The thing is, Robin liked having Chrom as a friend, so he never told Chrom about any of it. Chrom only knew he was researching something. So Robin sits him down for a chat. He starts off simple “I think the Fell Dragon, Grima, lives in my mind. Of course, Chrom laughs about it, but he stops upon seeing Robins face fall. Robin tries to tell him about it all, but unfortunately, like everybody else, Chrom was raised to believe Grima was a myth. Chrom is worried, thinking maybe Robin had been alone for too long. Chrom still wants to help, but he doesn’t believe Grima is the issue. Robin gets frusterated and attempts to politely leave, but is a little rude.

Chrom is very worried, and tells Lissa and Frederick. They also worry. Chrom wants to be a helpful bean but this information begins to spread like wildfire. If Robin wasn’t known before, he was now. This ain’t a good thing either. People make fun of Robin, and Robin begins to get more bitter and cold due to bearing constant mockery from Grima and others. Grima is at a shouting volume in Robin’s head, and is able to give Robin a headache everytime he speaks. Things are not going well, but Robin is still too paranoid to go back home.

Then Robin is sitting alone one night, looking over his information. There’s a knock on the door. He gets up to see who it is. Then he collapses. In his head is a low rumble, one that slowly rises in volume until Robin wants to shout at it to go away. His vision blurs, gaining a red tint. In the panic and pain Robin remembers something. It’s his twentieth birthday. He was born some time in the early night. The rumble stops. There’s a dead silence. Then a cold laughter begins to ring in his ears. It morphs into a sentence,”My patience has been tested.. And I won.” Robin is confused as the pain stops, and his eyes focus again. Then its as if a force slams down on him, shoving him down into his own body. His vision blurs again and he goes numb. He tries to turn his head, only to see black. He turns around in every direction. Its all a pitch black void. Everywhere but where his eyes last looked. Then the view changes, as if he’s stood up. A voice comes, slightly muffled,”Robin are you okay in there?!” It was Chrom. The laugh starts again. Its not in his head. Robins hand is brought to his face, sparking with electricity, before being moved away. He ‘walks’ and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Robin reels back as he now has six glowing red eyes, six black wings, and horns on his head. The Robin in the mirror smiles before going to open the door. Robin realizes what has happened. Grima took over. Was there a way to take control again!? Robin is quite frantic, but the void is, well, a void. No end, the only thing in there was the vision. The door is opened and Chrom is obviously taken aback, asking what had happened. Grima laughs and his hand begins to fizzle again. Luckily Chrom notices and backs away before being stabbed with a spear of electricity. Grima begins launching an attack on ‘that wretched Naga spawn’. Robin could now hear Grima’s thoughts. They really had switched places. Robin could only watch as Chrom drew his sword and the two began to fight. Both are hurt, but Robin does live in a town, and people begin to notice. Robin hears multiple gasps of ‘is that really grima??’ And similar lines. Some try to help, but they are kind of useless.

The fight chromtinues. Then Grima charges another spear, and drives it through his stomach. Robin screams. Grima laughs about that. Chrom falls unconscious, but still breathing. Grima rises into the air on his wings and continues to laugh. “You all didn’t believe the vessel, but now you can see, I have returned after so long. I am not a myth, but I am the Fell Dragon, Grima!” And Grima begins to attack the town. After a while he stops and thinks ‘can a revert to my dragon form?’ He tries, only for it to fail. Grima is furious and goes back to end Chrom for good out of rage, only to find the prince gone. Robin by now has found out that Grima cannot hear him unless he actually speaks, so he is able to internally sigh with relief as Chrom might be okay. Grima goes on a rampage and guards try to stop him, only to fail. Grima is not back to full power, but he is still extremely dangerous.

So he goes and begins to try and take over Plegia, and remake his cult. He attacks and stuff and finds Robin’s parents. They are of course freaked out and pained to know that Robin was telling the truth. Grima is able to take about half of Plegia for himself. Soon the Shepherds return and want to defeat Grima. (Haha soon... this is probably like three or four years later) Chrom is luckily alive and is quite angy about Grima taking his ‘friend’. They fight and have to retreat. They join with the Plegians that have been trapped in Grima’s controlled land and use the next 1-2 years to form a full rebellion. Grima has made the dragon’s table his home. He is finally able to conjure his dragon form, but only can keep it for about a day before needing another day’s rest. But his human form is powerful enough gor him to not need the dragon form very often. The rebellion makes its way to the Dragon’s Table, a force of about 2,000 people. Grima has countless Risen guarding and controlling his land, but the rebellion is able to get to Grima.

Grima transforms into his dragon form to end the rebellion for good, but Chrom and a few others are able to make it to him and end up on his back once transformed. They fight the summoned risen and make it to the human form. Chrom once again fights Grima. Robin, still stuck inside his own mind, feels hope. A feeling he truely hadn’t felt in years, but the only way he could think of that would get rid of Grima, was his own death. And he accepted it. Chrom and Grima both were able to go unharmed for quite a long time. Risen kept the others from helping. Then there was a loud hiss from Falchion as it sliced through the palm of his hand. It burned unlike any injury had before. Even the other cuts from Falchion on their first fight hadn’t felt like this. Grima’s vision blurred as he was partially shoved back into Robin’s mind. The dragon almost fell, quickly stabling itself. Robin stood, speechless, as he had regained partial control of his own body. He was distracted, and Falchion was able to leave a deep gash in Robin’s arm as he began to flee. Grima shouts and takes back control. But Robin isn’t completely locked away again. Where he has been cut, his hand and forearm, he could feel a small amount of control. Grima kept trying to fire magic at Chrom, but if it was cast by the right arm, Robin could mess up his aim. Grima figured this out and Robin was rendered almost useless. Robin tried to still help as both Grima and Chrom began to sustain more injuries. Robin was able to mess up Grima’s attacks and dodging. Every wound gave him more control. Soon Grima was barely able to fight, as Robin forced him to be hurt. But Chrom was also starting to struggle, as he has been sustaining multiple injuries as well. Chrom wasn’t aware of Robin’s help. He thought Robin was gone. So he went to try and slash Grima’s neck, convinced that his ‘friend’ was gone forever. Robin had gotten Grima to fall. But Robin couldn’t help but flinch, holding his right hand over his neck. The blade connected and sliced through the glowing mark that stained the hand. A great tremor shook through the dragon. Grima screamed in utter fury and agony as Robin could feel his presence fade away. The numbness turned into a sensation of wind and scales. Grima’s roar died down, his gritty voice gone. Robin felt something he had almost never felt. Emptyness. But.. It was good! Grima was.. completely gone. He couldn’t feel the god’s presence at all. His eyes began to burn. But then he saw a wrathful blade swing at him, and he had to dodge. Finally meeting eyes with Chrom after all these years. Chrom kept trying to attack him but Robin shouted,”It’s me! Grima’s gone!” Chrom only got angrier, believing Grima was just taunting him. Robin kept trying to convince him that Grima was truely gone. Then he decided to tell him,”No one ever believed me before. Please, believe me just this one time..” Chrom stopped and stared at Robin. Stumbling to Robin with wide eyes and dropping Falchion, he focused on his face. Noticing they were brown after being red for so many years. “..Robin...” Robin could only give a smile, as the now dead dragon began to drop from the sky. All the people on the back rushed to the pegasi and flew down. Once making it down to the ground safely, a cloud of dust forming and dieing down from the dragon’s impact, the Risen all fell, dead once more. The rebellion tried to attack Robin, but understood that Grima had no control over him anymore. Chrom once again turned to Robin and enveloped him in a hug as both began to shed tears, but for different reasons. Robin was still in disbelief that he was alive and free from Grima’s grasp, and Chrom could only choke out one whisper into Robin’s ear,”I love you..” Robin froze but nodded, agreeing. “I thought I lost you.” “Me too.”

(Woah that made a big space) And so they go back to Ylisse and make a cross-country announcement about Grima’s defeat and Robin’s return. They get married. But Grima did start another cult. Not everyone who was in Grima’s controlled land was in the rebellion. And upon learning of Grima’s defeat, they wanted him back. So.. is it truely over?

#fire emblem #fire emblem awakening #robin #chrom #grima talky in head au #idk ill find a better name and tag it xD #lissa #frederick #validar #grima #robins mom

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grimatactics · 4 years ago

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Bad End Me from Beruka!

Send ‘Bad End Me’ for my muse to do just that to your muse, giving them a lewd Bad End. @magnificentafterdark

Grima considered what to do, in a deserted house with Beruka restrained, wrists tied to ropes hanging from the ceiling. He thought that no-one would have known he was in this world, or at least, wouldn’t have known who he was. Or maybe the Nohrian Royal Family simply didn’t like that he was introducing himself as a prince. From what he heard, it was likely the King who would have given the order. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk an unknown element being there when he tried to take over Hoshido.

In any case, he could have simply killed her. It would have been quick and easy to do, the woman had seemed momentarily stunned when the poisoned dagger she tried to use on him simply broke when she tried to stab him... but, considering how close she was to the Royal Family... the amount of trust she had from them, which was clear from her having been chosen to attempt to murder a foreign royal... She could be a very good spy.

Grima chuckled softly, reaching out to grip her chin.

“I know you’re not a chatty one... at least not yet. So simply listen. I am going to corrupt you. Your body will be for my pleasure, and your mind will obey me.” He gave a chuckle as her look remained the same as always. “And I will enjoy watching your face turn to pleasure.” He gripped the front of her armour, Beruka barely even wincing as he yanked it away, the leather straps holding it in place tearing easily under Grima’s strength.

Her face remained impassive as he continued to strip her, until she was completely nude in front of him.

“Quite a nice body... I’m surprised that you’re an assassin, you would have made an excellent concubine~” He gave a soft, dark chuckle, as he stripped off himself... and then, there was the first hint of emotion on her face as he dropped his pants. Her eyes widened, even if only slightly, when she saw his cock.

As he moved closer though, it seemed she was ready for her last resort. As he moved closer, she reared her head back as much as she could, be slamming it forwards. If she had hoped to stun Grima, she was mistaken… if anything, it did more damage to her, it felt like slamming her head into a steel bar.

Before she had even fully recovered from it, she saw Grima doing the same as her, albiet with less effort than her, her vision whiting out for a moment and stars bursting in front of her eyes, and once her mind recovered from the rattling it had been given, Grima's cock was deep inside her, one of her legs raised.

And at this, her facade broke. It seemed Grima had found her weakness, the chink in her armour, as he pounded the assassin roughly, squealing loudly as in in agony as Grima raped her. He gave a dark chuckle at her reaction, continuing to pound her. There was a silence spell around the house, so no-one would hear Beruka unless they were inside the house as well, Beruka's modest breasts bouncing, her nipples hardening as a Beruka yelled and screamed, his cock stretching out the inside of her cunt, the head of his cock ramming her cervix.

As always, though, as he kept going, Beruka's reactions gradually changed. She didn’t seem to be able to understand the feelings that were rising in her, though. Her head leaned back, her eyes glazed over, limp as she was overcome with the unfamiliar sensations, although the leg he had raised had now slide itself around him, twitching and shuddering, occasionally tensing around him to help pull him deeper.

She definitely seemed to react when he started to cum inside her. She gasped at the rush of warmth inside her, raising her head to look down towards her stomach, where the warmth was spreading, and then up at Grima, biting her lip. But there was no more aggression for him in her. The Fell Dragon gave a satisfied smirk as he continued to empty his load into her, flooding her womb with his seed, before pulling out.

He untied her wrists, and pushed her down onto her knees.

"Clean off my cock with your mouth… and then I’ll have some questions for you."

#magnificentafterdark #long answer is long x.x

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displaced-tactician · 4 years ago

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I’ve Got a Jar of Dirt! || Sea Drabble

The curse, Anacanoa, the crest stuff.... none of it was making sense. Not a single bit of sense. Morgan wasn’t able to learn anything from the Kólga and Tethra about the relic so Morgan made the assumption that she must have ‘accidentally’ encountered it. That was assuming the relic caused the curse. Her tome had record of Morgan herself having stolen someone’s relic once, and it had hurt her quite a bit.

But then again the symptoms were different. The moment Morgan dropped that weird spear she was fine. Yet still... she couldn’t help but feel they were somewhat related? Perhaps she was wrong but it felt important to investigate.

Was it the damn turtle? If it was, Morgan would kick its butt later. The turtle didn’t matter now after all. She was coat deep in the forest searching for the local shaman Anacanoa and those fancy flowers the legend spoke of, alongside her battalion of loyal soldiers.

The soldiers took orders well and continually spread out and came back in formation to search for clues, individuals, or objects of interest. While she was young, she did eventually command their respect, and she returned it in kind.

Still Morgan’s mind stayed sharp on subject as she commanded them, what was this curse and where was this damn relic? Everything was hinging on a single theory and Morgan didn’t know if anyone else really had any other ideas. The lack of information was really bothering her. It couldn’t be the damn turtle a second time and now it had a relic, could it?

As she cut down the brush in front of her with her Levin Sword she heard a soft thud on the top of her hood, then another, and another. Then dozens in rapid succession. It was starting to rain. She was glad her cloak was relatively water resistant. Certainly not perfect, but she had to keep her tome and apple cider candies protected and safe.

Speaking of the candies, she popped one into her mouth, just to keep her mind sharp from the new sensation of flavor. There was a level of boring monotony Morgan felt wandering the forest. Tree here, tree there, oh a plant, oh an animal. Nothing.... Interesting for her. Her boredom needed to be quelled with the excitement of the candies. Yet still she wandered, more aimlessly than she had before.

It had been another couple hours before her stomach roared with the hunger of... well she’d assume only Grima could be as hungry as she was now. She could eat a bear alongside Fredrick if he was here! She sighed, her expedition a failure in the end.

She didn’t care to wander in the forest too much after today if she couldn’t find anything. Maybe one more try tomorrow? She ordered the soldiers to gather and share any rations they had with those hungry... herself included, so they could make a quick trip back to the capitol. Rations were spread amongst the battalion and everyone had a small meal before preparing to go back.

As they began to leave, one of the soldiers began complaining of a headache and nausea. As Morgan wandered over she stopped and quickly found out why. Right next to the soldier was a concentrated spot of dark energy and magic. Something... evil? Perhaps the source of the curse? Morgan jumped in excitement! FINALLY A CLUE!

“Alright new plan. We will be splitting into two groups. I think we found something.” Morgan commanded with glee. She got half the battalion to go get tents and more rations from the capitol, they’d be here for a bit after all and so would Morgan. The others, helped her do some marking. The spot itself was only a foot by a foot or so and marked with some small survey flags.

Morgan’s first test was to dig a hole and fill a jar with dirt. As she observed the jar and recognized the dark energy felt... more cut off for the glass jar. But also it diminished quite a bit in the first few hours. So it was the spot producing dark energy, not the soil. She put the jar in her robes to store, in case she needed pocket sand in the future. There was also no relic near by. By the time she drew that conclusion, tents and a small camp had been set up near by. And thus ended the first day.

The next day came and first things first, Anacanoa... where was she? Morgan sent half the team to do recon and find Anacanoa, as she began testing this evil spot.

Her next test would take... longer. For the next three days she set up men in a radius across the spot. One on it, one five meters away, and another 5 meters from the one five meters away. Through shifting her troops in and out of the spots, and of course testing it on herself, she was able to find out that after spending roughly... half an hour on the spot an individual would be... she called it “infected”. After leaving the spot the individual would be “infected” with nausea likely caused by the magical influence there. It’d wear off in a few hours but it was an “infection” of sorts.

On none of these days was Anacanoa found.

She stationed a rotation of three men to guard the area at least from a 2 meter distance. She didn’t want them any closer as distance seemed to be the safety net, but she wanted to make sure it was guarded for now.

Then it was time to scout for Anacanoa yet again, this time she’d join. Half the soldiers stayed at the camp while the other half followed Morgan further in the forest and up the mountain. The trek was difficult for the tactician. She definitely slowed down the distance of the expedition itself but still she needed to search herself. If Morgan could find these fancy flowers that would cure the curse, maybe she could find Anacanoa.

Yet after the day of searching, Anacanoa was... still no where to be found. No bones, no trace, nothing. Morgan’s best assumption was she was so far in it’d be impractical for Morgan to search for her, or she was dead. This would be sad news certainly.

But on her way down Morgan stumbled across something... interesting. Rather something peculiar. She sniffed the air and smells such a sweet and amazing smell not too far away. When she followed it she found a few... really boring flowers. Pale yellow petals but really pleasant to smell. When she neared them she felt... weird. It almost felt like the flowers didn’t like her but flowers couldn’t choose who to like right? Or could they?

Still... the flowers were interesting and Morgan decided to make an educated assumption in that these were the flowers Anacanoa were looking for. She had the battalion pot two and began to plan some tests to determine if they were indeed the plants she was looking for.

Once she made it back to base camp she had half the pots emptied and replaced with soil from the evil spot. She set they on opposite sides of the camp and began observing the flowers.

The one in the “Hubert” trial (so she called them) began to slowly become more yellow, as if feeding off the evil energy. The one in the control group did not. How ever what was curious was that over a few days she noticed that the Hubert trial killed the plants in two days while the control lasted four.

And still, no sign of Anacanoa.

Ten days in and Morgan couldn’t help but wonder if she found more answers or questions. The relic... wasn’t noticeably here. At least not immediately. It could be deeper under ground but... it didn’t feel like the other relics and crests. So this must be seperate? Or a result of it?

Still, everything was detailed in her tome. Of course it was. She did have some answers though and possibly a cure for that curse.

She decided to run a test while delivering Kólga a pot of flowers. They reclimbed the mountains and picked 8 flowers. Five were in a pot, but made more like a bouquet and three more pots had one flower each. Morgan said she’d deliver the larger pot to Kólga with half her troops and be back the next day. She instructed one pot to be planted in the evil soil, one to be a control, and one to be bombarded with healing magic three times a day until they died. She should be back before any had a chance to die though.

The next day she was at Kólga’s residence and gave her the pot of flowers.... and the bad news. Anacanoa was no where to be found. At least not yet. Kólga was happy she got the flowers but clearly depressed over the fact her wife was missing. Morgan said her troops were looking but it wasn’t promising and Kólga seemed grateful. Morgan also said that she’d try to find a way to keep the flowers alive for longer. Kólga offered to find aid for Morgan in her search for keeping the flowers alive for longer as well.

She smiled, waved goodbye at the translator, and noticed the flowers began to change color to a brighter yellow. At least some of them did. She wondered why, and if Kólga would be okay. But that didn’t matter. She rushed back to the camp alongside the portion of the battalion she brought.

By the evening they were back. The flower that was being healed and the control group looked the same, but the flower directly in the evil spot were... extremely bright. Their yellow bright against the evening light. But still... the spot was evil.

Morgan didn’t know what to do. The next few days Morgan watched the flowers and surprisingly all four lasted about four days. No significant difference. In the presence of great evil, these flowers seem to shine. Dark magic harms them but healing magic doesn’t let them live longer. In the ground they’re just fine but in a pot they’re not.

But... she didn’t like this. And certainly the flowers didn’t like her either, but this uneasy truce of theirs seemed to be... understandable for now.

She had one more night before she needed to head back. And still.... no sign of Anacanoa...

They had to return to the monastery soon after all. Her investigation had come to a halt and she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to really bring any home with her. No, likely not. She sighed readying herself to return.

But before she could fall asleep she thought on the people in Brigid and how they viewed the flowers. Many wove them into their hair, many picked them and kept them close, and interwove them with their clothing. That’s when it hit her!

These flowers were evil magic sinks! They were used to actually prevent things that were bad from happening to individuals! But... she had used a lot and she didn’t remember there being many more. She left camp silently and ran up the hill looking for more.

Was it possible that in the past the evil was more prevalent and the culture formed to have flowers so prevalent due to these flowers? In theory, these flowers may even be rarer and harder to find because the evil is more contained and they feed off it! No food means no flowers! So now any flower is used except for specific cases like Anacanoa and Kólga’s! Morgan you genius!

Though if there was more evil growing and affecting individuals in the town like Kólga, it meant these flowers would become important yet again. It was, at worst, a wild theory based upon loosely tied threads. And at best, possibly something to really help the group.

When she reached the mountain they saw that... unfortunately there weren’t many left. Or at least not enough that Morgan would be comfortable taking from the environment. Morgan sighed, cutting one for herself and letting the base of the plant stay. It should grow just fine. She put it in her hair and ran back to the camp, satisfied she at least had one.

She wouldn’t start worry if there wasn’t a need to. At least in her mind, it was only a small possibility.

#labryinthsea2021 #Morgan's Drabble #All of this directly approved by Bren #ill edit more later if bren wants me to take things out or soemthing #im also tired and dont want to edit too much now #labyrinthsea2021

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pangtasias-atelier · 5 years ago

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May I request large musclechub Chrom x mRobin? A lot of feeding, working out, and snuggling as well as tummy and muscle rubs please. (Both are large musclechub BTW)

It felt a bit hard getting all to fit, but I hope it all came out ton your liking! Was about to call it done, before I thought of the little stuffing scene, and then that made me think of the little workout scene lol.

I hope you enjoy it!

__________________

“Robin, come spot me,” Already seated on the bench, Chrom wiggles out his arms in preparation. Lying down, he easily positions himself under the metal bar, positions his hands properly as he waits for Robin. His gut rises into the air as he waits, most of his broad yet fat body falling off the bench.

“One second…” Taking a deep breath, Robin slowly squats down. Supporting the bar with his arms and shoulders, it descends as he does. His fat thighs squishing, Robin’s wide stance takes into account so much poundage. His stomach folding on itself as it rests and sits on his wide thighs. His knees perfectly bent, Robin lets out his deep breath. Mentally counting to ten, his calves begin to burn up once more as he rises back up. His body decompresses as he reaches his full height, an admittedly unimpressive stature when considering the other members of the Shepherds. Removing himself from underneath the bar, he slowly brings it down. Finished with his routine, squats Robin’s preferred final workout, he wipes himself off with his towel. Taking a swig of his water, his left hand rests on top of his gut.

Robin and Chrom having married a few years ago, it was after Grima’s defeat that the two found out of the other’s appreciation for the larger things in life. Robin’s hearty appetite for everything edible had been a good jumping start on the two’s quest. Trim defined bodies became bloated as they piled more and more calories on their frames, both enjoying the experience. Chrom’s enjoyment of working out had rubbed off on Robin and what had at first been small exercises to not burn off too many calories was soon found to be unfounded. As instead of losing the fat they had worked so hard to gain, they found themselves packing on muscle as well, both their bodies larger on both spectrums.

Robin definitely enjoying the more gluttonous aspect of their lives, his body is a bit more corpulent than Chrom’s. His purple t-shirt clinging to him, Robin’s powerful biceps bulge. . Covered under a layer of flab, it does nothing to hide the powerful appendages, his arms capable of scaring most would be thieves. His breasts once soft and plump, they still retain their size but no longer sag as they once did, a bit more definition and perkiness to them. His stomach as round as ever, the massive monster shakes from every action Robin takes. His shirt unable to be tucked in, the bottom layer of pudge seeps out from underneath. His black gym shorts cling just as tight as his shirt, the stretchy fabric showing their worth as they fully cover his huge ass. Simultaneously perky yet squared, the confusing mounds of ass perfectly show off Robin’s musclechub self. His thighs covered in a heavy dose of fat, the added strength makes it easy for him to walk, Robin surprisingly deft.

Where Robin enjoys the aspects of gluttony, Chrom prefers the physical exertion to maintain their physiques. Broad shoulders, his low V-neck shows his puffed yet defined collar bone, his strong large moobs having less give to them than Robin’s. Preferring to show off just how big he is, his v-neck is a size or two too small, the hem of the shirt resting above his navel. Ovular and some bounciness, the mass of his stomach is still surprisingly firm, a fact he knows from rubbing it so much. His bulging arms free as ever, Chrom proud to show off his non-branded arm just as much as the other now, the musculature from his workouts showing brighter than light magic. A light layer of flab, his bulging muscle show even at rest, Chrom’s powerful arms even more exaggerated upon flexing. His tree trunk thighs no stranger to power, Chrom’s speed and force is a dangerous combination, most counting him out only to be knocked to the floor before they realize it. His once flat ass still pales in comparison to Robin’s, the two cheeks having obtained some perkiness.

Chugging the last bits of water, Robin sighs. Waddling to Chrom, he keeps his comment of Robin not needing a spotter anymore to himself. Enjoying the view, he doesn’t mind. And Chrom definitely doesn’t mind showing off to his husband. Standing a bit away from the bar, his stomach making it a bit difficult, he still stands at the ready as Chrom grabs it.

Taking in a deep breath as he brings it down to his chest, Chrom breathes out as he lifts it back up. Offering a grin to Robin, the weight is nothing to him, Chrom lifting last week’s max. Blushing as Robin stares at him in awe, Chrom pushes further, continuing his set. The clinking of the weight as Chrom lifts and drops them is the only real sound in their gym. On his last one, Chrom offers a wink to Robin, grinning as he blushes. Placing the bar back, Chrom stands up with aplomb.

“Is it finally time for dinner?” Exaggerating his question, Robin makes a point of sighing, sagging his shoulders as he cradles his belly. Chrom laughs in return. He slaps Robin’s gut, then smacks his ass, Robin letting out a yelp. Chrom then moves to Robin’s biceps, lifting them and making Robin flex, examining them before nodding. Leading the way to the dining room, Chrom immediately stops.

“You didn’t do your bench presses,”

“It’ll be fine,” Robin handwaves the mention. Taking a confident step, he finds his hand linked to Chrom’s, a pleased grin on his face, he easily overpowers Robin. Chrom drags him back to the bench.

“You just need to do five,” Setting the bar, he changes it. The bar thirty pounds under the weight he just lifted, he gives Robin the okay.

“Fine,” Lying down, only a small quarter of his back ends up hanging off the bench. HIs ass does the same. Gripping the bar, he grunts as it falls down. Gritting his teeth, he huffs as he lifts the bar all the way up. “What the hell, Chrom?” Beads of sweat form on his forehead.

“Keep going,” Hands at the ready, Chrom watches Robin struggle but slowly succeeds at his set. Reaching five, he goes to put the bar back before Chrom stops him. “One more, and hold it this time, you’re cutting corners,” Grining, He keeps his hand under the bar.

Huffing and puffing Robin’s stomach rises and quivers in the air. His biceps bulging, he gulps for air as he brings the bar to his broad moobs. Leaving it there for a few seconds, he slowly raises it up, exhaling heavily. His arms shake as he keeps it up but Chrom grabs the bar to put it back.

“Good,” Helping Robin up, Chrom wipes his sweat with his towel. “Now we can eat,” Robin lags behind Chrom as they head to the dining room.

A large room taken up mostly by an almost equally large table, the sprawling amount of plates meant as breakfast is already served. The two taking their seats, Robin’s ass creeps off the edge of it, his stomach digging into the table. Chrom’s fits him perfectly, his stomach only slightly uncomfortable from the pressure.

An omelette placed in front of him, Robin begins digging in, drenching his omelette with ketchup before devouring it. As soon as his fork hits porcelain, he moves onto his next victim, the ham looking appetizing as it always does. Chrom giving an adoring look at him, Robin stops, his mouth half open as the hashbrowns rest on his fork an inch away from his hungry mouth.

“W-what?” Suddenly self-conscious, Robin tugs down his shirt only to see the fabric doesn’t reach past his belly button. Looking at the table, he blanches at the staggering amount of empty plates, time flying so fast upon breakfast time.

“Nothing,” Chrom promptly finishing his third plate, Chrom not a stranger to food either, he places a hand on Robin’s thigh squeezing it before resuming his own breakfast.

Scoffing, Robin still blushes, Chrom’s little touches much adored. Glancing back, most of his breakfast is gone. Quickly swiping at the remaining portions, Robin’s vacuum of a stomach finishes in record time. Standing up, he sees Chrom struggling to handle his last plate. Chrom offering them to him, Robins shakes his head.

“You always encourage me to keep going during my workout,” Robin grabs the plate of pancakes from Chrom. “So I’ll be doing the same,” Grabbing the syrup, Robin squeezes the bottle as if choking it. Folding the pancake with his fork, he grabs four pieces. “Eating is all about efficiency,” Holding Chrom’s jaw, he brings the stack of pancakes into his mouth.

Stubbornly chewing, the hefty helping of syrup doesn’t help Chrom, one eye more closed than the other as he struggles. Robin pressing a hand to Chrom’s stomach, he grins.

“Then you wash it down,” Simply grabbing the gallon of milk, Robin brings that to Chrom’s lips. He tilts it back without warning. Dribbles of milks spill past Chrom’s mouth, Chrom’s muffled groaning sounding.

Letting out a deep groan, he huffs. “Got it,” Resting his head back with his eyes closed.

“You still have some more,”

“Robin…”

“Now now, no excuses. It’s just one bite left,” Robin’s soothing voice and soothing hand on his gut, Chrom obligingly opens his mouth. An unseemly ridiculous amount of pancakes shoved into his mouth, Chrom nearly chokes on it, his tired mouth working overtime to get through it all. Unable to even swallow once, Chrom finds more milk poured down his throats, the remaining bits of pancakes washed down.

“Robin!” His belly cumbersomely full, Chrom remains seated in his chair.

“You just need to work harder for next time,” Robin grins. Chrom finally done, Robin places the plates back down. Placing both hands on Chrom’s filled gut, he lovingly smiles at him, blushing before giving him a kiss on the lips. Pulling back, he sees Chrom mimicking his own blush.

“Ready to workout again?” Chrom punctuates with a flex of his bicep, his other hand on his stomach.

“I’m ready for a quick nap,” Robin teases. Though his grin dies and his eyes widen as Chrom puts his hands on Robin’s arms, squeezing and rubbing them.

“That isn’t a bad idea,” Chrom grabs Robin’s hand, leading him back to their bedroom.

The two taking a quick break, the rest of their day off awaits them with several more workout sessions and stuffing sessions left.

#My writing #fat emblem #buff emblem #buff!robin #buff!chrom #fat!robin #fat!chrom #fat!awakening #buff!awakening

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d3-iseefire · 5 years ago

Text

Princess of Shadow Chapter 4

Bilba stood on the balcony of her grandfather's office and stared down over the plain separating Erebor and Dale. The armies surrounding the mountain had pulled back, allowing her to see the ground for the first time in what felt like ages. It should have filled her with a sense of hope, but all she felt was trepidation.

Her eyes went to the small pavilion that had been set up between Erebor's front gates and the invaders. From where she stood all she could make out was the faint shadowy movement of distant figures.

"I thought they'd be closer," she said, crossing her arms nervously. "Can the archers reach them from here?"

The words sounded so odd as she said them. It wasn't that she wanted anyone to be struck by an arrow, barbarian invaders or not. She just...wanted them to go away. Ingram said the archers were only there for effect, though, to make sure the armies stayed back while the hostages were brought inside.

It would be fine, she told herself sternly. It'd work

Somehow.

Ingram stepped up behind her. “Are you ready, Princess?”

“No.” She suppressed a shiver. She’d stopped by her rooms to have Josie redo her hair and add her tiara and then touch up her makeup. She needed to appear her best if she was going to hope for any respect from whatever Durin had been sent to negotiate.

Her stomach churned, and she let out a slow breath. She hadn’t told Josie about what she was planning to do. She knew the other girl wouldn’t approve, and she was already anxious enough without having to listen to a list of how everything could go wrong.

She knew things could go wrong, but what other choice did they have? At least Ingram had a plan that didn’t involve simply giving up. She couldn’t stomach the thought of surrender. Not just because of the question of what would happen to her, but what would happen to everyone in the mountain? She doubted the Durin heirs would allow the hobbits to continue living in Erebor. Would he kill them, or simply throw them out as winter approached?

Ingram put his hands on her shoulders, and she flinched in surprise. He squeezed and then began to massage the bare skin. Bilba knew he was trying to help her relax, but it made her even more tense. Her grandfather had driven home, repeatedly, the rule that no one was allowed to touch her in any way without his express permission.

Said permission was usually reserved for his allies or, more recently, Lord Grima. Their wandering hands and leering grins always made her skin crawl, and what Ingram was doing was far too similar. She had the horrifying thought that, at any moment, her grandfather would appear to scream at her for her wantonness. She didn’t actually know what the word meant, but her grandfather always made it sound very bad indeed.

She took a step, enough to pull free from him, and turned to face him. She grabbed the ring resting against her collarbone and held it tightly between her fingers. Her grandfather had believed in her, she told herself firmly. Or at least he’d believed her capable of holding off the invaders long enough for him to get away. If she succeeded at driving them away entirely and saved the mountain in the process…

She wouldn’t be the useless granddaughter anymore, her only use in her looks or ability to be used as a bargaining chip.

He might even be proud of her.

“You’ll do great, Princess,” Ingram said with a cheerful smile. “Don’t worry. Just do exactly as I said, and everything will work out.” He held his hand out. “Shall we?”

She gave him a tight smile and then obediently held out her hand to allow him to escort her. As they crossed the floor her eyes drifted over her grandfather’s desk and she frowned. She’d stood before it often enough to know her grandfather was almost obsessively neat, every paper and pen perfectly straight and squared off. Now the surface was a mess, papers strewn about, several pens on the floor and even a few drawers pulled out. “I’m surprised he left it like that.”

“He was in a hurry,” Ingram said with a shrug. “He was more concerned with his own safety than in leaving things neat for the usurper.”

That made sense, Bilba thought. They reached the door and Ingram pulled it open. Outside four hobbits in guard uniforms waited to escort her. Bilba didn’t recognize them, but most of the palace guard had already been killed on the battlefield or left with her grandfather and his council. She was mildly surprised at how young and fit they all were as she’d thought everyone of fighting age had long since been sent out but, perhaps, they were simply older than they looked, or even younger, which was a distressing thought.

Ingram led her out and the four closed around her to escort her to the front gates. She received more than one confused look as she passed by lesser members of the nobility, and even a few higher ranked ones her grandfather hadn’t seen fit to take along. With each one she stood straighter and walked with a surer step.

She’d managed to make the guards listen to her, and Ingram respected her. Once she’d managed to successfully help take one of the Durin’s hostage it would show all of them. Her grandfather, her people and the nobility, Sigrid and Bard and everyone who’d turned on her without so much as a backwards glance.

She’d be a hero. Her grandfather would be able to come back and he’d be so impressed that he’d call off the engagement to Lord Grima and perhaps let her marry Lord Berold instead…

Her face flushed and she lowered her eyes to her feet as if her thoughts could be read on her face. Ingram hadn’t made any promises, she reminded herself firmly. He’d implied, but that could have just been him being kind. There were so many young women who fancied him, most if not all prettier and smarter than she was. She’d count herself lucky indeed if he chose her.

They arrived at the ground floor and she was struck at how eerily silent it all was. Usually, there was a bustling market down there, filled with vendors from both Erebor and Dale. Now, it was empty, darkened booths appearing as little more than abandoned husks, filled with the debris and litter of past splendor.

Near the gates, which had barely been opened wide enough to allow a single person to pass through, she spotted a small group of ponies waiting for them.

Five to be exact.

“Is that all?” she asked in disbelief. They were going to be fairly far from the mountain, and literally in the camp of the enemy, and all that was before they took a hostage. How in the world did Ingram expect four guards to handle all that?

“There is no one else to be spared,” Ingram explained, the slightest hint of censure in his voice. He nodded toward the top of the gates and Bilba saw a few archers lounging against the battlements. “Our real force will be in them. They’ll keep you safe, Your Highness, and protect your retreat.”

“Of course,” Bilba said quietly. Mahal, but she was dense sometimes. Of course she couldn’t expect an entire entourage to escort her. Hadn’t she just been thinking how strange it was for her four guards to be young?

“No one looks to a princess for her brains,” her grandfather’s voice lectured. “Best to keep your mouth shut, and let your looks speak for you.”

Ingram spun her to face him suddenly and she gasped in surprise. He put his hands on her waist and she barely had the change to place her hands on his shoulders before he was lifting her up to sit sidesaddle on one of the ponies.

It wasn’t her pony, Bilba noted immediately, a slow, lazy creature whose chief goal in life was to sleep. This pony was young and eager, moving about and tossing its head the second she was seated. Bilba tensed, but one of the other guards grabbed the reins before she could reach for them and roughly dragged the pony’s head around. “I’ll handle it.”

Bilba nodded shakily. “Thank you.”

Ingram grabbed the pony’s bridle. “You’ll do fine, Your Highness. I have faith in you.”

Bilba forced a small, but genuine smile. She looked toward the slit in the gate and spotted the distant image of the pavilion waiting for her. She let out a slow breath to try and, unsuccessfully, calm her nerves. She was a princess, she reminded herself firmly. She’d been trained her entire life to be in the public eye.

She nodded at the guard holding her pony’s reins and, as a group, they moved out.

She could do this.

***

“I can’t decide if they’re deliberately trying to be insulting,” Frerin said casually, “or if they’re just that stupid.”

Beside him, Bard frowned. “It’s possible they don’t have enough people left to muster a proper guard.”

“If that’s true,” Frerin said, crossing his arms, “it still falls into the later category. Only an idiot would tip his hand this badly.”

Bard didn’t answer. The two of them were standing a few feet in front of the pavilion that had been thrown together. It consisted of little more than a table, a few chairs and the tent around it. That had been put in place so Frerin only had to watch his back from one direction. Dwalin and Vili stood at either side and more guards were ranged past them and behind the pavilion.

All of it completely unnecessary apparently, given the ridiculously small group coming toward them.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bard said suddenly under his breath.

Frerin frowned. “What?”

Bard nodded toward the approaching group. “That’s the princess.”

“The princess?” Frerin had forgotten about her. He was aware there was a princess but knew next to nothing about her. Everything Nori had provided painted the portrait of a vapid young woman obsessed with fashion, wealth and her own status. He’d heard nothing of her personality, assuming she even had one, or her character.

As the group neared, he straightened, wanting to get a better look at this princess. She rode in the center of the four guards, all young men who appeared to have been chosen more for their looks than strength or ability.

The princess herself looked…well, ridiculous if he were being honest. She wore a massive gown that nearly enveloped the pony she rode, so saturated with gems and other fripperies it was a wonder she or the creature could stand under the weight. Her hair was done in an elaborate style that must have taken an obscene amount of time to create and was also liberally covered with jewels. The tiara she wore could probably be used as a weapon if she focused the sun off it correctly, and her face had a level of makeup on it that he felt anyone would find overdone.

She was older, probably the same age as Dis or Jayde if not beyond them. Unlike most of the rest of the hobbits, who’d appeared increasingly thin as the weeks went by, she appeared to still be in the prime of health. Her expression was flat, and she looked past them all as if they weren’t even there.

The ponies drew to a halt and she sat tall in her saddle, head up so she could look down her nose at them. He saw her eyes light on Bard, Thranduil and Gandalf, before settling on him. Her brows furrowed fractionally, and then it was back to the blankness again.

Gandalf stepped forward. “Your Highness. It’s a pleasure to meet you again, my dear.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she replied, her voice quiet. “It would seem you’ve returned a traitor to Erebor, along with those we once thought our allies.” Her eyes shifted for a moment to Bard and Thranduil and then away again.

One of her guards dismounted and went to help her down, an act that proved challenging with her dress draped the way it was. She slid off but her gown hooked over the back of the excitable animal, causing what, in any other circumstance, would have been quite the amusing struggle to free it while maintaining some semblance of dignity.

Scratch that, Frerin decided, it was amusing regardless.

The move was completed finally, and the princess stepped forward. She stopped in front of Frerin, the tip of her head barely reaching the bottom of his chin. He knew that hobbits were generally smaller than dwarves, but she took it to an extreme.

“Your Highness,” he said, a deliberate mocking tone in his voice.

She flushed, or at least he thought she did under the layers of makeup. “I assume you’re the one they’ve sent to negotiate?”

Frerin sketched an overly dramatic bow before settling on what he knew was an outright smirk. “Frerin, son of Thrain, son of Thror at your service, Your Highness. Might I ask why your grandfather hasn’t seen fit to come?”

A flicker of sunlight off her collarbone drew his eye and he frowned at the sight of a ring she wore on a chain. He’d never seen it before but had heard it described often enough to recognize it.

The Durin family ring. Stolen from the hand of the rightful king of Erebor after he was betrayed and murdered by the treacherous hobbits. The ring was a family heirloom, and she was wearing it like some sort of trinket.

It was a very good thing, Frerin decided, that Thorin hadn’t come. He was angry at the sight. His brother would have been far less forgiving.

“My grandfather has better things to do with his time,” the princess said imperiously, hands clutched in front of her. She seemed to be trying to ignore all of them simultaneously, which would make negotiating rather hard he thought. “He sent me to negotiate in his place.”

“That doesn’t seem like him,” Bard said from where he stood a few feet away. “Though, to be honest, the idea of negotiating at all doesn’t seem like him.”

The princess turned her head away, behaving as if the other man weren’t even there. Frerin made a mental note to convince Thorin that Kili needed negotiating experience. Let him put up with petulant princesses the next time around. He nodded toward the table and chairs. “After you.”

She nodded and then swept past him toward the chairs, giving him her back and leaving her guards rushing to catch up.

Frerin caught Dwalin’s eye and saw the other dwarf raise an eyebrow in question. Frerin shook his head in response. The woman had practically handed herself over to them but taking her into custody would do no good with her grandfather still in the mountain.

“This is ridiculous,” Bard murmured from next to him. “She’s the last one he would send for serious negotiations. They have no intention of surrendering.”

Frerin watched as the princess stopped next to her chair, clearly waiting for one of them to pull it out for her. “Which begs the question,” he said, keeping his own voice low, “of just what the Thain is up to.”

Bard started to speak, only to cut off as the distant sound of a commotion came from the front lines located behind the pavilion.

Before Ferin had a chance to process, two other things took his attention. One was the slightest widening of the princess’s eyes as her gaze lingered on something just over his shoulder.

The second was the barest movement of air across the back of his neck.

He had his sword half drawn and was already turning when a soft thwip and a burst of wind raced past his ear. The thunk of an arrow hitting home, followed by the thud of a falling body came next. Frerin completed his turn, sword in hand, to see one of the princess’s guards lying dead on the ground. There was an arrow protruding from his chest, and a dagger lying next to his hand.

A few feet away, Dwalin had the second guard on his knees, sword at his throat. Vili had already nocked a fresh arrow and was pointing it at the ground, the mere presence of it enough to cow the third guard while another of the soldiers had taken control of the fourth.

That left the princess. She was standing completely still, eyes now very wide, and mouth slightly agape. Her eyes flicked toward his and then away, toward the mountain in the distance.

“Don’t bother,” Frerin warned. “You won’t make it, especially not in that dress.”

She chewed on her lower lip, considered and then, in one move gathered as much of her skirts as she could in both hands and bolted toward the mountain.

“Seriously?” Frerin muttered. Her skirts hampered her movements so badly he considered simply walking after her. A shout from Vili, however, had him lunging forward to grab her arm and wrench her back under the pavilion, just as an arrow slammed into the dirt mere inches from her feet.

She screamed in surprise and froze again, which gave Frerin just the time he needed to pull her hands behind her back and hold them. Dawlin approached with remnant of the rope he’d used to secure the other guards and Frerin quickly secured it around her wrists.

The action seemed to snap her out of her stupor, and she jerked, struggling to get away. “Unhand me, you beast!”

Frerin pulled her around to face him and held her by her upper arms. “Beast?” he asked mildly. “I’d have expected you to think kindlier of the person who just saved your life.”

She rolled her eyes. “That arrow wasn’t meant to hurt me. It was to protect me while I escaped!”

“Was it now?” Frerin asked. “Someone has poor aim then. It would have gone right through your chest had I not grabbed you.”

The princess scoffed but the barest hint of uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

Vili approached. “There’s no way they sent that all the way from the gates. Where did it come from?” As he spoke, he kept his eyes trained on the plain between them and Erebor, watching for any further attacks.

“A very good question?” Frerin mused. He raised an eyebrow at woman in his grasp. “Care to elaborate, Princess?”

She jerked her head away from him and strained to pull free of his grasp. Frerin tightened his grip and pulled her away, toward the back of the tent and the small flap that would allow them to exit and return to the front lines.

“You better let me go,” the princess demanded ago. “We’ve taken one of your relatives hostage, I think, and if you don’t let me go you’ll regret it.”

Frerin fought the urge to laugh. “You think? I think I’d disown any of my relatives foolish enough to let themselves be taken hostage by your forces.” He pushed open the flap and made a show of looking out toward the open land between them and the front lines of soldiers. From where he stood, he could see a commotion had died down already. “And, pray tell, princess, how exactly would your people have gotten a hostage from there back to the mountain without anyone seeing?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t say,” she said, mockingly, “how do think they got from the mountain to the front lines to begin with?”

Frerin paused. From a few feet away he heard Bard swear under his breath. Gandalf shifted and appeared to speak but stopped when Frerin held up a hand.

“That,” he said quietly, “is an excellent question, Your Highness. One I’m sure we’ll be discussing in great detail.”

He hesitated and then grabbed the ring lying against her collarbone and yanked, easily snapping the chain it sat on. She gasped in surprise and gave him a dark look but didn’t comment as he shoved the ring into his pocket. His brother was bound to be angry enough without seeing her wearing a royal heirloom like a pretty bauble.

As he steered her out of the pavilion, Bard stepped up on her other side and gave him a pointed look before taking her other arm. Vili arrived on his other side and frowned.

“Do you suppose they’re lovers?” he asked in Khuzdul, nodding toward Bard and the princess.

“I hope not,” Frerin answered. That sort of complication was the last thing they needed.

“The wizard doesn’t seem happy either,” Vili added, but Frerin simply shook his head.

“One thing at a time.” He tightened his grip on the princess’s arm as she tried, yet again, to pull away, and firmly steered her toward the front lines.

Time for the usurper’s granddaughter to meet the rightful king of the dwarves.

Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20593031/chapters/48890984

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