#philemm

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."

"Don't touch it—"

Emmeryn hisses, an ugly sound that Phila thinks has no place coming from one like her. It's not because she's in pain but because she'd rather Phila keep her fingers away from the gash— she's in the middle of stitching it back up, and unless Phila has washed her hands very, very thoroughly, she could carry dirt into the wound and it'd get infected, and that's a whole other ball game that Emmeryn simply doesn't have time to deal with.

Phila retracts her hand. "Why don't you ever see a healer?" she asks. Emmeryn resumes her stitching. The needle is a thin, silver thing so sharp it pierces the flesh on her jaw with only a tiny prick of pain. Or perhaps Emmeryn is simply so used to suturing up her own wounds that it no longer hurts. She doesn't speak— she needs to hold her jaw still in order to sew it correctly. The thread is silk laced with mana that dissolves into the wound when she draws her magic over it, and it's ridiculously difficult to make, and if she has to sneak back into the infirmary for more someone will absolutely notice.

She finishes the stitches. "They need not see me like this," she says, slowly drawing her finger along the gash on her jawline. "An Exalt should be above such things."

Phila disapproves of this and Emmeryn knows it. She sighs. "More like you're too stubborn to show anyone that you bleed."

"That, too," Emmeryn is self-aware enough to admit.

Emmeryn heals the cut with the magic of light and healing that runs in her veins— her father's side of the family. She washes the blood off her hands in the basin. Phila hands her a cloth to dry them on.

"I sometimes wonder," Phila says, brushing a stray curl of Emmeryn's hair off the healed silvery skin of the cut on her jaw, and that of many others healed in much the same way, "How my mother managed to deal with your nature for so long."

"I wonder that too," Emmeryn remarks. "Possibly she was a saint. As anyone who managed to raise you would be."

And Phila laughs a little at that, because it's funny, and draws her arms around Emmeryn's back. She rests them on her waist, head on her shoulder. She kisses her neck, and kisses another long-healed silvery scar. When she looks closely Emmeryn's skin is full of things like that— evidence of bruises submerged into cold water and then healed with shaking hands, and of sprains fixed by candlelight. It is a dangerous job, bringing peace to Ylisstol.

She is young when the knowledge hits her— fifteen or so, spending the summer in Enderwick as has become customary since Ylisstol stabilized and the rest of the country with it. Truth be told she's there to ensure that the new highway connecting Ylisstol, Enderwick, and the nearby city of Ansburg is holding up under the renewed flow of traffic, but because she's there already she supposes it wouldn't hurt to spend the season.

Phila is on the roof of the house with her shirt tied around her waist and her muscles glistening in the sunshine. It's a hot day in the middle of the season and the wheat stalks on the farm are tall and green, and the corn on the stalks are ripening nicely. It's been stormy lately; the wind has blasted the shutters open on more than one occasion and although there really are too many shingles on the house at this point Phila thinks it's better safe than sorry. Her parents are too old to climb up on the roof to fix it so while she's in town she's going to make sure everything stays in place.

"How's the weather up there?" Emmeryn calls. Her head feels light without her crown. Had she worn it it would glow in the sunshine like the halo of an angel, making her look like a divine messenger of Naga taking a humanoid form if only not to frighten the humble mortal shepherds below— but they would still fear, because divinity goes beyond appearance.

She can see Phila's grin from two stories below. Phila waves. She's sweaty from the work; silver-blue of her hair glistening in the light. Emmeryn thinks that if anyone is an angel it is Phila— she is eighteen now, young and strong and all a knight should be.

"Come up and see for yourself," she calls in return.

Despite the warm summer afternoon, suddenly Emmeryn feels cold. Like wind rushing through her hair, ground hurtling towards her at speeds higher than anyone can control— she's never liked heights but now the mere idea of being any higher than she is makes her feel violently ill. She doesn't believe in curses but she knows, in that split second, that it's the Brand on her forehead that gave her this knowledge and she knows that it means she's going to die in ten years.