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Snippet #2789590

located in Fódlan, a part of Fire Emblem: Apotheosis, one of the many universes on RPG.

Fódlan

A continent divided into three different factions: The Adrestian Empire, The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and the Leicester Alliance.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal
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I.Y. 1183 - Harpstring Moon - Monday the 12th
Fhirdiad - Evening - Drizzle
Sorcha Blaiddyd


“And how are you today, Princess?"

Sorcha lifted her head to glare at Cornelia. It wasn't much of one, not anymore. Some days, she wasn't even sure exactly why she was doing it—why she was still summoning all the vinegar and vehemence she had left in her, trying to burn the other woman with her eyes.

It wasn't like it made a difference. She was chained to a wall, the shackles around her wrists and ankles did something to even the faint flicker of actual magic she had, and stopped her from accessing her Crest entirely. Cornelia kept her here, in her office, like some kind of prize—the Princess in the tower that she'd never wanted to be. At least in a dungeon, she'd have been left alone. Here she was always under Cornelia's eye, and often enough under her knife as well.

“Poor thing. That one's nowhere near as magnificent as the look you gave me yesterday. Perhaps you're still a little tired from the transfusions?" Cornelia smiled wickedly, placing the tip of her index finger on her chin and tilting her head in a mockery of concerned curiosity. “But you know it's good for you. It will give you that Crest you've always wanted. We'll make a proper Queen of you yet, just you wait!"

She turned towards her workbench; the implements of her tortures were immaculately-clean; sometimes while Sorcha recovered from the day's attentions, tried to remember how to breathe and think and feel anything that wasn't pain, Cornelia would sit in an overstuffed armchair beside her and polish them, rubbing away her blood and humming some tune she did not recognize. Methodical, repetitive, almost like something she did to bring herself down from the high of her work.

“What do you want?" Sorcha rasped, voice cracking and dry with disuse. She didn't remember the last time she'd used it to do anything but scream.

Cornelia stilled, then turned, leaning back against the workbench. The candlelight of the chamber gave her rich aubergine robes thick shadows, the black feather mantle about the collar glistened. “Well I just told you, silly girl. I'm going to make you the Queen you've always wanted to be. Perfect for your people. You just need a few modifications first."

To this, Sorcha did not respond. She hardly understood what was done to her, besides the cutting, and that she knew Cornelia did just for fun, and perhaps to practice the healing. Though why she should need to practice healing Sorcha in particular was unclear.

Really, though, responding was rarely necessary. “Firstly," Cornelia said, “We've got to get your Crest up to snuff. Such a shame you were born with the minor, but that's all right. We can fix it. Then, of course, you'll need to forget all about your little friends, and Duscur, and everything else. It's funny, you know. I got rid of your mother so easily, but you always seem to hold so tightly to that silly boy. What a terrible daughter you are."

“Wha—my mother? What do you mean?" It felt like trying to think through the mental equivalent of molasses.

“Well obviously I tested my methods before formulating the long term plan," Cornelia replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Fortunately, I'd figured out how to target you with the magic before you left for the Academy. You weren't meant to share the treats I sent you, you know? I was starting to worry it wasn't so effective if they weren't fresh. But yes—I am, of course, the reason you can't remember your mother. Eventually I'll be the reason you can't remember anything except who you're supposed to kill. We'll start with von Riegan, I think—if I can make you kill him, I can make you kill anyone."

Von Riegan? Cornelia thought she could somehow compel her to kill Mercer? She couldn't imagine anything she was less likely to do.

“I'd kill myself first," she said simply, certainly.

“Oh, I know, dear. You're delightfully transparent that way. Fortunately, there won't really be much of a you left by then." Setting aside the knife, she picked up a shiny, silver colored hammer instead. It had a wide head, and a long handle for leverage, but was a seamless, whole piece of metal.

“You see..." Cornelia sighed, reaching into her pocket. When she withdrew it, her slender fingers were tangled in a familiar chain. As it had for years, the blue-green stone dangled at the end of it. “I'm going to break you, darling. And the pain you've been through so far, well." She set the stone down on the bench.

“That's nothing compared to what I'm going to do to you from here on out." The hammerhead glinted in the candlelight as she raised it.

“No, don't—" Sorcha lunged, but the chains caught her up well short of Cornelia, yanking her back when she reached the end of her tether.

Cornelia giggled, and brought the hammer down.

Bang.

The stone shattered beneath its weight, and the force with which it was swung, its fragments so small that most of them were scarcely more than powder.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Sorcha flinched with each hit, slumping back against the wall and fixing her eyes on the indistinct ceiling above. She couldn't cry. Not now. She hadn't let herself cry in years, since the night at the Goddess Tower. Because—because there was only one person who could wipe them away. And somehow, somehow she knew that if she'd let herself cry—at the siege of Garreg Mach, or when Sen died, or any of the times Cornelia had brought her to the edge of blacking out with pain... if she'd started, she'd never be able to stop.

She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine she was somewhere else. Back at Garreg Mach, the only place and time in her life when she'd been happy. Sen was gone now, and Vivi, and the Professor, and who knew what had become of Thea or Sylvi or Devon or Reynard?

But still... still, he was alive. She knew, because Cornelia had threatened to make Sorcha kill him. Had used the stone to try and break her, when all it would have taken was proof of his death. He was alive, and that meant...

That meant there was still warmth in the memories. In the way it felt to fly beside him, racing through the air at reckless speed. The way it felt when he touched her, whatever the way, from the first time he'd adjusted her aim to the way he leaned forward sometimes and hugged her from behind, his breath warm on her neck. The way it felt when he'd dipped her during their tango, his brow pressed to hers, so close all she could see was his eyes, and she drowned in them.

How it felt when he kissed her, when she kissed him on his birthday, the way his hands had been so close to her skin.

But more than anything it was just him, the warmth of his personality, the easygoing way he smiled, the way she thought maybe one of them, a soft one that she loved most of all, was just for her. The way he did hard things, ugly things, so the people he protected didn't have to. The way he sounded when he talked about the future. How it became different when he talked about their future.

Distantly, she registered Cornelia sighing. “Ugh. I hate it when they break quietly. I wanted screaming and tears." With a huff, she left the room, not bothering to lock the door behind her. It probably wouldn't be long before she was back anyway, and open door or otherwise, Sorcha was still chained to the wall. There wasn't much point in trying to escape. She'd done that every day for months, when first she arrived here.

Now, it just seemed better to drift in her memories.

She found herself humming a waltz.

There was a slight tsking sound as someone entered the room. It wasn't Cornelia from the sounds of it, and it was easy to see Céleste when she walked in front of Sorcha. There was something in her eyes, though, something hard and unreadable as she stared at Sorcha.

“This would have never happened if you'd have just convinced your friend to take my offer. If she had... you could have been with him, the von Riegan Cornelia spoke about," she stated, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now look at you. The once proud and noble princess of Faerghus, reduced to nothing more than an experimental toy," she sneered.

“I could have saved you from this."

Sorcha regarded her with deadened eyes. “Unlike some people, I prefer to respect people's right to think for themselves. I'm not the one who decided. And Senka had a right to choose as she did." Sorcha didn't agree with the choice she'd made to die—in fact deeply regretted and sort of resented it, if she were honest. But it had been her choice, in the end. Made of her own free will, following her own heart, and if she couldn't give her friend back the country that had been stolen, then... then at least Sen, in herself, was free in the end. Not a prisoner like this. Not at the mercy of a madwoman bent on her own conquest at a time when her forces were laughable and the entire Imperial army was breathing down Faerghus's neck.

“Do you even know what you're really dealing with, with these people?" she wondered aloud. Cornelia had been unusually talkative, with her, but the reason for that was now clear: Sorcha would either forget it all anyway, or she'd die. “They'll kill you, when they're done using you. At the first whiff of defiance. You couldn't do anything about it, even with Duscur's forces."

“Maybe, princess," Céleste replied with a shake of her head. “I tried to save her, you know. Your friend. She was brought to a stable condition a year ago, but then..." she trailed off, her jaw locking as if she were trying to fight back the anger she'd felt. “For what it's worth, which is nothing to you, I am sorry. Cornelia and the people she's with... I should have at least tried to warn you about them. And I am trying to do something about it. You think I enjoy watching my country burn and reduced to nothing but ashes? You think for a second that I wouldn't do anything to protect it, either?"

“I'm the bastard daughter of Kleiman, the last of his line, and not worth a damn. It's why I've done the things I've done to attain this power. To attain the necessary army needed in order to march against Cornelia and those she works for. I'm not proud of the blood that stains my hands, princess, but it is a necessary evil I am prepared to do."

“And I am prepared to die for that. Whatever the cost."

“If you'd do anything, Viscountess, then march your troops to Duke Fraldarius and pledge yourself to his banner." Sorcha knew well that she wouldn't, of course. Whatever pretty words she used about her country, her people, she was in this for herself. For her own power.

And maybe some of it had been kept from her unjustly. Sorcha certainly knew a thing or two about that. But it didn't excuse being on her own side when there were more important things to be concerned with. Didn't excuse her attempting to use this situation for her own gain instead of the protection of the people of Faerghus. Sorcha was not nearly so far gone as to believe otherwise.

For as long as pride and selfishness kept Céleste from doing the right thing, she was still doing the wrong thing. Sorcha fixed her eyes firmly ahead, trying to let herself sink into a different memory. Maybe... maybe the time they'd all played in the snow. With Sir Jeralt. That was a nice one. She might lose it soon; it only seemed fair to enjoy it.

“You think he'd accept me into his ranks?" she spoke, her voice soft, though. “You don't think that I would have gladly joined forces with Duke Fraldarius? It's too late for that, princess. What is done is done. I will do this in my own way if I have to, but do not think for a moment that... I would have followed under your rule Sorcha. You and I are more alike than you'd care to admit. Perhaps, in another life, I will follow you. But our fates are sealed."

“Farewell, Sorcha. May you never forget who you truly are, no matter what Cornelia does to you." She glanced once more at Sorcha before taking her leave.

Just now, Sorcha kind of hated that wish. She thought maybe it would be better to forget herself. At least then she wouldn't hurt so much.