#and panne being ONE of the last of her race instead of THE last because 'absolute last of their race' is a boring trope

[legendarybeautyprotibalarina]

the male characters that arent chrom should have kids too so that all the kids have siblings i think

[detectiveroboryan]

Day 7: Children

for @ferarepair-week2k17. it is extremely unlikely i’ll get to write the other 4 days so here’s day 7 bc i finished it

Rating; T Ship: Phila/Emmeryn

set shortly after chapter 6. featuring emmeryn, marth!lucina, and mentions of emm’s 2 kids that are merely larva at this point in time.

Emmeryn has survived another attempt on her life. It's late in the evening. Frederick has been standing exactly two steps from her side so long his knees must be stiff. Chrom has had his Shepherds do round after round around the castle alongside the guards. Their new friend Robin (which is most definitely not her real name) makes note of every window, door, and hallway she sees. Emmeryn has had the castle staff provide the Shepherds with supper but very few have eaten— Lissa, in particular, has attempted and promptly fell asleep next to her plate. There's Shepherds' new ally Gaius, a thief Emmeryn has probably seen in Ylisstol at least once, and Panne, last of the Taguel race. There's Phila, who is anywhere but by Emmeryn's side, likely interrogating her guards to see who let the assassins slip through. There's Marth at one of the tables, fiddling with two halves of a broken mask and checking the windows every five seconds like he's afraid something will burst through the glass. And there is Emmeryn, seeming serene and unshaken, presiding over the common room like the queen that she's been for fifteen years. (An Exalt is neither a king nor a queen, they say, but that is what they do nonetheless. In the end Exalt is just a title echoing sentiments about the ruler being chosen by the divine to serve the people, and just another word that has lost its meaning.)

Eventually they all retire to bed. Phila will be up for hours, no doubt, tightening the guard rotation and seeing to that cleft in the wall behind the maple grove. Or perhaps she'll station herself in the nursery, bolting and re-bolting the windows and daring anything to try and harm her children. Emmeryn does not blame her. The children are nothing short of miracles to begin with— even though they've survived this long and Emmeryn didn't worry herself into miscarrying twice, they are still young enough to be fragile and although Emmeryn will not pity Phila in the morning, she will not chide Phila for her worrisome nature.

After she convinces Frederick to get some rest and Chrom carries Lissa out of the room on his back, Marth stands to leave. He's still on edge. Emmeryn supposes she understands, but that is not all there is to it.

"Hold, sir," she says. He stiffens. She moves herself over towards him— she has always been short but Marth is at least a head and a half taller than she is, all battle-honed muscle and tendons ready to snap into action at a moment's notice.

He bows his head. "Your Grace." His voice has a huskiness to it that is not entirely purposeful; like a blade to his throat nicked his voice box and made it harsher, more gravelly than it would have been ordinarily. This is a young man who has lived through more battles than his years would lead Emmeryn to guess.

"I should thank you personally," she says. "For your part in warding off the assassins. Chrom tells me it was you who saved his life in the courtyard, and the reason he was at full strength for he fight."

Marth flushes, dark brown cheeks turning red. He really does have quite a lot of scars, at least on his face. "I only did what had to be done."

"It intrigues me," Emmeryn says. She can almost see him shiver at that— good. "That you knew."

"I am not with them," he insists. He swallows. "I know how I must look to you, skin being what it is, and given the current political climate it is only natural you would assume I am involved. But you must take me at my word, however little it may be worth, that I played no part in sending the assassins to your door, your Grace. I swear it."

Truth be told, that was her first thought, but she believes that he's telling the truth— how she knows, she isn't sure. She supposes the Brand blesses her with knowledge as much as it blesses Chrom with strength.

"I believe you," she promised. "But you must understand my… curiousity. None can see the future, and yet it seems you did. Chrom tells me that you claim as much as well. Considering divination as I know it is a time-consuming and innacurate process, I doubt that is how you know. Thus my curiousity persists. What say you, sir…"

Marth licks his lips anxiously, like his mouth has gone dry. "Just Marth," he says. 
"No surname?" Emmeryn questions.

"None worth mentioning," Marth says. He ducks under her gaze— it is not glaring or scrutinizing, but it is studying, like she's put him beneath a magnifier and is watching for flaws and irregularities.

Emmeryn supposes that is the least of her concerns. "So how is it that you see the future?" she asks. "You have my word as an Exalt that none of what you say will leave this room."

For what it's worth, that seems to reassure him. He takes a breath. Then another. "Perhaps you should sit," he suggests weakly.

"I can stand," Emmeryn tells him.

"Perhaps I should sit," he says instead. He sits on one of the low benches along the table in the room. He is too tall for it; he looks like an adult trying to sit on a chair made for a small child. For a moment he tucks his long legs under the bench, but that is uncomfortable so he sits with his knees together, slightly to the side. He fiddles with his greaves. His armor is faded steel and it once had some country's emblem upon it, but it's so damaged and faded that Emmeryn can no longer tell what it ever was. The leather is cracked and faded. The scale is tarnished. The plate is scarred and nicked and marbled from repair after repair.

He breathes. "I have seen the future because I have lived it," he says, deadly serious. "I've come back in time in order to avert a catastrophe that turned my home into a wasteland. It began with your assassination on this night. Whether this will accomplish what I set out to do or not, I have no doubts I did something." 
"And the Brand in your eye?" Emmeryn continues. Marth sits upright like she'd just splashed him with a bucket of cold water. He's staring at her like a spooked animal, like he may bolt at any minute. One hand, the good hand, twitches as if it's instinct to put it around the hilt of his sword.

Emmeryn is no fool— far from it. She's seen that sword before. She's seen it aimed at her throat and she's seen it lain in her arms and she's seen it every day at her brother's side.

Emmeryn is impassive even as Marth debates the consequences of running then and there. His hands shake involuntarily. He swallows. 
"It told me of this night," he says. "I knew I had to come back in time to prevent it. My own time is beyond saving, but this timeline— if I can prevent the End from happening here, I will be satisfied. If I can save the version of me that has yet to be born from growing into what I am—" his voice breaks. Emmeryn understands. Had she the chance, would she not save her young self from the fate she lived through?

It's a lot to take in but it all makes sense. His hands shake. He pulls a flask of something off his belt and drains it. He shakes it a little, trying to get every drop out, and scowls when he doesn't succeed.

"You've yet to be born in this timeline?" Emmeryn repeats. "To my brother?"

Marth swallows. He nods. Emmeryn's guess was correct— but it was extremely unlikely hair that shade of blue would've come from herself or Lissa. He doesn't look like he'll be able to say much more. His face is still flushed but it's because he's trying not to cry. He rubs at his eyes with a half-gloved hand while the other rests on the hilt of his sword— the very same sword that Chrom carries.

"Thank you," she says. "Whatever your reasons, House Grace owes you a debt." 
"Seeing it alive and well is enough," Marth says, and he means it. "By the time I become Exalt, everyone of the house is dead save for myself, my brother, and our cousins— though my brother's status as a Grace is up for debate. Seeing the family, my family, all living and breathing is… it's more rewarding than I thought it would be."

Emmeryn lets herself smile a bit. After all, Marth is family.

"Do you know of my children?" she asks, against her better judgement. Marth hesitates.

"To my knowledge, they are well," he says. "Many of my friends, children of the other Shepherds, came back with me, though in the process we became separated. Your sons are brave and kind in equal measure, and two steadfast allies."

That's reassuring. "I'm glad," she says. "I have no doubts they do my memory proud." Perhaps it truly was better for them that she died. Should she have died here? Long ago she had thought of falling, perhaps from a window in one of the towers— when that day comes, will she still fall?