#{lucina.}

From the hero sentence starters || Accepting

          "...Who indeed, Lucina. Who indeed..."

     She joins her upon the ground with little more than the fluttering of fabric, between them a fire of sticks and what once served as the handles of weapons. Another day, another loss. Their numbers dwindling, and in each claimed by combat, sickness or the world around them, another who would soon lunge at them with reckless abandon somewhere down the line. Separate fires were not an usual sight among them—to mourn, to share stories, to find company in the wake of newfound isolation thrust upon them—, however to find Lucina off on her own raised the first of many concerns for the older woman. Her stare the next, and words the third.

     Eyes shift to the coals. They ought not to put them out soon, she thinks, but move to another location for the night. Leave not a single trace of their existence in tracks leading from the flames, yet allow them still to flicker along the horizon. Like some beacon for what drags itself along at the forefront of nightfall, tethered to ruins and dirt with pin thin and tendril-like shadows that reach out before them, and in the fires' lack of attendees a defiant message. A refusal to die. Even when bones ache and minds clutter with sounds and images alike they can now never shake. When it would be easier to do so.

          "Perhaps you might not describe yourself as happy, but that does not mean you cannot find happiness in what little you have left, even if it is fleeting."

     She pauses, if only to allow the head of a wyvern, scarred and scaled caked with dust and an indescribable, blackened substance, to poke her way into the conversation and fall upon her lap with an unceremonious huff. The shifting of great wings a sound long familiar to Morgana, and enough to send speckled embers off into the dusk, winking along dulled clouds. She ought to clean her up, too.

It is over.

Years of hiding, trapped in a gilded cage of her own making with its door wide open, but one she would only let her child venture out of. Her steps painstakingly calculated, so that Robin might travel on more carefree ones. Years of waking up in the sobering embrace of fear, worrying that this day would be the one where everything gave way. In a way, it feels unreal. Like a hazy dream, despite standing in the very castle she had been raised in once again and title restored. Her people, targets no more. The wars are over. Walhart's conquest was stopped. The Fell Dragon defeated, and her child freed from a horrific fate. She stands now perhaps as the only pillar left of an era finally put to rest.

For that reason, it had made quite a sound argument in allowing her to resume her position engraved into the Plegian throne. A figure who stood once as a staunch protector of the people, part of a bloodline who upheld the same purpose for a millennium and pledged forever to do as much. A symbol of strength and stability-- something familiar; a return to times before the crusade and before the wars. To be the one formally accepting a treaty of peace between Plegia and Ylisse, in the name of a previous ruler from either side who had hoped only to repair relations, it would serve not only tie loose ends, but seal them.

What it had not resolved for Morgana, however, was the existence of one individual.

Lucina.

Not the child she had been introduced to-- not her darling granddaughter, whose steps still fell clumsily but not without purpose. No, someone of the same name and lineage, with an identical brand, but explained to the queen as heralding from a distant, once doomed, future. A story so outlandish that it cracked composure some four decades in the making, and she had laughed heartily at. Dismissed and presumed a joke, she had returned to Plegia, unbothered-- or, at least, until that little jest began to gnaw at her mind, piece by piece.

"You have my deepest gratitude for accepting this invitation on such short notice,"

For every “⏳” I receive, my muse will openly talk about a bit of their backstory || Accepting @auratold

"...'Where did we go'?"

"Somewhere far from Plegia, I am afraid. It simply had to be. Although the route travelled was... you could say quite inefficient and scenic-- to avoid the frontlines and being spotted-- eventually, we crossed the border into Ylisse and travelled east. To the desert,"

"There was meant to be a village hidden near the oasis, or so the stories went. Relatively new, and birthed out of desperation to avoid persecution, be it by the Exalt or their own people. Ylissean dark mages, defectors from all sides, former members of the Grimleal and Naga sects, and other gifted sorcerers... it was their haven. A settlement so well hidden by illusory magic that most thought it to be a mirage."

"Looking back now, perhaps it was a little foolish to have put so much faith in such a place. This 'mirage village' had been scant more than a rumour at the time, dismissed as nothing more than a desperate attempt at holding onto hope in the midst of a war eleven years long. None had ever found it, and many had perished looking for it. However... for my child to live as they saw fit, we had to disappear. Nowhere was safe-- even the most tucked away town, so long as it was perceivable, would have been searched. And so... I convinced myself that that village was our only option."

Lucina

     Lucina has never had much of an agreeable taste in fashion-- or, at least, not to the sage. Even now, even when the girl walks among those she shares thousands of years of history and culture with, there are still many questionable garments in the girl’s possession. So many, in fact, that it spurred the queen regnant not to seek out someone else to fashion a piece of clothing for the younger woman, but instead buy the fabric and sew it herself. It is not an unfamiliar form of art for the grandmother-- she has, in the past, produced many articles of clothing for her fellow Grimleal, much like her sister clerics, and the cloak Robin once wore when they were alive. A few weeks of on and off labour brought about a results the sage found herself satisfied with-- a few robes and a shawl traditionally worn in more formal settings, and quite beautiful to gaze upon.       Yet, Naeva does not dare bring the outfit straight to the other’s chambers, no-- instead, she approaches empty-handed, with it adorning a model in a room that holds a particularly special place in the sage’s heart.

          “Lucina?”

     She speaks softly, as though the woman fears startling her granddaughter more than her sudden appearance might already do. Partially gloved hands move to collect themselves in front of her stomach, hidden behind the front panel of red robes. 

          “…Lucina, do you have a moment?”

     To say that the task at hand cuts Inigo deeply would be naught but an understatement. To stand before someone he has long considered to be quite dear, struggling to find the right words to say—how to approach a subject so sensitive for himself, but perhaps not for her--, but partially wanting nothing more than to stay silent about it all. He understood their goal, of what travelling back to this time would ultimately accomplish should they be successful, but never did the young man expect to be faced with a situation like this—never did Inigo know that the princess was planning on murdering his own father. He knows of the cursed blood in his veins—one that is far more potent in Robin’s, and the consequences of such a thing--, and he knows that simply killing the one responsible for Grima’s awakening would solve all of their problems, and perhaps that is what wounds him the most. Sacrificing his own well-being for the sake of others had been easy; the idea of sacrificing his own father, however, is a completely different story.

     Pale hands clench themselves together—not out of anger, but instead as a means to curb the growing sense of dread that dares to pool in the pit of the hero’s stomach--, and as each moment passes, the boy can feel his throat only tighten further, making each word hard to form without it adding to such a choking sensation. He cares about Robin, yes—after all, the man raised him from infancy, and holds such a special place in Inigo’s heart--, but to say that he does not regard the girl in a manner similar to that would be nothing more than a lie. She is, to him, like family—someone he would lay down his life for; a close friend--, and to confront Lucina over her attempt on his father’s life causes him nothing but the purest sort of pain.

          “It’s about my father—about Robin. Rather.... what you tried to do,”

     A shallow breath escapes from his lips, shaky but overflowing with unspoken emotion as he attempts to keep a level-head. It would do no good to shout, and to be frank the hero would rather not do such a thing—his aim is not to hurt Lucina, after all. Her reasoning is all he wants; he wishes to hear a reason good enough for his mind, at the very least, to forgive her actions, but not forget them.