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keith_ltd2022-03-05 10:00 am
runawayballista) wrote in keith_ltd2022-03-05 10:00 am
Entry tags:
A Rogue Friend Is a Wild Beast: Winds Across the Plains, Part II
Fandom: Fire Emblem Awakening
Title: A Rogue Friend Is a Wild Beast: Winds Across the Plains, Part II ♪🎵♪
Summary: Morgan becomes fast friends with Owain, Cynthia, and Inigo while he recovers from his heroic injury, but it's only a few days before more of the dangerous new Risen appear by the camp. Determined to help his new friends, Morgan puts his skills to the test.
Notes: again, someone must be holding morgan's hand At All Times
End notes
※ Each story is titled after a song from another Fire Emblem game, with a link to the track. Highly recommend listening to the music while you read for the Maximum Experience
AO3 mirror
Brady had gotten rid of the strange infection, but Morgan’s ankle remained painful and swollen when he woke up the following morning. He hobbled a few experimental steps outside of his tent to find his boots mysteriously mended and resting just beside the tent flap. It was clearly a hand-done job, and they were a sorely mismatched pair now, but there was nothing half-baked about the end result. Not that he could try it on for size just yet, but he’d have to find out whoever had done him the favor and thank them.
Morgan couldn’t get much farther beyond the tent flap on one foot, so he scooped up his boots and settled back on his cot and spent the day inventorying his bag for clues. In addition to the book on strategy, there was a notebook half-filled with his own writing—mostly study notes or assignments for his mother, but there were frequent doodles in the margins, usually birds or insects. Probably whatever he was looking at at the time, he guessed, but at any rate, he didn’t seem to have an overwhelming talent for art.
There was another, thinner volume that turned out to be a novel of some kind—it looked well-read, but Morgan couldn’t recall ever hearing the title before. Well, he trusted his own taste. He’d probably enjoy it for the first time all over again once he got around to reading it.
There was also a miniature board game that folded up with a box, whose pieces all tumbled out as soon as Morgan opened it for inspection. He knew he’d received this from his mother too, but even as he stared with deep concentration at the pieces, he could only vaguely remember the rules. There was a tiny hourglass in the box too, filled with bright blue sand, and a brief memory flashed into Morgan’s mind—making a move on the board and flipping the hourglass with a triumphant little turn, only for his mother to make her own move and flip the hourglass again before more than a few grains of sand had fallen. A handful of pens, one with a broken tip, a half-full bottle of ink, and scraps of looseleaf paper lined the bottom of his bag, but under the paper he found buried a a bronze medallion with a curious design stamped on it, a seven-pointed star with an open eye in the center. Gold wire curled in spirals through holes in the bottom of the medallion from which hung three braided tassels. It wasn’t as worn as the old books or the board game, but it seemed he’d had this for a while too.
He read through the tactics treatise before the afternoon was over. This did stir up memories, but only fractions, moments too vague to be placed, muddied by the sediment. He knew he’d read some of these passages over and over; he could even remember his mother reading some of them aloud to him in a private lecture, somewhere warm and indoors near a crackling fire. He was beginning to remember concrete things—but it was filling in gaps in his practical knowledge, not his life. As soon as he’d refreshed his memory on the things he’d already learned, they came back to him with a snap, but personal details still eluded him. No matter how many times he read his mother’s notes in the margins, he couldn’t get his brain to summon anything useful about where she was or how they’d been separated.
Cynthia kept bringing him piles of food in her free time, apparently keenly worried that he’d waste away in his tent. She and Owain brought dinner to his tent once their duties for the day were finished, and when Inigo wandered by they convinced him to join them too. Inigo had something new to be annoyed with Owain over today—Morgan was beginning to suspect this was a self-replenishing phenomenon—but he conceded to Morgan’s earnest invitation with a little flush in his cheeks, and before long, Cynthia and Owain had pulled him into the riptide of laughter and easy conversation. Morgan found himself pulled in, too; the three of them were just easy to be around, or at least Morgan thought so, because even though he was keenly missing his mother, he didn’t quite feel lonely, either.
The next day, Cynthia was out on field duty, and Owain took over food delivery with no less enthusiasm than his predecessor. He even took the time to point out which dishes Morgan might want to start with—apparently the mashed potatoes came with a defense buff—and he hung around to talk a little, too, until a passing Nah reminded him he was on mess duty for the night. But it had been a badly needed injection of human contact for Morgan, for whom just a couple of days was more or less equivalent to a lifetime. He had the feeling that he was a regular bookworm and had been all his life, but Owain was at least as entertaining as a good book, and he kept making Morgan laugh. Not that it was hard, Morgan was inclined to laughter, but it drew out Owain’s laugh, too—loud and uninhibited like the rest of him, and in his lesser armed moments, a little silly, too. Morgan decided instantly that he liked that laugh.
The three of them kept bringing dinner to Morgan’s tent, and they spent the next few evenings that way. Morgan was forming a more solid picture of the camp and their comrades, and he thought he was fortunate to be captive audience to a couple of the camp’s biggest chatterboxes. And Inigo would butt in from time to time to tear down a glaring embellishment or simply just to contradict them, which would lead to a round of petty bickering that always resolved back into a warm chorus of laughter. Morgan basked in it happily.
But by day, there was only so much Morgan could glean from the handful of clues in his bag, no matter how many times he turned them over in his hands or how long he stared at the pages. The tasseled medallion in his bag seemed to elude him the most, but after staring at it for a while, he attached it to his belt on a whim. Maybe it was a fashion accessory?
He was starting to find himself bored and restless. He did have that novel on hand, but while the idea of curling up alone with a good book seemed like it would ordinarily be appealing, he couldn’t find any interest in it right now. He was going stir crazy in here.
By day four, the swelling in his ankle was looking a lot better. The puncture wounds were still painful and tender, but he could just about fit his foot in his newly mended boot as long as he left the straps loose. He got to his feet slowly, bracing against the cot for balance. He couldn’t put too much weight on that foot before it started to hurt in earnest, but that was fine. He’d just hop along until he found a stick big enough to lean on.
He waved cheerfully at the passersby as he half-crawled, half-hopped out of his tent, but the refugees mostly just answered with uncertain smiles before wandering away. Morgan didn’t take it personally. These people had just lost their homes; it was understandable that they might not be feeling too friendly right now.
Morgan hopped awkwardly around his tent in search of a stick, but he didn’t get far before his foot caught on a small hollow in the ground, and he wobbled determinedly in place for a few seconds before toppling over in a heap.
Ow. He’d managed not to land on his bad foot, but he’d gotten a mouth full of dirt in the process. He spat it out with a face, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and noting for future reference that dirt tasted pretty bad. He heard a sound behind him—not quite a laugh—and he rolled over onto his back to see Owain standing over him, holding out a hand.
“Is this a secret mage technique?” Owain asked curiously. “A way to get closer to Mother Nature herself? I suppose that would aid in the channeling of elemental spirits…”
If it had been anyone else, Morgan would have suspected he was being made fun of. But it was Owain, so he just shook his head with a smile and said, “No, I was just looking for a big stick.”
He took Owain’s hand, and Owain pulled him into a sitting position with a puzzled look. “We have swords in the armory tent.”
“Oh, no—I just wanted something to lean on.” Morgan puffed out a laugh. “I’ve pretty much exhausted all options for entertaining myself, and most of what I’ve seen so far has been the inside of a tent. Besides, I’m a blank slate! I wanna get out there and see some things! I’ve got so many new experiences ahead of me. I figure I ought to get started.”
“By Nephenee’s lance, you’re right!” Owain declared, although Morgan wasn’t exactly sure about what, or who Nephenee was. “We’ve been so preoccupied with our heroic duties that we’ve failed to acquaint you with our fellow comrades.” Owain grinned. “But you’re in luck. I finished my Hero Training early today, so I’ve got some free time now if you want a real tour.”
“Hero Training?” Morgan said, dusting off his sleeves. “Is that different from your regular training?”
“Oh, it’s a totally separate thing,” Owain said, waving his hand. “Hero Training is all about preparing the mind. Practicing your one-liners, coming up with new battle cries…the important stuff.”
“I haven’t really studied psychological warfare,” Morgan confessed. “I think I’m probably a few levels away from getting there with Mother. Sounds like you really know your stuff, though!”
“I’ve dedicated my life to studying the ways of the hero,” Owain said gravely. “It can be a difficult and treacherous path, but true strength is forged in strife.” He tilted his head at Morgan, who was trying to get back up without putting any weight on his injured foot and looking like an unskilled circus act in the process. “Want me to carry you?”
Morgan knit his brow as he windmilled his arms in an attempt to stay upright on one leg. “Are you sure? I mean, you’re probably tired after all that training.”
“Nah, I don’t think you weigh a whole lot more than Cynthia,” Owain said, catching Morgan by the shoulder before he could fall over again. “Come on, I’ll show you around camp. Everyone here should know the face of the hero that saved our leader from certain death!”
“I didn’t do that much,” Morgan said, not bothering to point out that while the fate of his foot had been uncertain for a hot minute, certain death had never been on the table at any point. “I just helped out a little, that’s all. I mean, what else was I supposed to do?”
“Oh, Morgan.” Owain let out a triumphant little hah. “So modest, and yet, I can tell—in your chest beats the heart of a true hero.”
Morgan grinned as he climbed carefully onto Owain’s back. Owain hooked his arms under Morgan’s knees and straightened up, and for a moment Morgan was struck with deja vu, a rushing in of sense memory of the way the view suddenly spread out in front of him as he clasped his arms around Owain’s neck. There was a jarring sense of vertigo that moved through him like a stiff breeze, and his arms tightened around Owain for a moment until it passed just as quickly as it had come.
Owain’s tour of the camp was not lacking for his usual dramatic flair—the mess tent, according to him, was better known as the Hall of the Heroes’ Feast, and the true name of the bath tent was the Holy Healing Springs of Everlasting Strength. Morgan wasn’t sure how many people besides Owain actually knew about these names, but he took it all in happily. It seemed like Owain didn’t care much for all the doom and gloom talk, and that suited Morgan just fine.
He waved to the others as Owain introduced him, but some of them regarded him with the same air of skepticism as Severa had. Ah, well, he couldn’t really blame them. He’d probably think his story sounded fishy too, and he’d been holed up in his tent since he got here for the most part. The rumor mill in a place like this was probably thriving, and there was no telling what people might’ve been saying over the last few days.
Once they’d completed a circuit of the camp, which was all Morgan needed to form a solid mental map, Owain offered to show Morgan his secret Hero Training spot, which turned out to be a tree-dotted hilltop at the edge of camp. It offered an unobstructed view of the area to the west of camp, a winding road through a field that ran up to a bristling tree line. There were no destroyed homes or villages in this panorama, and Morgan could see the sun slowly heading for that treeline on its declining arc. It must have been a real sight to see at sunset.
Owain crouched down so that Morgan could slide safely back to the ground, and then he flopped down on the grass beside Morgan with a whoosh of breath. He hadn’t uttered a single complaint, but he must have been tired from carting Morgan around all afternoon.
“This is a pretty cool secret training spot,” Morgan said, letting himself fall onto his back. The grass tickled his cheek, a flicker of sense memory from just a few days ago, one of his very first memories. It felt nice just to lie in the sun like this—here, it was quiet, away from the steady bustle of the camp. “That’s a pretty fantastic view there.”
Owain grinned. “Right? It’s the perfect spot for meditating on your next entrance, or even, you know, just to do weapon maintenance.”
Morgan let his head roll to the side to look at Owain. “So why’s it a secret?”
Owain coughed, his gaze sliding to the side. “I mean—it’s not a secret from Inigo or Cynthia. But the others…don’t really get it. They’d probably just make fun of me if they knew I was out here coming up with new move names.”
Morgan’s lips pursed into a frown. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I thought Black Fang Strike sounded pretty cool.”
“Thanks,” said Owain, but he sighed. “I’ve offered to think of cool moves for the others, but they always say no. Well, except for Cynthia, but she has kind of a different angle on the hero thing. But at least she gets it, you know? It can really make a difference, having a good battlecry to get your blood going as you charge into battle. You can’t fight like a hero if you don’t feel like one. And anyway, if they’re going to be passing down legends about the scions of fate who smote Grima out of existence, you want to make sure your weapons already have names. You can’t leave that kind of stuff up to the historians.”
“Makes sense to me,” Morgan said. “I think it’s a shame no one’s ever taken you up on that offer. I mean, I wouldn’t pass up the chance to have Owain Dark bestow a cool new move upon me!”
Owain rolled onto his side and studied Morgan for a second, like he wasn’t sure if Morgan was being serious, but Morgan’s face was an open book, and his intentions were pure.
“I totally would if you wanted me to,” he said. Morgan gave him a bright smile.
“Totally! That’d be great!”
The smile returned in earnest to Owain’s face. “I shall begin meditating on it posthaste. Cynthia said you use thunder magic, right? That’s a pretty solid starting point.”
“I leave it in your capable hands,” Morgan said earnestly. He laid back and closed his eyes, soaking up the warmth of the afternoon sun and the scent of fresh air, the dust of summer on the wind. Owain watched him for a moment.
“Now that we’ve rescued our imperiled countrymen, our mission here has finally come to an end,” he said. “At the first light of dawn, we begin our triumphant march back to Ylisstol, where a hero’s welcome awaits us! So…” He cleared his throat. “Were you gonna come with us?”
He sounded hopeful. Morgan blinked his eyes open. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I mean…I’ve gotta find my mom. Not that she can’t take care of herself, but…still. We’ve always been together.” But then he blew out a breath with a hapless smile. “Then again, it’s not like I’m in any condition to be walking around on my own, and even if I was, I’d really be in trouble if I ran into a pack of Risen like that again. So…yeah, I guess I’ll be tagging along for a little while longer! Guess I’ll get to see your secret technique after all.”
Owain brightened. There was a tinge of relief to his smile. “And I’ll finally get to see the master of lightning at work. That’ll definitely give me some inspiration for your new move.”
Morgan just gave him a sunny smile. Owain watched him for another moment, then folded his hands behind his head and looked skyward.
“Our quests take us far and wide across the land,” he said. “You never know what information we might turn up—perhaps even some clue as to your mother’s whereabouts.”
Morgan frowned slightly. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but…aren’t you guys pretty busy as it is? Taking on Grima and saving the world seems kind of like a full-time job.”
Owain let out a laugh brimming with confidence. “Who says we can’t do both? It’s what heroes do. Besides, if we found your mom, I bet she’d make an incredible ally in the battle for world salvation! You said she’s a master tactician, right?”
“The best there is,” Morgan said without hesitation. “If she were here…she’d know what to do. I just know it.”
Owain rolled his head to the side again. Morgan’s round-eyed gaze met his.
“If your mother really is out there,” Owain said, “you shouldn’t have to look for her alone.”
Morgan blinked at him in surprise, then he dropped his gaze with a smile more reserved than usual. “Thanks, Owain.”
“It’s what friends do,” Owain said with unshakable conviction. He held out a hand, and Morgan let out a little laugh as he took it with a comfortable grip. That was better—that was a real smile.
“I’ve never had friends before,” Morgan said. “At least, not as far as I can remember. But I’ve gotta say, it’s pretty great so far!”
They lay there a little while longer, but the afternoon was beginning to wane and there was little room for idle time when there were preparations to be made, so before long Morgan climbed onto Owain’s back once more, settling himself comfortably with his arms loosely around Owain’s neck. He was glad that Owain didn’t seem to mind carrying him, because there was something about it that made him feel at ease. Someone had done this for him, once upon a time.
Lucina was just emerging from Morgan’s tent with a slight frown when they descended the hill back to camp.
“There you are,” she said, and she smiled faintly as Morgan waved from Owain’s back. “I’m glad to see you’re staying off that foot. Is it healing alright? I’d meant to come by and see how you were doing sooner, but…”
“Seems like running an army keeps you pretty busy.” Morgan flapped a hand. “Don’t worry about it! Owain’s been keeping me pretty entertained.”
Lucina glanced at Owain, and her smile widened slightly. “I’m sure he has. I’m glad to see you’re doing well, at any rate. I don’t suppose you’ve recovered any more of your memory as well?”
Morgan shook his head, but before he could say any more, the heavy beat of wyvern wings sent a ripple gusting through the air, kicking up a small cyclone of dust. Morgan buried his face in the back of Owain’s neck to shield his face against the wind and Lucina looked up, brow furrowed.
“Gerome? What’s wrong?”
“Risen incoming,” said an unfamiliar voice, and Morgan peeked his head back out. He must have missed meeting Gerome earlier, because he was sure he’d remember the guy with the big, obvious mask. “From the east. A small horde of them. If we don’t move quickly—”
Cynthia quickly joined him from above, trying to shield the dust from her pegasus’s wings away from them. “I think they’re like the ones we fought the other day, Lucina! I mean, they smell like them…”
Lucina grimaced, her hand going to her sword hilt while she composed her thoughts. “I need Yarne, Noire, and Nah defending the camp. Tell them to help Brady move all the refugees to the mess tent and hold that line. Everyone else needs to arm themselves and be ready to move out immediately.”
Cynthia and Gerome took off without hesitation to relay her orders, and Lucina nodded at Owain, her expression set. “Owain, let’s go.”
Owain bent his knees to let Morgan down, keeping a hand on his arm until his balance was steady.
“My sword hand thirsts for the black ichor that courses through the foul veins of our enemies,” Owain declared, and he gave Morgan’s arm a little squeeze before letting go. “Stick with Brady and the others for now. They’ll keep you safe until our triumphant return.”
“Wait,” Morgan said, reaching out to grab Owain’s hand before he could draw his sword. “Let me come too! I’ve got my thunder magic, and those things are really dangerous—”
“Not that your aid wouldn’t be appreciated, Morgan, but you’re still injured,” Lucina said. “And we’re in greater numbers this time. We’ll be able to take care of them ourselves.” Lucina’s tone was firm, and she nodded at Owain, who bellowed something else about his sword hand as they set off at a run.
A nasty little feeling was churning in Morgan’s stomach, a restlessness he couldn’t shake even as he crawled into his tent to grab his thunder tome. If the Risen did breach the camp’s perimeter and worse came to worse, he’d rather be able to help defend it. It wasn’t anxiety, although he was definitely worried for his new friends. It was just that he’d been thinking a lot about that battle with the gruesome Risen, replaying it in his head over and over to help alleviate the boredom, and because something about that fight, the way those Risen fought, was nagging at him. Lucina and the others had had unexpected difficulty defeating them, and it wasn’t the threat of necrotic venom. Something about the way they moved was different from what Lucina and the others were used to. He willed his brain to find some conclusion in that data as Brady helped him to the mess tent. If only his mother were here…what would she say? Morgan tried desperately to summon oft-repeated advice, basic situational analysis. He sat on a bench in the mess tent, staring at his field tactics manual, and pressed his hands to the sides of his head with a little furrow of his brow. Observation was key.
“Come on…think, Morgan, thi—waugh!”
He started badly as a winged insect all but flew into his face, seemingly out of nowhere, and he flapped his hands in surprise to chase it away with a grimace. Maybe if this were an idle afternoon, he’d be interested in chasing it, but right now, he had a problem to solve, and it had scattered all his thoughts. He hadn’t even seen the bug coming. He stopped and looked down at his hands for a moment, then in the direction the bug had buzzed away. Morgan grabbed his tome.
“Hey, uh, what’s up? Is everything okay?” Yarne asked as Morgan approached, then limped determinedly past him. “Whoa, where are you going? Everyone’s supposed to stay—h-hey, wait!”
“Sorry!” Morgan’s voice came out strained as he started at a lopsided run, pain shooting through his bad ankle with every other step. He made a beeline for the stables, getting a headstart on the sputtering Yarne. He was banking on what he thought were the statistically favorable odds that he had ever ridden a horse. He really hoped it’d come back to him in the moment. “I’ll bring him right back, I promise!”
If he had ever known how to ride a horse, he wasn’t very good at it. There was a whole lot of painful bouncing in the saddle, and he was doing a bad job pointing the horse in any particular direction—he was just fortunate it happened to want to be running where he needed to go. He could see the battlefield as it came into view, indistinct silhouettes resolving into familiar figures. He could tell they were struggling, just like last time. At this rate, someone was going to wind up injured—and maybe somewhere a little more vital than the foot. He clung white-knuckled to the reins as the horse made for the battlefield at a dead run.
“Lucina!” he yelled, summoning all the breath he had. “Flank them! You’ve gotta flank them!”
Lucina jerked her head in the direction of his voice, wide-eyed, and narrowly dodged a blow from a Risen’s outstretched claws. “Morgan, what are you—”
“You can tell me off later, I promise! Listen, there’s a trick to these things!” Morgan was finding himself breathless, some terrifying cousin to exhilaration pounding in his ears. How was he supposed to make the horse slow down? “It’s those weird-shaped heads—they’ve got virtually no peripheral vision. They’re too fast to fight head-on, but if you hit them in their blind spot, you can beat their reflexes to the punch!”
Lucina’s brow knit as she dodged yet another attack, but this time she lunged past the Risen and pivoted, swinging her sword to cleave clean through its torso from the side. Breathless, she repeated Morgan’s advice as orders to the rest of the squad, and Morgan saw the change ripple out across the battlefield as everyone changed tacks, and the fight began to turn around. It made something rise in his chest that he couldn’t quite describe.
He was badly losing control of the horse. Balance shaken, he finally toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground with a whoosh of breath. He kept one hand tightly clutched around his tome as he fought to regain the wind knocked out of him, but he could hear—and smell—the approaching Risen. It was all well and fine that he’d gotten the word out to Lucina and the others, but the idea of taking another direct attack from those nasty claws did not excite him.
A hand closed around his wrist before he could summon lightning, and Owain pulled him to his feet with an exhilarated grin. Morgan staggered for a moment, and Owain linked an arm with his to keep him upright.
“Charging onto the battlefield on your loyal steed despite your noble injury, huh?” Owain’s voice was bright and breathless as he moved, just enough footwork to swing his sword without throwing Morgan over. “I’ve gotta say, that was a pretty solid entrance for a beginner. You should think about adding a catchphrase next time—taste my righteous steel, wretched beast!” He lunged forward to swing his sword at the unprotected side of a monster making a move for Inigo’s unshielded side. “You know, something along those lines.”
“I hope I can find that horse later,” Morgan said, but even in the thick of battle, Owain’s smile was contagious. “I promised I’d—Severa, behind you!”
He fired off a burst of crackling lightning as Severa pivoted nimbly and jumped back. The Risen, struck in the back with his thunder magic, groaned and lurched to the side, and Severa circled swiftly behind it to drive her sword between its shoulderblades.
“Ugh, how do these things smell even worse when they’re zapped to a crisp?!”
“You’re welco—whoa!” Morgan shifted his focus back to the moment, nearly falling over as Owain half-leapt back to avoid a blow from a new Risen. Attacking Owain head-on, it had the advantage, and Owain couldn’t jump around freely while he had himself tethered to Morgan. Morgan took a step back on his good foot, pulling Owain back with him out of range of another attack—but rather than letting go, he tightened his linked arm around Owain’s. The Risen was already lurching towards them again.
“Owain—quick! Swing me around this way!”
Owain didn’t hesitate, just grinned and pivoted, throwing his weight to the side until Morgan felt his feet leave the ground. Owain let himself be carried by his momentum, the two of them moving as though in a two-step battle waltz taround the side of the approaching monster. Clutching his tome tightly, Morgan scrunched up his face in great concentration, sweat beading on his upper lip. It was always harder to hit a moving target, sure, but when you were the one moving…
The Risen, though too fast to be fooled by a simple pivot, didn’t see the ball of lightning crackle into existence just behind its head, unfolding into a bolt that lanced through its back and protruded out the front of its chest. No more than a few snaps of lightning made it any farther, but the thunderous blowback knocked both Owain and Morgan to the ground. They both got to their hands and knees on the ground, fighting to regain their breath, as the Risen let out a foul, choked noise and toppled to the ground in a stinking heap.
“That was awesome,” Owain wheezed. Morgan grinned and held his hand up for a high-five, but as soon as Owain took it, another monster came lurching towards them with its long, awkwardly-jointed arms extended. Morgan gripped Owain’s hand tightly and pulled, rolling them both out of the way just as its claws gouged into the ground where they’d been a second ago.
Owain landed on top of him with a grunt, the weight of his body pinning Morgan in place. The Risen was already upon them again, and Owain was still getting to his feet, and Morgan willed another snap of lightning to appear as quickly as he could—
The point of a lance bored through the chest of the Risen, and Morgan was rocked by a sharp wave of deja vu as it toppled to reveal Cynthia on her pegasus, lance raised, her cheeks flushed with exertion.
“Another abomination vanquished by Cynthia, champion of justice!” Her pegasus’s hooves grazed the ground, its wings beating in place, and she held out her free hand to Morgan. “Hop on, before one of those things gets you again!”
Owain got to his feet and pulled Morgan with him, helping to hoist him onto the saddle. “Take to the skies, my fellow warriors, and rain death from above!”
“We’ll cover you!” Morgan called as they took flight, and he quickly wrapped his arm around Cynthia’s waist as they arced skyward. Now this was an exhilarating experience—there was a giddy rush in his stomach every time they swooped in for an attack, the Risen falling to pieces like so much paper between Cynthia’s lance and his thunder magic. It was an even greater thrill than the first time they’d fought together, and with a bird’s eye view of the battlefield, Morgan’s mind was overclocking on information and analysis, and in between attacks he shouted instructions into Cynthia’s ear over the din of battle. They were a devastating pair, lending a deadly assist to anyone who seemed about to falter, and Cynthia’s energetic battlecries heralding their every strike seemed to add another bright layer of exhilaration. Time lost its meaning in the rush of wind in Morgan’s ears, and by the time Lucina felled the last Risen, his tactical brain was running so furiously he was still scanning the battlefield for enemies even as Cynthia’s pegasus touched down.
“Victory pried from the maw of death yet another day!” Owain sheathed his sword, wiping some of the mixed sweat and dirt from his face on the back of his sleeve. “You guys make a killer tag team. Morgan, the way you brought the very heavens down upon our enemies—now that deserves a catchphrase!”
“I know, right?” Cynthia beamed. “Something like, I am Morgan, hero of light! Now receive my judgment from on high!”
“Hmm…” Owain’s brow pinched. “What about ‘god of lightning’? No, I think his image is a little too humble for that…lord of lightning?”
“I guess it could use some workshopping—whoa!”
Morgan had started to slide sideways out of the saddle. Owain caught him before he hit the ground, holding Morgan up with one arm under his. Morgan’s eyes were slightly out of focus, and he was leaning heavily against Owain, clutching his tome in both hands with a white-knuckled grip. Cynthia dismounted hurriedly, her pigtails swinging.
“Morgan! Are you alright? You, um, look a little green…”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Morgan said with a wan smile, then broke away from Owain and hobbled a few steps away to be sick in a clump of trampled bushes. Cynthia and Owain each caught him by a shoulder as he started to stagger bathwards. Morgan let out a little burp. “Better now.”
“Maybe you should sit down,” Cynthia said, her brow furrowed.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Morgan said, just as his knees buckled under him. In the heat of battle he hadn’t really noticed, but now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel how much magic he’d used. The usually lively current than ran through him felt hollow and creaking in a way that made him more conscious of it than he generally was. So it was possible to use up too much magic in one go, huh… Well, everyone had limits. Discovering his own was sort of exciting—new data to process, once he had the time to sort through it at all. He looked around, but stopped immediately. It made him dizzy. “Has anyone seen the horse I rode in on?”
A little breath of relief whooshed out of him as he finally sat down. The world was being a little more forgiving with the angle of its tilt now.
“Morgan!”
He looked up at Lucina’s voice to see her striding his way, sheathing her sword with a furrowed brow. Her hair was stuck to her forehead and neck with sweat, and she was still breathing hard. “Are you alright? Were you injured?”
“No, just tired, I think. I guess I must be pretty out of shape compared to you guys!” The easy smile slid off his face, and he winced. “I’m sorry, Lucina. I know you told me to stay behind, but…”
Lucina held up a hand to silence him. “You needn’t apologize, Morgan. Thanks to your advice, we carried the day.”
“I wish I’d figured it out a little sooner,” Morgan said, frowning. “So—everyone’s okay? No one’s in danger of losing a limb, or, er—a kidney?”
“There were a few near misses,” Inigo said with a face, stooping to wipe some black slime from his shield on the grass. “But it seems like everyone pulled through not much more worse for the wear. I’d say that’s worthy of a little celebration, wouldn’t you, Lucina?”
“It’s too soon to rest easy,” Lucina said, shaking her head. “The last time we fought this kind of Risen, it was over an hour’s march away, and I thought we’d extinguished the lot. It can’t be a coincidence that they appeared so close to our camp. We’ll be doubling our perimeter patrol for the night.”
“Right,” Inigo sighed, “of course.”
“Cheer up, Inigo! We’ll be home before you know it, and then we can finally relax a little.” Cynthia held up Morgan’s limp hand like he was the champion of a prizefight. “And treat our guest of honor to a real bed!”
But their guest of honor was in bad need of a lie down, and Cynthia took him on a significantly gentler flight back to the med tent. As soon as Morgan was back in his own tent, he passed out hard in a heap on his cot. Maybe it was just that he’d spent a few sedentary days in his tent before jumping into battle, or that he wasn’t accustomed to fighting like the others were, but he felt incredibly drained now, more tired than he could ever remember being. He fell into a heavy and dreamless sleep, his thunder tome still clutched to his chest.
It was a rustling sound that finally roused him. Another wave of deja vu pulsed through him, and for a moment he thought he smelled the scent of grass again—but it was dark out now, and he was in his tent, not stretched out in a field. He lefted his head to see someone exiting the tent with a rustle of the tent flap.
“Lucina?” he said sleepily. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and Lucina ducked back into the tent, looking at him with a grave expression.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just thought I’d check on you, and…” She cleared her throat. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have just entered your tent in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t mind,” Morgan said through a yawn, waving his hand. “‘Um…what time is it, anyway?”
“Well past midnight,” Lucina admitted. “I’m…having trouble sleeping. I thought I’d take a walk around camp to quiet my thoughts, and I found myself walking this way. Brady said you hadn’t sustained any serious injuries, but after the way you collapsed back there, I couldn’t help but worry…”
“I’m fine,” Morgan said, patting his hair down for bedhead. He tried to tame the cowlick at the crown of his head with little success. “No, really, I am! I just needed a good nap, I guess. I feel pretty okay now.” He gave up on his hair and peered at Lucina. “So what’s eating you? I thought you’d be feeling pretty good after today’s victory. Er—yesterday’s victory?”
Lucina’s expression dimmed. “That’s just the thing. I’m not the one responsible for that victory—you are.”
“Me?” He was still waking up, but he couldn’t help but let out a hoarse little laugh. “I didn’t do all that much more than anyone else. I just gave you some advice, that’s all. Honestly, I was kind of worried I’d just get in the way! Besides, I couldn’t have led everyone on the battlefield the way you did. When you talk, people really listen.”
Lucina stared at him. “Morgan, that advice saved lives today. If it weren’t for you, we might still have won, but we’d have come away with serious injuries—and with our limited supplies, some of them would undoubtedly have been fatal.”
She closed her eyes, one hand curling into a fist at her side. “What use is my leadership if I only lead my friends to their deaths? There are already so few of us left, and I…”
She drew in a sharp breath and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to speak of my own troubles. There is something I would ask of you.”
She really did have the world on her shoulders, didn’t she? Morgan might have been untethered and missing his mother, but at least he didn’t have to bear a burden on that scale. “Sure,” he said, “shoot.”
“Owain tells me your mother is a skilled tactician, and that you’ve been apprenticed to her for some time now.” Lucina’s gaze was entreating now. “And after today—after you noticed something vital to our success that I failed to—I don’t doubt it in the slightest. I know you’re looking for your mother, but…”
She uncurled her fingers and extended her hand. Her hands were about the same size as his own, but calloused from more combat than Morgan could imagine seeing at her age. “Would you consider joining our cause? Help us defeat Grima and put an end to all the suffering he’s brought? We can use all the help we can get, and…” She smiled slightly. It was that same smile he’d first seen upon waking up, reserved with a little bit of warmth. “I’d be truly fortunate to count a trained tactician among my staff. I believe that with your help, we could truly stand a chance against Grima.”
Morgan blinked, rubbing his face. “I mean, I’m still just an apprentice, but…are you recruiting me for your army?”
“If you’d be willing to fight alongside us, we’d count ourselves lucky to have you.” Lucina’s smile was small, but genuine. “And it doesn’t mean you have to stop looking for your mother, either.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, thinking back to what Owain had said earlier that day. He also thought about the friends he’d made in such a short period of time—he found himself wanting to keep spending his nights laughing with Owain and Cynthia and Inigo. And going with Owain to his special training spot had warmed Morgan in a way that had pleasantly surprised him. He’d have liked to stay like that a little longer, if only they’d had the time.
He thought about it for a minute, trying to chase away the sleepy clouds fogging up his brain. No doubt fighting with Lucina would bring no shortage of challenges, but those challenges would be new experiences, too, and maybe they could help jog his memory. Besides, if the state of the world was so dire, he ought to help, right? It was what his mother would do, he was sure of it. He had his answer.
“Alright, sure. Count me in!”
He took Lucina’s hand and shook it firmly. Lucina gave him a faintly bewildered look.
“Are you certain? Not that I wouldn’t be thrilled at a yes, but—I thought you might need some time to think about it, at least.”
“The answer seems pretty obvious to me,” Morgan said. “If the person trying to save the whole world thinks I can help, what am I supposed to do, tell her no?”
Lucina breathed out a laugh with obvious relief. “Thank you, Morgan. Truth be told, we could use someone with your morale.” The tasseled medallion on his belt caught her attention, and she leaned in for a closer look. “Is that a Chon’sin charm?”
Morgan picked up the tassel and examined it with a puzzled expression. “Great question. Is it?”
“May I?” Lucina asked, and at Morgan’s assenting nod, she bent to take a closer look. “I’ve never seen this exact design before, but…we’re fortunate to count a few Chon’sin warriors among our ranks, and I’ve seen them bear similar tassels. Charms that bring good luck and protection, or so they say. Is your mother from Chon’sin?”
“No idea,” Morgan said, tracing a finger over the design stamped on the bronze medallion. He’d have to see if he could read up on this Chon’sin place once they got to Ylisstol. Lucina straightened up, brushing her hair from her face.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your rest,” she said, and though she looked tired, she looked somehow more settled than when Morgan had woken up. “Get as much sleep as you can—we set out for Ylisstol at dawn.”
“That goes double for you, Captain Lucina,” Morgan said, already making himself comfortable on the cot again. “Er, Commander Lucina? Princess Lucina? General…? Anyway, no matter the rank, a good leader needs her rest every bit as much as the rest of us! Imagine if you fell asleep in the middle of a staff meeting.”
Lucina smiled faintly. “Thank you, Morgan,” she said, and disappeared through the tent flap.
End notes: i had to come up with something to demonstrate morgan's impressive tactician brain but i will be honest: i just really wanted to write a cool fight scene
Title: A Rogue Friend Is a Wild Beast: Winds Across the Plains, Part II ♪🎵♪
Summary: Morgan becomes fast friends with Owain, Cynthia, and Inigo while he recovers from his heroic injury, but it's only a few days before more of the dangerous new Risen appear by the camp. Determined to help his new friends, Morgan puts his skills to the test.
Notes: again, someone must be holding morgan's hand At All Times
End notes
※ Each story is titled after a song from another Fire Emblem game, with a link to the track. Highly recommend listening to the music while you read for the Maximum Experience
AO3 mirror
Brady had gotten rid of the strange infection, but Morgan’s ankle remained painful and swollen when he woke up the following morning. He hobbled a few experimental steps outside of his tent to find his boots mysteriously mended and resting just beside the tent flap. It was clearly a hand-done job, and they were a sorely mismatched pair now, but there was nothing half-baked about the end result. Not that he could try it on for size just yet, but he’d have to find out whoever had done him the favor and thank them.
Morgan couldn’t get much farther beyond the tent flap on one foot, so he scooped up his boots and settled back on his cot and spent the day inventorying his bag for clues. In addition to the book on strategy, there was a notebook half-filled with his own writing—mostly study notes or assignments for his mother, but there were frequent doodles in the margins, usually birds or insects. Probably whatever he was looking at at the time, he guessed, but at any rate, he didn’t seem to have an overwhelming talent for art.
There was another, thinner volume that turned out to be a novel of some kind—it looked well-read, but Morgan couldn’t recall ever hearing the title before. Well, he trusted his own taste. He’d probably enjoy it for the first time all over again once he got around to reading it.
There was also a miniature board game that folded up with a box, whose pieces all tumbled out as soon as Morgan opened it for inspection. He knew he’d received this from his mother too, but even as he stared with deep concentration at the pieces, he could only vaguely remember the rules. There was a tiny hourglass in the box too, filled with bright blue sand, and a brief memory flashed into Morgan’s mind—making a move on the board and flipping the hourglass with a triumphant little turn, only for his mother to make her own move and flip the hourglass again before more than a few grains of sand had fallen. A handful of pens, one with a broken tip, a half-full bottle of ink, and scraps of looseleaf paper lined the bottom of his bag, but under the paper he found buried a a bronze medallion with a curious design stamped on it, a seven-pointed star with an open eye in the center. Gold wire curled in spirals through holes in the bottom of the medallion from which hung three braided tassels. It wasn’t as worn as the old books or the board game, but it seemed he’d had this for a while too.
He read through the tactics treatise before the afternoon was over. This did stir up memories, but only fractions, moments too vague to be placed, muddied by the sediment. He knew he’d read some of these passages over and over; he could even remember his mother reading some of them aloud to him in a private lecture, somewhere warm and indoors near a crackling fire. He was beginning to remember concrete things—but it was filling in gaps in his practical knowledge, not his life. As soon as he’d refreshed his memory on the things he’d already learned, they came back to him with a snap, but personal details still eluded him. No matter how many times he read his mother’s notes in the margins, he couldn’t get his brain to summon anything useful about where she was or how they’d been separated.
Cynthia kept bringing him piles of food in her free time, apparently keenly worried that he’d waste away in his tent. She and Owain brought dinner to his tent once their duties for the day were finished, and when Inigo wandered by they convinced him to join them too. Inigo had something new to be annoyed with Owain over today—Morgan was beginning to suspect this was a self-replenishing phenomenon—but he conceded to Morgan’s earnest invitation with a little flush in his cheeks, and before long, Cynthia and Owain had pulled him into the riptide of laughter and easy conversation. Morgan found himself pulled in, too; the three of them were just easy to be around, or at least Morgan thought so, because even though he was keenly missing his mother, he didn’t quite feel lonely, either.
The next day, Cynthia was out on field duty, and Owain took over food delivery with no less enthusiasm than his predecessor. He even took the time to point out which dishes Morgan might want to start with—apparently the mashed potatoes came with a defense buff—and he hung around to talk a little, too, until a passing Nah reminded him he was on mess duty for the night. But it had been a badly needed injection of human contact for Morgan, for whom just a couple of days was more or less equivalent to a lifetime. He had the feeling that he was a regular bookworm and had been all his life, but Owain was at least as entertaining as a good book, and he kept making Morgan laugh. Not that it was hard, Morgan was inclined to laughter, but it drew out Owain’s laugh, too—loud and uninhibited like the rest of him, and in his lesser armed moments, a little silly, too. Morgan decided instantly that he liked that laugh.
The three of them kept bringing dinner to Morgan’s tent, and they spent the next few evenings that way. Morgan was forming a more solid picture of the camp and their comrades, and he thought he was fortunate to be captive audience to a couple of the camp’s biggest chatterboxes. And Inigo would butt in from time to time to tear down a glaring embellishment or simply just to contradict them, which would lead to a round of petty bickering that always resolved back into a warm chorus of laughter. Morgan basked in it happily.
But by day, there was only so much Morgan could glean from the handful of clues in his bag, no matter how many times he turned them over in his hands or how long he stared at the pages. The tasseled medallion in his bag seemed to elude him the most, but after staring at it for a while, he attached it to his belt on a whim. Maybe it was a fashion accessory?
He was starting to find himself bored and restless. He did have that novel on hand, but while the idea of curling up alone with a good book seemed like it would ordinarily be appealing, he couldn’t find any interest in it right now. He was going stir crazy in here.
By day four, the swelling in his ankle was looking a lot better. The puncture wounds were still painful and tender, but he could just about fit his foot in his newly mended boot as long as he left the straps loose. He got to his feet slowly, bracing against the cot for balance. He couldn’t put too much weight on that foot before it started to hurt in earnest, but that was fine. He’d just hop along until he found a stick big enough to lean on.
He waved cheerfully at the passersby as he half-crawled, half-hopped out of his tent, but the refugees mostly just answered with uncertain smiles before wandering away. Morgan didn’t take it personally. These people had just lost their homes; it was understandable that they might not be feeling too friendly right now.
Morgan hopped awkwardly around his tent in search of a stick, but he didn’t get far before his foot caught on a small hollow in the ground, and he wobbled determinedly in place for a few seconds before toppling over in a heap.
Ow. He’d managed not to land on his bad foot, but he’d gotten a mouth full of dirt in the process. He spat it out with a face, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and noting for future reference that dirt tasted pretty bad. He heard a sound behind him—not quite a laugh—and he rolled over onto his back to see Owain standing over him, holding out a hand.
“Is this a secret mage technique?” Owain asked curiously. “A way to get closer to Mother Nature herself? I suppose that would aid in the channeling of elemental spirits…”
If it had been anyone else, Morgan would have suspected he was being made fun of. But it was Owain, so he just shook his head with a smile and said, “No, I was just looking for a big stick.”
He took Owain’s hand, and Owain pulled him into a sitting position with a puzzled look. “We have swords in the armory tent.”
“Oh, no—I just wanted something to lean on.” Morgan puffed out a laugh. “I’ve pretty much exhausted all options for entertaining myself, and most of what I’ve seen so far has been the inside of a tent. Besides, I’m a blank slate! I wanna get out there and see some things! I’ve got so many new experiences ahead of me. I figure I ought to get started.”
“By Nephenee’s lance, you’re right!” Owain declared, although Morgan wasn’t exactly sure about what, or who Nephenee was. “We’ve been so preoccupied with our heroic duties that we’ve failed to acquaint you with our fellow comrades.” Owain grinned. “But you’re in luck. I finished my Hero Training early today, so I’ve got some free time now if you want a real tour.”
“Hero Training?” Morgan said, dusting off his sleeves. “Is that different from your regular training?”
“Oh, it’s a totally separate thing,” Owain said, waving his hand. “Hero Training is all about preparing the mind. Practicing your one-liners, coming up with new battle cries…the important stuff.”
“I haven’t really studied psychological warfare,” Morgan confessed. “I think I’m probably a few levels away from getting there with Mother. Sounds like you really know your stuff, though!”
“I’ve dedicated my life to studying the ways of the hero,” Owain said gravely. “It can be a difficult and treacherous path, but true strength is forged in strife.” He tilted his head at Morgan, who was trying to get back up without putting any weight on his injured foot and looking like an unskilled circus act in the process. “Want me to carry you?”
Morgan knit his brow as he windmilled his arms in an attempt to stay upright on one leg. “Are you sure? I mean, you’re probably tired after all that training.”
“Nah, I don’t think you weigh a whole lot more than Cynthia,” Owain said, catching Morgan by the shoulder before he could fall over again. “Come on, I’ll show you around camp. Everyone here should know the face of the hero that saved our leader from certain death!”
“I didn’t do that much,” Morgan said, not bothering to point out that while the fate of his foot had been uncertain for a hot minute, certain death had never been on the table at any point. “I just helped out a little, that’s all. I mean, what else was I supposed to do?”
“Oh, Morgan.” Owain let out a triumphant little hah. “So modest, and yet, I can tell—in your chest beats the heart of a true hero.”
Morgan grinned as he climbed carefully onto Owain’s back. Owain hooked his arms under Morgan’s knees and straightened up, and for a moment Morgan was struck with deja vu, a rushing in of sense memory of the way the view suddenly spread out in front of him as he clasped his arms around Owain’s neck. There was a jarring sense of vertigo that moved through him like a stiff breeze, and his arms tightened around Owain for a moment until it passed just as quickly as it had come.
Owain’s tour of the camp was not lacking for his usual dramatic flair—the mess tent, according to him, was better known as the Hall of the Heroes’ Feast, and the true name of the bath tent was the Holy Healing Springs of Everlasting Strength. Morgan wasn’t sure how many people besides Owain actually knew about these names, but he took it all in happily. It seemed like Owain didn’t care much for all the doom and gloom talk, and that suited Morgan just fine.
He waved to the others as Owain introduced him, but some of them regarded him with the same air of skepticism as Severa had. Ah, well, he couldn’t really blame them. He’d probably think his story sounded fishy too, and he’d been holed up in his tent since he got here for the most part. The rumor mill in a place like this was probably thriving, and there was no telling what people might’ve been saying over the last few days.
Once they’d completed a circuit of the camp, which was all Morgan needed to form a solid mental map, Owain offered to show Morgan his secret Hero Training spot, which turned out to be a tree-dotted hilltop at the edge of camp. It offered an unobstructed view of the area to the west of camp, a winding road through a field that ran up to a bristling tree line. There were no destroyed homes or villages in this panorama, and Morgan could see the sun slowly heading for that treeline on its declining arc. It must have been a real sight to see at sunset.
Owain crouched down so that Morgan could slide safely back to the ground, and then he flopped down on the grass beside Morgan with a whoosh of breath. He hadn’t uttered a single complaint, but he must have been tired from carting Morgan around all afternoon.
“This is a pretty cool secret training spot,” Morgan said, letting himself fall onto his back. The grass tickled his cheek, a flicker of sense memory from just a few days ago, one of his very first memories. It felt nice just to lie in the sun like this—here, it was quiet, away from the steady bustle of the camp. “That’s a pretty fantastic view there.”
Owain grinned. “Right? It’s the perfect spot for meditating on your next entrance, or even, you know, just to do weapon maintenance.”
Morgan let his head roll to the side to look at Owain. “So why’s it a secret?”
Owain coughed, his gaze sliding to the side. “I mean—it’s not a secret from Inigo or Cynthia. But the others…don’t really get it. They’d probably just make fun of me if they knew I was out here coming up with new move names.”
Morgan’s lips pursed into a frown. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I thought Black Fang Strike sounded pretty cool.”
“Thanks,” said Owain, but he sighed. “I’ve offered to think of cool moves for the others, but they always say no. Well, except for Cynthia, but she has kind of a different angle on the hero thing. But at least she gets it, you know? It can really make a difference, having a good battlecry to get your blood going as you charge into battle. You can’t fight like a hero if you don’t feel like one. And anyway, if they’re going to be passing down legends about the scions of fate who smote Grima out of existence, you want to make sure your weapons already have names. You can’t leave that kind of stuff up to the historians.”
“Makes sense to me,” Morgan said. “I think it’s a shame no one’s ever taken you up on that offer. I mean, I wouldn’t pass up the chance to have Owain Dark bestow a cool new move upon me!”
Owain rolled onto his side and studied Morgan for a second, like he wasn’t sure if Morgan was being serious, but Morgan’s face was an open book, and his intentions were pure.
“I totally would if you wanted me to,” he said. Morgan gave him a bright smile.
“Totally! That’d be great!”
The smile returned in earnest to Owain’s face. “I shall begin meditating on it posthaste. Cynthia said you use thunder magic, right? That’s a pretty solid starting point.”
“I leave it in your capable hands,” Morgan said earnestly. He laid back and closed his eyes, soaking up the warmth of the afternoon sun and the scent of fresh air, the dust of summer on the wind. Owain watched him for a moment.
“Now that we’ve rescued our imperiled countrymen, our mission here has finally come to an end,” he said. “At the first light of dawn, we begin our triumphant march back to Ylisstol, where a hero’s welcome awaits us! So…” He cleared his throat. “Were you gonna come with us?”
He sounded hopeful. Morgan blinked his eyes open. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I mean…I’ve gotta find my mom. Not that she can’t take care of herself, but…still. We’ve always been together.” But then he blew out a breath with a hapless smile. “Then again, it’s not like I’m in any condition to be walking around on my own, and even if I was, I’d really be in trouble if I ran into a pack of Risen like that again. So…yeah, I guess I’ll be tagging along for a little while longer! Guess I’ll get to see your secret technique after all.”
Owain brightened. There was a tinge of relief to his smile. “And I’ll finally get to see the master of lightning at work. That’ll definitely give me some inspiration for your new move.”
Morgan just gave him a sunny smile. Owain watched him for another moment, then folded his hands behind his head and looked skyward.
“Our quests take us far and wide across the land,” he said. “You never know what information we might turn up—perhaps even some clue as to your mother’s whereabouts.”
Morgan frowned slightly. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but…aren’t you guys pretty busy as it is? Taking on Grima and saving the world seems kind of like a full-time job.”
Owain let out a laugh brimming with confidence. “Who says we can’t do both? It’s what heroes do. Besides, if we found your mom, I bet she’d make an incredible ally in the battle for world salvation! You said she’s a master tactician, right?”
“The best there is,” Morgan said without hesitation. “If she were here…she’d know what to do. I just know it.”
Owain rolled his head to the side again. Morgan’s round-eyed gaze met his.
“If your mother really is out there,” Owain said, “you shouldn’t have to look for her alone.”
Morgan blinked at him in surprise, then he dropped his gaze with a smile more reserved than usual. “Thanks, Owain.”
“It’s what friends do,” Owain said with unshakable conviction. He held out a hand, and Morgan let out a little laugh as he took it with a comfortable grip. That was better—that was a real smile.
“I’ve never had friends before,” Morgan said. “At least, not as far as I can remember. But I’ve gotta say, it’s pretty great so far!”
They lay there a little while longer, but the afternoon was beginning to wane and there was little room for idle time when there were preparations to be made, so before long Morgan climbed onto Owain’s back once more, settling himself comfortably with his arms loosely around Owain’s neck. He was glad that Owain didn’t seem to mind carrying him, because there was something about it that made him feel at ease. Someone had done this for him, once upon a time.
Lucina was just emerging from Morgan’s tent with a slight frown when they descended the hill back to camp.
“There you are,” she said, and she smiled faintly as Morgan waved from Owain’s back. “I’m glad to see you’re staying off that foot. Is it healing alright? I’d meant to come by and see how you were doing sooner, but…”
“Seems like running an army keeps you pretty busy.” Morgan flapped a hand. “Don’t worry about it! Owain’s been keeping me pretty entertained.”
Lucina glanced at Owain, and her smile widened slightly. “I’m sure he has. I’m glad to see you’re doing well, at any rate. I don’t suppose you’ve recovered any more of your memory as well?”
Morgan shook his head, but before he could say any more, the heavy beat of wyvern wings sent a ripple gusting through the air, kicking up a small cyclone of dust. Morgan buried his face in the back of Owain’s neck to shield his face against the wind and Lucina looked up, brow furrowed.
“Gerome? What’s wrong?”
“Risen incoming,” said an unfamiliar voice, and Morgan peeked his head back out. He must have missed meeting Gerome earlier, because he was sure he’d remember the guy with the big, obvious mask. “From the east. A small horde of them. If we don’t move quickly—”
Cynthia quickly joined him from above, trying to shield the dust from her pegasus’s wings away from them. “I think they’re like the ones we fought the other day, Lucina! I mean, they smell like them…”
Lucina grimaced, her hand going to her sword hilt while she composed her thoughts. “I need Yarne, Noire, and Nah defending the camp. Tell them to help Brady move all the refugees to the mess tent and hold that line. Everyone else needs to arm themselves and be ready to move out immediately.”
Cynthia and Gerome took off without hesitation to relay her orders, and Lucina nodded at Owain, her expression set. “Owain, let’s go.”
Owain bent his knees to let Morgan down, keeping a hand on his arm until his balance was steady.
“My sword hand thirsts for the black ichor that courses through the foul veins of our enemies,” Owain declared, and he gave Morgan’s arm a little squeeze before letting go. “Stick with Brady and the others for now. They’ll keep you safe until our triumphant return.”
“Wait,” Morgan said, reaching out to grab Owain’s hand before he could draw his sword. “Let me come too! I’ve got my thunder magic, and those things are really dangerous—”
“Not that your aid wouldn’t be appreciated, Morgan, but you’re still injured,” Lucina said. “And we’re in greater numbers this time. We’ll be able to take care of them ourselves.” Lucina’s tone was firm, and she nodded at Owain, who bellowed something else about his sword hand as they set off at a run.
A nasty little feeling was churning in Morgan’s stomach, a restlessness he couldn’t shake even as he crawled into his tent to grab his thunder tome. If the Risen did breach the camp’s perimeter and worse came to worse, he’d rather be able to help defend it. It wasn’t anxiety, although he was definitely worried for his new friends. It was just that he’d been thinking a lot about that battle with the gruesome Risen, replaying it in his head over and over to help alleviate the boredom, and because something about that fight, the way those Risen fought, was nagging at him. Lucina and the others had had unexpected difficulty defeating them, and it wasn’t the threat of necrotic venom. Something about the way they moved was different from what Lucina and the others were used to. He willed his brain to find some conclusion in that data as Brady helped him to the mess tent. If only his mother were here…what would she say? Morgan tried desperately to summon oft-repeated advice, basic situational analysis. He sat on a bench in the mess tent, staring at his field tactics manual, and pressed his hands to the sides of his head with a little furrow of his brow. Observation was key.
“Come on…think, Morgan, thi—waugh!”
He started badly as a winged insect all but flew into his face, seemingly out of nowhere, and he flapped his hands in surprise to chase it away with a grimace. Maybe if this were an idle afternoon, he’d be interested in chasing it, but right now, he had a problem to solve, and it had scattered all his thoughts. He hadn’t even seen the bug coming. He stopped and looked down at his hands for a moment, then in the direction the bug had buzzed away. Morgan grabbed his tome.
“Hey, uh, what’s up? Is everything okay?” Yarne asked as Morgan approached, then limped determinedly past him. “Whoa, where are you going? Everyone’s supposed to stay—h-hey, wait!”
“Sorry!” Morgan’s voice came out strained as he started at a lopsided run, pain shooting through his bad ankle with every other step. He made a beeline for the stables, getting a headstart on the sputtering Yarne. He was banking on what he thought were the statistically favorable odds that he had ever ridden a horse. He really hoped it’d come back to him in the moment. “I’ll bring him right back, I promise!”
If he had ever known how to ride a horse, he wasn’t very good at it. There was a whole lot of painful bouncing in the saddle, and he was doing a bad job pointing the horse in any particular direction—he was just fortunate it happened to want to be running where he needed to go. He could see the battlefield as it came into view, indistinct silhouettes resolving into familiar figures. He could tell they were struggling, just like last time. At this rate, someone was going to wind up injured—and maybe somewhere a little more vital than the foot. He clung white-knuckled to the reins as the horse made for the battlefield at a dead run.
“Lucina!” he yelled, summoning all the breath he had. “Flank them! You’ve gotta flank them!”
Lucina jerked her head in the direction of his voice, wide-eyed, and narrowly dodged a blow from a Risen’s outstretched claws. “Morgan, what are you—”
“You can tell me off later, I promise! Listen, there’s a trick to these things!” Morgan was finding himself breathless, some terrifying cousin to exhilaration pounding in his ears. How was he supposed to make the horse slow down? “It’s those weird-shaped heads—they’ve got virtually no peripheral vision. They’re too fast to fight head-on, but if you hit them in their blind spot, you can beat their reflexes to the punch!”
Lucina’s brow knit as she dodged yet another attack, but this time she lunged past the Risen and pivoted, swinging her sword to cleave clean through its torso from the side. Breathless, she repeated Morgan’s advice as orders to the rest of the squad, and Morgan saw the change ripple out across the battlefield as everyone changed tacks, and the fight began to turn around. It made something rise in his chest that he couldn’t quite describe.
He was badly losing control of the horse. Balance shaken, he finally toppled out of the saddle and hit the ground with a whoosh of breath. He kept one hand tightly clutched around his tome as he fought to regain the wind knocked out of him, but he could hear—and smell—the approaching Risen. It was all well and fine that he’d gotten the word out to Lucina and the others, but the idea of taking another direct attack from those nasty claws did not excite him.
A hand closed around his wrist before he could summon lightning, and Owain pulled him to his feet with an exhilarated grin. Morgan staggered for a moment, and Owain linked an arm with his to keep him upright.
“Charging onto the battlefield on your loyal steed despite your noble injury, huh?” Owain’s voice was bright and breathless as he moved, just enough footwork to swing his sword without throwing Morgan over. “I’ve gotta say, that was a pretty solid entrance for a beginner. You should think about adding a catchphrase next time—taste my righteous steel, wretched beast!” He lunged forward to swing his sword at the unprotected side of a monster making a move for Inigo’s unshielded side. “You know, something along those lines.”
“I hope I can find that horse later,” Morgan said, but even in the thick of battle, Owain’s smile was contagious. “I promised I’d—Severa, behind you!”
He fired off a burst of crackling lightning as Severa pivoted nimbly and jumped back. The Risen, struck in the back with his thunder magic, groaned and lurched to the side, and Severa circled swiftly behind it to drive her sword between its shoulderblades.
“Ugh, how do these things smell even worse when they’re zapped to a crisp?!”
“You’re welco—whoa!” Morgan shifted his focus back to the moment, nearly falling over as Owain half-leapt back to avoid a blow from a new Risen. Attacking Owain head-on, it had the advantage, and Owain couldn’t jump around freely while he had himself tethered to Morgan. Morgan took a step back on his good foot, pulling Owain back with him out of range of another attack—but rather than letting go, he tightened his linked arm around Owain’s. The Risen was already lurching towards them again.
“Owain—quick! Swing me around this way!”
Owain didn’t hesitate, just grinned and pivoted, throwing his weight to the side until Morgan felt his feet leave the ground. Owain let himself be carried by his momentum, the two of them moving as though in a two-step battle waltz taround the side of the approaching monster. Clutching his tome tightly, Morgan scrunched up his face in great concentration, sweat beading on his upper lip. It was always harder to hit a moving target, sure, but when you were the one moving…
The Risen, though too fast to be fooled by a simple pivot, didn’t see the ball of lightning crackle into existence just behind its head, unfolding into a bolt that lanced through its back and protruded out the front of its chest. No more than a few snaps of lightning made it any farther, but the thunderous blowback knocked both Owain and Morgan to the ground. They both got to their hands and knees on the ground, fighting to regain their breath, as the Risen let out a foul, choked noise and toppled to the ground in a stinking heap.
“That was awesome,” Owain wheezed. Morgan grinned and held his hand up for a high-five, but as soon as Owain took it, another monster came lurching towards them with its long, awkwardly-jointed arms extended. Morgan gripped Owain’s hand tightly and pulled, rolling them both out of the way just as its claws gouged into the ground where they’d been a second ago.
Owain landed on top of him with a grunt, the weight of his body pinning Morgan in place. The Risen was already upon them again, and Owain was still getting to his feet, and Morgan willed another snap of lightning to appear as quickly as he could—
The point of a lance bored through the chest of the Risen, and Morgan was rocked by a sharp wave of deja vu as it toppled to reveal Cynthia on her pegasus, lance raised, her cheeks flushed with exertion.
“Another abomination vanquished by Cynthia, champion of justice!” Her pegasus’s hooves grazed the ground, its wings beating in place, and she held out her free hand to Morgan. “Hop on, before one of those things gets you again!”
Owain got to his feet and pulled Morgan with him, helping to hoist him onto the saddle. “Take to the skies, my fellow warriors, and rain death from above!”
“We’ll cover you!” Morgan called as they took flight, and he quickly wrapped his arm around Cynthia’s waist as they arced skyward. Now this was an exhilarating experience—there was a giddy rush in his stomach every time they swooped in for an attack, the Risen falling to pieces like so much paper between Cynthia’s lance and his thunder magic. It was an even greater thrill than the first time they’d fought together, and with a bird’s eye view of the battlefield, Morgan’s mind was overclocking on information and analysis, and in between attacks he shouted instructions into Cynthia’s ear over the din of battle. They were a devastating pair, lending a deadly assist to anyone who seemed about to falter, and Cynthia’s energetic battlecries heralding their every strike seemed to add another bright layer of exhilaration. Time lost its meaning in the rush of wind in Morgan’s ears, and by the time Lucina felled the last Risen, his tactical brain was running so furiously he was still scanning the battlefield for enemies even as Cynthia’s pegasus touched down.
“Victory pried from the maw of death yet another day!” Owain sheathed his sword, wiping some of the mixed sweat and dirt from his face on the back of his sleeve. “You guys make a killer tag team. Morgan, the way you brought the very heavens down upon our enemies—now that deserves a catchphrase!”
“I know, right?” Cynthia beamed. “Something like, I am Morgan, hero of light! Now receive my judgment from on high!”
“Hmm…” Owain’s brow pinched. “What about ‘god of lightning’? No, I think his image is a little too humble for that…lord of lightning?”
“I guess it could use some workshopping—whoa!”
Morgan had started to slide sideways out of the saddle. Owain caught him before he hit the ground, holding Morgan up with one arm under his. Morgan’s eyes were slightly out of focus, and he was leaning heavily against Owain, clutching his tome in both hands with a white-knuckled grip. Cynthia dismounted hurriedly, her pigtails swinging.
“Morgan! Are you alright? You, um, look a little green…”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Morgan said with a wan smile, then broke away from Owain and hobbled a few steps away to be sick in a clump of trampled bushes. Cynthia and Owain each caught him by a shoulder as he started to stagger bathwards. Morgan let out a little burp. “Better now.”
“Maybe you should sit down,” Cynthia said, her brow furrowed.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Morgan said, just as his knees buckled under him. In the heat of battle he hadn’t really noticed, but now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel how much magic he’d used. The usually lively current than ran through him felt hollow and creaking in a way that made him more conscious of it than he generally was. So it was possible to use up too much magic in one go, huh… Well, everyone had limits. Discovering his own was sort of exciting—new data to process, once he had the time to sort through it at all. He looked around, but stopped immediately. It made him dizzy. “Has anyone seen the horse I rode in on?”
A little breath of relief whooshed out of him as he finally sat down. The world was being a little more forgiving with the angle of its tilt now.
“Morgan!”
He looked up at Lucina’s voice to see her striding his way, sheathing her sword with a furrowed brow. Her hair was stuck to her forehead and neck with sweat, and she was still breathing hard. “Are you alright? Were you injured?”
“No, just tired, I think. I guess I must be pretty out of shape compared to you guys!” The easy smile slid off his face, and he winced. “I’m sorry, Lucina. I know you told me to stay behind, but…”
Lucina held up a hand to silence him. “You needn’t apologize, Morgan. Thanks to your advice, we carried the day.”
“I wish I’d figured it out a little sooner,” Morgan said, frowning. “So—everyone’s okay? No one’s in danger of losing a limb, or, er—a kidney?”
“There were a few near misses,” Inigo said with a face, stooping to wipe some black slime from his shield on the grass. “But it seems like everyone pulled through not much more worse for the wear. I’d say that’s worthy of a little celebration, wouldn’t you, Lucina?”
“It’s too soon to rest easy,” Lucina said, shaking her head. “The last time we fought this kind of Risen, it was over an hour’s march away, and I thought we’d extinguished the lot. It can’t be a coincidence that they appeared so close to our camp. We’ll be doubling our perimeter patrol for the night.”
“Right,” Inigo sighed, “of course.”
“Cheer up, Inigo! We’ll be home before you know it, and then we can finally relax a little.” Cynthia held up Morgan’s limp hand like he was the champion of a prizefight. “And treat our guest of honor to a real bed!”
But their guest of honor was in bad need of a lie down, and Cynthia took him on a significantly gentler flight back to the med tent. As soon as Morgan was back in his own tent, he passed out hard in a heap on his cot. Maybe it was just that he’d spent a few sedentary days in his tent before jumping into battle, or that he wasn’t accustomed to fighting like the others were, but he felt incredibly drained now, more tired than he could ever remember being. He fell into a heavy and dreamless sleep, his thunder tome still clutched to his chest.
It was a rustling sound that finally roused him. Another wave of deja vu pulsed through him, and for a moment he thought he smelled the scent of grass again—but it was dark out now, and he was in his tent, not stretched out in a field. He lefted his head to see someone exiting the tent with a rustle of the tent flap.
“Lucina?” he said sleepily. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and Lucina ducked back into the tent, looking at him with a grave expression.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just thought I’d check on you, and…” She cleared her throat. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t have just entered your tent in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t mind,” Morgan said through a yawn, waving his hand. “‘Um…what time is it, anyway?”
“Well past midnight,” Lucina admitted. “I’m…having trouble sleeping. I thought I’d take a walk around camp to quiet my thoughts, and I found myself walking this way. Brady said you hadn’t sustained any serious injuries, but after the way you collapsed back there, I couldn’t help but worry…”
“I’m fine,” Morgan said, patting his hair down for bedhead. He tried to tame the cowlick at the crown of his head with little success. “No, really, I am! I just needed a good nap, I guess. I feel pretty okay now.” He gave up on his hair and peered at Lucina. “So what’s eating you? I thought you’d be feeling pretty good after today’s victory. Er—yesterday’s victory?”
Lucina’s expression dimmed. “That’s just the thing. I’m not the one responsible for that victory—you are.”
“Me?” He was still waking up, but he couldn’t help but let out a hoarse little laugh. “I didn’t do all that much more than anyone else. I just gave you some advice, that’s all. Honestly, I was kind of worried I’d just get in the way! Besides, I couldn’t have led everyone on the battlefield the way you did. When you talk, people really listen.”
Lucina stared at him. “Morgan, that advice saved lives today. If it weren’t for you, we might still have won, but we’d have come away with serious injuries—and with our limited supplies, some of them would undoubtedly have been fatal.”
She closed her eyes, one hand curling into a fist at her side. “What use is my leadership if I only lead my friends to their deaths? There are already so few of us left, and I…”
She drew in a sharp breath and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to speak of my own troubles. There is something I would ask of you.”
She really did have the world on her shoulders, didn’t she? Morgan might have been untethered and missing his mother, but at least he didn’t have to bear a burden on that scale. “Sure,” he said, “shoot.”
“Owain tells me your mother is a skilled tactician, and that you’ve been apprenticed to her for some time now.” Lucina’s gaze was entreating now. “And after today—after you noticed something vital to our success that I failed to—I don’t doubt it in the slightest. I know you’re looking for your mother, but…”
She uncurled her fingers and extended her hand. Her hands were about the same size as his own, but calloused from more combat than Morgan could imagine seeing at her age. “Would you consider joining our cause? Help us defeat Grima and put an end to all the suffering he’s brought? We can use all the help we can get, and…” She smiled slightly. It was that same smile he’d first seen upon waking up, reserved with a little bit of warmth. “I’d be truly fortunate to count a trained tactician among my staff. I believe that with your help, we could truly stand a chance against Grima.”
Morgan blinked, rubbing his face. “I mean, I’m still just an apprentice, but…are you recruiting me for your army?”
“If you’d be willing to fight alongside us, we’d count ourselves lucky to have you.” Lucina’s smile was small, but genuine. “And it doesn’t mean you have to stop looking for your mother, either.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said, thinking back to what Owain had said earlier that day. He also thought about the friends he’d made in such a short period of time—he found himself wanting to keep spending his nights laughing with Owain and Cynthia and Inigo. And going with Owain to his special training spot had warmed Morgan in a way that had pleasantly surprised him. He’d have liked to stay like that a little longer, if only they’d had the time.
He thought about it for a minute, trying to chase away the sleepy clouds fogging up his brain. No doubt fighting with Lucina would bring no shortage of challenges, but those challenges would be new experiences, too, and maybe they could help jog his memory. Besides, if the state of the world was so dire, he ought to help, right? It was what his mother would do, he was sure of it. He had his answer.
“Alright, sure. Count me in!”
He took Lucina’s hand and shook it firmly. Lucina gave him a faintly bewildered look.
“Are you certain? Not that I wouldn’t be thrilled at a yes, but—I thought you might need some time to think about it, at least.”
“The answer seems pretty obvious to me,” Morgan said. “If the person trying to save the whole world thinks I can help, what am I supposed to do, tell her no?”
Lucina breathed out a laugh with obvious relief. “Thank you, Morgan. Truth be told, we could use someone with your morale.” The tasseled medallion on his belt caught her attention, and she leaned in for a closer look. “Is that a Chon’sin charm?”
Morgan picked up the tassel and examined it with a puzzled expression. “Great question. Is it?”
“May I?” Lucina asked, and at Morgan’s assenting nod, she bent to take a closer look. “I’ve never seen this exact design before, but…we’re fortunate to count a few Chon’sin warriors among our ranks, and I’ve seen them bear similar tassels. Charms that bring good luck and protection, or so they say. Is your mother from Chon’sin?”
“No idea,” Morgan said, tracing a finger over the design stamped on the bronze medallion. He’d have to see if he could read up on this Chon’sin place once they got to Ylisstol. Lucina straightened up, brushing her hair from her face.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your rest,” she said, and though she looked tired, she looked somehow more settled than when Morgan had woken up. “Get as much sleep as you can—we set out for Ylisstol at dawn.”
“That goes double for you, Captain Lucina,” Morgan said, already making himself comfortable on the cot again. “Er, Commander Lucina? Princess Lucina? General…? Anyway, no matter the rank, a good leader needs her rest every bit as much as the rest of us! Imagine if you fell asleep in the middle of a staff meeting.”
Lucina smiled faintly. “Thank you, Morgan,” she said, and disappeared through the tent flap.
End notes: i had to come up with something to demonstrate morgan's impressive tactician brain but i will be honest: i just really wanted to write a cool fight scene