Itinera, a fire emblem fanfic

HEAVY SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 23. MAYBE ALL OF STEFAN'S SUPPORTS. AND THE OFFICIAL ART OF PETRINE, TOO. (Yes, I'm serious.)

Timeline: Flashbacks are approximately 10 years before the beginning of the game. Present happenings are a few years before the beginning, somewhere between 3 and 1 year before.

--- Itinera ---

iter, itineris – n. march, journey; route (Latin)

The way to the Daein castle was a long one, covered with snow at time of year when she first set off. The dirt pathways were worn and treacherous, a testament to their age. To either side of it, endless rows of leftover corn stalks remain, a dreary discolored figure of brown. Despite the beauty of the snow, the sense of fatality simply hung around the abandoned roads.

Of course, no one was present. In the dead of winter, the chill was enough to keep the peasants – most of which couldn't afford clothing for even the mildest of storms – inside, huddled around a dying fire. The wind forced the winter upon the unsuspecting, piercing through all attempts to retain warmth.

The girl was young, although not appearing so. She was beautiful in a wild, fierce sort of way, like nature untamed – though it seemed that attempts to tame her had tarnished it. Someone like her would normally be heavily covered by all sorts of clothing and apparel, but as if defying the winter itself, she wore very little, compared to expectations. A tightly fitted peasant's dress clung to her, threadbare and dirty in many places, ending shortly below her knees, letting her bare legs touch the air. An absence of care seemed to be implied in it, as patches had not even been bothered to be put in place.

But she seemed to be unaffected by the cold as she packed a lance here, a vulnerary there, and some change, stolen from her father's pocket. Compared to the permanent confinement, the cold was simply tempting. It was not exaggeration, either; she completely disregarded the temperature as she packed things about the house swiftly, expertly, seeming to know where everything had been hidden without searching. Perhaps it was her blood, her heritage, her reason for confinement that kept her immune to the weather.

Seemingly satisfied – or at least, for the moment – with her packing, she wrapped all but the lance in a bundle, neatly made, the sign of a perfect maid. She stared at the beautiful knot, then, annoyed, retied it, this time a far less symmetrical figure. She was pleased.

Her plans swirled through her head unbelievably, as stunning as a tower-princess daydreams of her rescuer. She, though, was not wishing to end as a queen, but a warrior. And there would be only one man to free her from her tower, and she would have to prove herself to him. It was a primitive method, but it was none she would object to. It was, after all, the highest level of fairness that she could find. Far fairer than anything else she had felt in this land.

If nothing else, her father bore one likeliness to her. He was an expert craftsman, and no less skilled in wielding his creations. She had always watched him enviously as he practiced, thrusts quickly drawn back and gracefully transformed into a swipe, javelins and spears always hitting the center of the target.

She, herself, had tried before to accomplish the feats that her father trained up to. She walked carefully into the training room, originally looking for him to inform him, meekly, that the well had frozen over. But he was not present, and the javelin left on the table called to her. She picked it up, finding it lighter than she had expected. Certainly, it was not lightweight, but neither was it impossibly heavy to wield. She paced to the side of the room opposite of the target, seeing if there was any possibility that she could match her father, and found that she could, to her immense surprise. When the javelin had stopped vibrating in the target's circle, she had looked to find her father watching, his lips pursed, his eyes aflame in territorial rage, and perhaps, jealousy. He 'punished' her, and had never let her touch a lance again.

Her body had burned with pain, and despite the shattering of her arm, she felt that she could be something. Through the next few days, her arm had recovered with unusual swiftness, further evidence of the other half of her. Despite his warning, she could not be stopped. She had finally found her niche, and she was determined to go as far as it could bring her in Daein, where battle could only incite the singing of the king's blood.

She found it absolutely perfect that this should be her birthplace. Ever since her childhood, she had despised Daein for being the reason to hide her, for bringing her mother to those circumstances so that she would be conceived, for her own existence. She wished that she had a beorc mother, not only because of her heritage, which her mother had stained, but also because her mother disgusted her. Her mother, the beast, who had traded her survival for her pride, who threw herself at her father's feet, trading her purity for his protection. He had laughed at her, but accepted her offer. And, when he found that she had violated the Goddess's will, he killed her anyway. As for the abomination, he told her that he had spared her only because she could, perhaps, be useful some day.

But Daein, she saw now, was also the place that gave her a sole chance to reach for. It was the only place where offal could become precious, where her mother could not taint her ultimate fate.

She held the lance firmly in her hand, the steel warm from her contact. Her hopes were unified -- yes, her lance would run, run, be free!

"H-His Majesty wishes to s-see you, General P-Petrine!"

Petrine turned an eye to look, annoyed, at the nervous trainee wyvern rider in front of her. It was obvious that her to that she was highly unskilled, and being used as a messenger to reduce the workload of the other, trained wyvern knights. The red-haired girl seemed off to her, somehow, as if she recognized her, yet didn't.

"Hmm? Is that so?"

The girl nodded vigorously, her ponytail bouncing. When Petrine only continued to muse over it, she continued nervously, "He... He didn't tell me what it was about."

"I know that. Why would he tell a low-rank messenger like you?"

The red-haired girl flinched, but said nothing, remembering her father's warning about General Petrine's temper.

"Why are you still here, brat?"

"He w-wanted a response..."

"Tell him that I'll be there as soon as possible."

Petrine looked away from her, annoyed by the sight of the messenger. She was another aspiring wyvern-riding brat, the same as all the others, it seemed. So many people in Daein had taken to wyverns, to the point that the greater half of them were doing it in an attempt to claim fame, rather than for the sake of honor.

She found Shihiram, the likely father of the messenger, to be a prime example. Who was he to enter her country and think that he could possibly outstrip those who were born here, who had to suffer through the tests for Daeins' youth to triumph? Perhaps, he had an ounce of talent. In carrying women around the countryside, anyway. He would never surpass her. King Ashnard would never allow the weak to surpass her, and of that, she was certain.

That was her prime solace as she dismounted her horse in frustration. What was it that the king could summon her for? He knew of her birth, but it did not matter to him. Nothing did – she was strong, she knew... she thought. She was still in her prime, yet far more skilled than those who had studied the lance for all their years. Could she even safely assume that there was a greater one – aside from the King and his other riders – than she? She could not, could she?

A trifling thing about her position always irked her in subtle ways. The contest of strength meant that she had won her place in the world. It could also mean that she could lose, and fall. And if she would fall in Daein, there would be only one place to fall to – and it was such a far drop down. Further than the refugees her underlings slaughtered, her departed mother, or her own lowly birth, laid a mysterious and unyielding death.

She let herself lay in seclusion in the tent, not daring to risk her dignity. She let herself lay in seclusion in the tent, irrationally insecure.

She picked up her bundle, satisfied, and turned for the door. She opened it, stepping into the cold night air, almost thrilled with how the wind stung her cheeks. She took a step away from what was once her home, without intentions of ever looking back.

But he forced her to. "Where are you going?" her father asked in a sharp, low voice. His head hung dangerously close to hers, and the sudden proximity caused fright to leap at her for a moment. He shoved her back into the home, slamming the door shut behind him.

She almost flinched, but she held on to her lance tighter, reminding herself that here, she was not helpless. Here, she did not have to mindlessly submit to him. "The castle. For King Ashnard's contests."

"'Contests'? That is the manner of which you speak about his twisted games? Ah, insolent child – they are no housewife's games! Is this your death wish?" He gestured at her lance. Her knuckles were turning a bluish shade of white, the pads of her fingers turning a burned red, from the sheer force by which she gripped it. "And that – I told you that that is not for you!" He moved to take the lance from her, but she only clung to it harder.

"I know what will happen! I know people will die! But that doesn't matter! It's the last chance, the only chance --" she wrestled the lance from his grip, then shoved him away with it, "I need not explain myself to you...! I WON'T LET YOU TAKE THAT AWAY. I WON'T."

He stumbled slightly, surprised by her power. Then fury overtook his features, and he gritted his teeth, saying, "Fine. A beast of a child, through and through..."

Almost shocked at his passive 'fine,' she warily went past him. She opened the knob with the fingers not preoccupied with her bag, and creaked it open. Alarms went off in her head, and she tried to figure out what was off. Her father was too quiet...

Suddenly, a searing pain met her shoulder. She gasped as it was pulled out, screaming at the burning of the torn muscles. She turned around, taking a blind swipe at her treacherous father, though he evaded it easily. Her wounded shoulder protested at the lance's weight, but she ignored the pain, and, gripping the lance in both hands, thrust at her father's head. He dodged it easily, and threw the javelin at her, where it scrapped her thigh before embedding itself in the wood of the door behind her.

The door swung open with the force, and a cold gust of wind shocked her. Her father preyed upon this moment, and dove for her, effectively pinning her to the ground. She gasped as his cold, salty hand clamped down on her wounded shoulder, and the sudden pressure on her cut thigh felt worse and worse as the fractions of a second passed by. Shifting so that his arm pinned down both of her arms, he reached, with his other hand, to pluck the javelin out of the door. He looked down on her, and for a moment, she could see him falter.

It was the only moment she needed.

She bit down on his arm, then when he jerked, she thrust her own lance at him, closing her eyes, hoping that she had succeeded. She felt a jolt at the contact, and the resistance of flesh. Warm liquid met her face, quickly chilling from the temperature of the air. Then, her lance was heavy. She opened a single eye to find her father, almost slumped on her, the lance clean through his chest.

That compassion, which she had always longed for from him for all her life, was finally shown; but what became of it was his loss.

The castle walls remained the same as ever, an impassive gray. Ashnard's throne sat at the end of the hall, beyond tapestries of various famed leaders. Among them were those who claimed much of Tellius to be the beorc's home, the sages and generals that made the first beorc country – Begnion, although it was larger at the time. The masterful works of art almost brought light into the hall. Almost.

Petrine could never stop herself from shivering whenever she entered this lair, as if she had walked into some extension of the underworld. Dreariness had seized this hall, and whenever she entered, she always felt that perhaps people were right when they said that King Ashnard had gone mad.

But then he smiled and said, "Ah, Petrine, excellence..." and she revoked that thought immediately. Not even excellent, referring to her presence – excellence, as if he was speaking about that quality in her.

"What would your orders be this time, Your Majesty?" she asked, bowing. She never quite liked the curtsy, and judging from Ashnard's reaction the one time she had curtsied in his presence, he didn't either.

"There's a rebellion down near our Southern border," he said, then, in a cheery voice, he almost giggled, "test their strength. Of course, if there are any strong men within their ranks, bring them here. As for the rest"

Ashnard purposefully discontinued his sentence, though Petrine knew what he meant, of course. Relief washed over her, and she dispelled the irrational fear that she had been bested by another. "That would be the area of Kataphri?" A different, eager part of her was excited, so excited, to be able to go back to that town. Not for sentimentality, of course, but that was never her intent.

"That's what they call the stragglers there, isn't it?"

"Do I have Your Highness's permission to eliminate any dogs in our force who oppose that command?"

"Most certainly," he said with a smile growing on his face.

"Your Highness is kind," she said, musing. "So I shall, so I shall..."

Warm and giddy, cold and miserable – they were the same, and both hers on that long road. Never had she felt so bare, her shirt ripped open, revealing the small, malnourished chest that bore the evidence. She clung to the lance, heaving it in front of her, sticking it into the ground, then pushing it behind her, as a walking stick. And yet, with the weight of the lance, it was less than a meaningless endeavor, more resembling a lost expression.

The villagers who stared out their windows at this sight – the girl with dirty forest-green hair, the sharp contrast of blood on her face, the attestation to her lowly birth glaringly obvious, as well as the scandalizing nudity – were shocked. What was this curse that befell their fair town? What had they done to displease the goddess? This monster was upon them... would she kill them all? They stayed inside their houses, in fear. She looked into a window, her violet eyes chilling the residents, scanning the axes they had readied in anticipation.

She had a fear of walking down the street, ready to be jumped, attacked, in her fragile state. She could not blame them for their fear. Though, insecurity nagged at her: she could win, couldn't she? She had killed, after all... she had killed. By her standards, she was strong.

Why, then, did she feel so weak?

Her legs lost all feeling in the cold of the snow, her bare skin stiff and darkly tinted gray. She stumbled on, almost blindly, numblypressing her feet down, step after step. The cold numbed the burning sensation that was welling up inside her chest. This was what she wanted to do. She wanted to kill to live. She wanted to be a warrior.

She told herself – she wanted to be this way. She repeated it like mantra, trying to hypnotizing herself. It didn't work.

Snow crunching under her bare feet, falling onto her hair, washing the blood onto the ground. The cold hurt now. It now no longer seemed free. It was comforting for a moment, blocking all else, then suddenly, it was harsh. It was painful, her hands and feet less mobile by the moment. Her breaths stung her insides, as if her lungs were freezing as well.

She had to keep moving...

The snow fell, and it was beautiful...

She laid down to rest...

The snow fell, fell...

Kataphri certainly hadn't changed much since she was last there. Despite being early autumn and much warmer, it still had the same dry, deserted exterior. It was hardly any more colorful in the autumn than it was in the winter, for the trees had all been cut in favor of heat.

Petrine found herself almost proud that this vacant, pathetic village could contain enough passion to start a rebellion. As a child, she had only seen it as a blank, meek village, submitting to everything their forefathers wished of them. They did not take kindly to visitors, they cut off trade with all but the capital city, and even that was due to imperial order. They lived a modest – boring! – life of sowing fields. Her father had been the only blacksmith. A famous blacksmith, perhaps, but what was a town good for if it had only one man to defend it? One man that was dead, at that.

The sight that met her upon return was not encouraging, as she had expected more progress. These were the headquarters of the rebels which excited King Ashnard enough to send her, General Petrine of the Four Riders?

"Search all the houses! If any of them get in your way, cut them down! You have the King's permission. Find them!"

She was annoyed at the lack of tension, excitement, the lack of battle. The adrenaline rush died down, and she was left staring at the ravaged house at the side of the road. Something in her felt sick, in a wild, raging way. She steered her horse over, as if possessed, took her lance and entered.

She opened the door, and a glass – which was apparently propped up on the top of it – fell down and shattered, loudly. She stared at the broken bits of glass. "Sweep it up! Now!" she heard in her mind. Petrine shook her head and entered, looking around. The kitchen was so different. The table she had prepared food on so many times had been moved to the side of the room. The fireplace was empty save ashes and a single rusted poker.

She stepped into what used to be her father's sleeping quarters. The mattress had apparently been stolen, along with the sheets and pillows, although the bed frame remained nailed to the wall. The desks, of course, were taken, presumably along with his forging notes. She left the room, and felt something missing, for some reason. She walked back in, and then it occurred to her – the floorboards always creaked when someone entered. Why would bandits repair the floor, of all inane actions?

She used her lance as a lever and pulled up the floorboard. An arrow flew up, barely missing her face, and then fell back down, an indicator of the weak strength with which it was launched. She rolled her eyes, bored, calling, "Come here, you worthless men! I've found them!"

The figure with the bow held his breath, and through the weak light shining down into the cellar, Petrine could see that he had his eye on her chest, at the mark which she didn't bother to cover up. "But, you're one of us?"

She saw the crest on his cheek, though its shape was unclear from her height. "Don't flatter yourself," she said, bending down with the lance in hand. "I'm not one of you. Your little secret makes no difference." She stabbed down forcefully, and the figure gave a squeak, then a gasp, and fell silent.

She awoke to the clopping of a horse. She found herself in a caravan, and a warm one at that. She rolled her eyes to look over to the seat and discovered a man sitting to her left, his legs crossed, nibbling at a piece of salted meat, writing in a book by the light of a candle. He looked up at the motion and smiled. "So, you're awake?"

"Mm. Yes." She moved a bit and winced, her legs and feet tingling with pain. She knew that it was probably from the cold, although she never imagined that it would hurt so much after the numbing effect wore off. "Why...?"

"Well, I couldn't leave you there to die, could I?" He reached into the bag by his side and pulled out a another strip of preserved food. "Hungry?"

She looked at the offered morsel with suspicion. "Yes..." He held it above her hand, and she reached up to take it, painfully bringing it to her mouth. She bit a piece off and chewed slowly, feeling satisfied as the food reached her aching stomach. "Thank... thank you." She found that she had difficulty saying this.

"So then," he said, watching her as she struggled to sit. "What are you?"

"I... I'm a warrior." She said it with all the certainty she could, although she did not believe it herself. After all, if people like him existed, who would care for her despite her weakness, was what she had done truly so honorable?

He tilted his head at this, interested. "Yes, I noted that your hands were wrapped around a lance..."

"Where is it?" she panicked.

He gestured to her side. She rolled her head over to see the lance propped against the other side of the caravan. She muttered her thanks again before closing her eyes lightly.

"You were quite badly injured. And walking out in the snow in that condition was... unwise of you."

He was nagging because he cared, something in her mind giddily sang. And she noticed, as she moved her limbs, that she had been healed. Her fingers and feet still protested from their abuse courtesy of the weather, but her shoulder and thigh had been healed, and it didn't seem that her feet were damaged to the point of falling off any more. She was... comfortable, almost comfortable. "Thank you. Truly."

"Mmhmm. Why were you wandering with so little in conditions like this?"

"It was all I had, really."

The man raised an eyebrow, examining her, realizing that she must've lived as a peasant, perhaps lower. "But... your lance talents, that must've gotten you somewhere?"

"Not really." She was not talkative in the matter, her father still fresh on her mind.

"Hm. I see." However, his voice showed clearly that that was not the case. He was still inquisitive, and she could almost see question marks laid out in that book of his that he scrawled in. "Say, are you talented with the lance?"

"I suppose so. Haven't really had many people to compare myself, to, though."

"In any case, do you suppose that it's because of your seal?"

"Seal?"

He nodded and gestured with the end of his quill to her right breast. Then, she understood. That was the reason he had taken her on board. That was the reason he valued her life.

She lifted herself, painfully, and limped to where her lance was. The man made a sound of curiosity. "I'm not trying to fool you." She picked up the lance and neared him, smiling menacingly. "You see..." -- he reached for his tome, but she knocked it away -- "I'm not a representative of any lance legend. I'm branded." Understanding seemed to click in his face, and it was obvious to her that he struggled to hide his true expression. "Now, steer this lovely little wagon of yours to Daein castle."

He opened his mouth to protest, seemingly thinking his refusal over for a moment. He slowly rose, eyes on the lance in front of his chest. She guarded him up to the side of the caravan, where he opened the flap of the wagon. Cold air spilled into the compartment. He took a breath, and then he began to scream, "HELP M--"

Before he could finish his phrase, she knocked him off the moving caravan with the point of her lance, both piercing him and letting him get run over by the rear wheel. A thump shook the caravan, and she clung onto the side, trying not to fall off herself.

She pulled herself in, then turned around to find the coachman sneaking up behind her with a knife. She swiped her lance behind her, her only thought on defending herself and somehow, anyhow, getting to Daein castle, perhaps never stopping on the way.

It was truly, she realized, her only chance.

More men entered, apparently bodyguards of what had been a rich man. With so many of them attacking simultaneously, she swiped blindly, buying herself time while she thought, wildly. Perhaps she had not done the smartest thing. Perhaps she should've played along, acted as if she really was a descendant – the Goddess knew she was strong enough! She took a chance, leaning back and clinging to the side of the caravan. She felt her frostbitten fingers slipping and knew instantly that it was a bad move.

The freedom she had just seized was nothing she ever wished to forfeit. She knew the only answer was to run. Pushing against the caravan's bottom with her feet, she launched herself off, attempting to land smoothly as possible. She yelped with the sudden contact against the ground, then rolled slightly from the momentum.

Her breathing was heavy, but she was happy. Oddly. Again, she had committed the sin of murder, but instead of the vacant feeling, she felt strangely ecstatic. Perhaps, now, she was a warrior? She picked herself up from the ground, shivering, but delighted again. All of it – the cold, the ground, the pain – it reminded her of the one thing she had kept.

She was alive.

She danced exotically in the snow, a dance with no pattern, no order. Her footprints left a slight stain, a slight depression in the snow, but both she and the snow were still beautiful. Everything, to her, was bewitching in that moment.

Ah, how wonderful it felt to be alive.

The fire was delicious to her soul. She tingled in anticipation -- it would release her from the grasp of the memories of the house, the last tie cut. It would rid the world of the mortals that were too weak to achieve what she had. The soldier with the torch stared at it, thoughtful. "Well? Get on with it!"

The soldier stiffened, not moving towards the house. "G-General Petrine!" the soldier stammered, "I... I cannot do that! That's... my brother's in there! I can't let you do this--"

She laughed sharply, as if shrieking, "You count? Your brother counts to me?" withdrawing her lance and plunging it through the soldier, where it burst into embers and burned through him. He fell, his body charred, hollow Daein armor falling to the ground. She then rode over ceremonially – and Petrine, herself, took a torch, and set the brandeds' home aflame.

She had no pity for them.

There was something alluring about the moment a human stopped breathing. There was a moment, she found, pulling the lance out slowly, dripping a string of blood, when a warrior stopped living and started dying. It was almost beauty to her, especially when the eyes were half-lidded – for a moment unfocused, then unseeing.

She told herself, 'I am a warrior, a strong, heartless warrior... the best one...'

With her opponent beautifully dead on the floor, her bloody lance in hand, she finally believed it to be true, and smiled.

The blood on her hands and the snow on her feet -- they were the very same to her... The very same.

Disclaimer: I don't own Intelligent Systems, Nintendo, or Latin for that matter.

Thanks to Amethyst Bubble for beta-reading! And, Lathen, I suppose, for his non-objective read-over. I still say I should enslave him and teach him the fine ways of criticism. Lastly, but importantly – K-chan, my real-life gothicly emo writing buddy, who criticized the style of this to hell. ... You know I say that with affection. XP

Clarification/Notes:

She wished that she had a beorc mother, not only because of her heritage, which her mother had stained, but also because her mother disgusted her. Her mother, the beast, who had traded her survival for her pride, who threw herself at her father's feet, trading her purity for his protection. He had laughed at her, but accepted her offer. And, when he found that she had violated the Goddess's will, he killed her anyway.

I originally wanted to go into a graphic, graphic description, but then remembered that the contest's rating limit was T and watered it down. Heh. It's enough to get the gist of what happened, anyway. -coughcough-

Imagine Petrine curtsying. Now. And laugh.

Further than the refugees her underlings slaughtered, her departed mother, or her own lowly birth, laid a mysterious and unyielding death.

'Unsurrendering' sounded so much cooler than 'unyielding.' ... But the former's not a word. Dammit.

Authorramble: Because I've decided to let you just read the dang fic instead of making you read my rambles ahead of the fic, I've saved them for last. Hurrah.

The following paragraph contains some Soren spoilers in attempting to say stuff about Petrine.

Anyway, Petrine being a branded is not bluntly stated, but it is a pretty solidly supported fact. If you attack her with Soren, she says: "You... That mark on your brow... That's not a charm of the dead, is it? You're no Spirit Charmer! Hmph! You may be able to fool others with that, but not me. It's because we're the same, see?" And if you know Soren... yeah. In addition, her Official Art has a branded mark, but you'll probably only find it if you're perverted, as it's on her breast. (I'm not kidding, either. XD Official art can be found linked to in my bio.) I dunno what happens if you approach her with Stefan, but there'll probably be some conversation as well.

Quite sadly, little is actually said about Petrine's past in the game. So, BS time:D It's what fanfiction is for, after all! (And besides, Soren's past gets enough attention, the adorable little pity whore. ... Joking. Write more of that.) And, as for the odd twist in her mind occurring somewhere in the scene in the caravan – do not question the logic of a psychopath. I do think the twist in her perspective went well, personally, although it may seem a bit odd to thou reader.

Anyway, you people who don't take Latin or some closely related language might be all, "But R Amythest, you defined 'iter', not 'itinera'! And what's with 'itineris'?" ... I don't feel like explaining the whole language, so let's just say that itinera is plural, itineris is the genitive and is given in the dictionary entry, and you can find out why by yourself.

By all means, please review. And, I prefer concrit over flames, but if you must flame, do it right and capitalize your i's!