Comms and Other Long FE Oneshots

Little Desert Flower

        She can still hear Aversa screaming, even as those screams are fading from distance. The dark flier is being dragged further and further down into the halls of Plegia's royal palace, away from Her and the throne room. The generals and what precious little remained of actual nobility are all shifting uneasily as they stare at Her.

That fear is a familiar sensation. What still isn't familiar is Her little desert child holding a water basin up to Her with trembling hands. She sighs, but begins washing Her hands and face clean of Her father's blood. Such a messy substance. "Start your reports," She tells the crowd, Her voice steady and colder than a Feroxi winter. "I know you have them."

-

Ruling comes easily to Her. Despite Her constant exhaustion and the knowledge of the hands-on approach of Ylisse's Exalt (Her beloved, His enemy) there is a lot She can get done from the throne. With His presence still crawling about the walls around Her and His hunger, temper and power at Her fingertips, the fear of Her remains in the jackals of Her court. (If a couple of those jackals had been sacrificed to Their displeasure, that was unimportant. Her hands and His power had both taken far more innocent blood.)

As for everything else, Plegia is becoming more free with Her at the helm of both the Grimleal and all other matters. No more castes, less of an emphasis on brigand culture since people can trade freely with Ylisse and Valm now. They still hesitantly bring their ideas to Her since they are unused to having so many choices, and She signs off on anything that isn't too crazy and won't provoke Ylisse.

She knows exactly what will provoke Ylisse.

Her generals, the gentler ones, had once given Her reverence because they feared Her like the rest, but some now genuinely respect Her in Her position despite Her pitiable physical condition. She is so used to fear, it is so much easier to handle, genuine respect reminds Her of Her beloved (Their enemy) and the people She had once called Her friends. She still feels so, so sick some days and memories of the past only make it worse.

Her little desert child frets over Her far more than She deserves. The little one's fear has vanished too, over the days and weeks since the incident with Validar. "You've barely moved from the throne since becoming Queen," she tells Her, climbing up onto her lap. She lifts Her head from Her hand, knowing Her expression is one of exhausted disinterest. She doesn't have the energy to change it, even in the face of the little desert child's frown. "You won't be able to get up at all if you don't try to move a little."

It is a valid worry, even if it irritates Her. "I'm tired."

"You're always tired."

"I am not in the mood for this today, Morwen." Her glare is met by a confused, startled look. Not the correct name, it had... slipped... from Her. The child had never given Her a name, though, so Morwen would have to do. "I will move from this throne when I choose to."

-

I want to sleep, She hears Him whisper after nearly a month after Validar's death, pain and confusion in His voice. Why are we here?

"To rule your people," She replies into Her hands, even though She really doesn't know why either. He doesn't press Her, thankfully, still reeling from His loss of control.

-

Morwen has thick, wavy dark brown hair that falls just past her pale shoulders. It bounces when she dances before Her, once again allowing Her a glimpse of simple Plegian beauty. The dance quiets His still ever-present rage, settles the constant churning in Her stomach. It reminds Her why She is here and what She fights for.