i.

He runs through what feels like liquid tar; time around him has almost stilled. He grunts, the sound coming out like an echo, and the hilt of his father's sword at his side slowly, but not gently, bumps back against his waist. All at once he sees the light ahead of him, where the Risen have disappeared through, and he reaches out, his coat gliding through the timestream.

His fingers brush the regular flow of time, and an invisible force jerks him into the third world.

The wind whips against his ears and coat, through his hair and the slits in his mask as he plummets toward the ground. He's not like Lucina was-his legs aren't as durable-so he puts a hand on the tome tucked in his belt and points his other hand downward.

"Elwind!"

Twin blades of greenish air expel toward the ground, slowing his descent, and he lands. The forest floor is soft, but the impact still jars him; he can feel his teeth rattle, and he's thankful he didn't bite off his own tongue by accident.

Like in the second world, part of the forest has lit ablaze, an unfortunate side effect of the spell's immense power. He stands to his full height and draws his sword, turning his head this way and that to look and listen.

The roar of the flames hides the sound of footsteps, and the voice that he hears nearly brings him to tears.

"Where did you get that sword?"

He spins and finds his father standing behind him. The man is slightly younger than the one he knows; though defined, Chrom's features aren't as sharp as they will be. The light scars on the prince's body are far fewer than they will be. Still, Chrom's stern but confused expression, the intensity of his blue eyes, is the same as ever.

More than anything, he wants to fall into his father's arms and relieve the heavy burden on his own shoulders. He wants to cry into his father's cape, like he can just barely remember doing as a child, and let everything be dealt with by his parents. He wants to feel warmth from his father's skin, not the cold.

But the moment passes when, out of the haze of flames, a slim figure appears behind Chrom. Light glints off the woman's tiara and red fire burns in her eyes. The first world's Falchion reflects the forest's inferno on its silver and gold blade as it is lifted into a ready stance.

"Rexcalibur!"

He aims the wind spell at his sister. Chrom's eyes widen at the coming onslaught and rolls out of the way just in time. Lucina tries to do the same, but by the time it reaches her, the magic has spread far; it catches her shoulder and sends her spinning. By the time she's retained her balance, he's sped at her, driving the second Falchion toward her. She blocks the attack with her own blade at the last moment and pushes him backward, though he maintains his footing and takes a ready stance.

"Defeat the Risen!" he calls back to Chrom, not daring to look over his shoulder. "Get out of here!"

If his father answers, he doesn't hear him, because now Lucina is speaking.

"Little brother," she coos, but her voice is rougher. It seems to match her distorted appearance perfectly-her skin has become a pale porcelain, both unsettling and beautiful. Magic tattoos have blossomed on her face, matching the Mark of Grima that has appeared in her right eye. Depending on the angle of light, her eyes appear deep purple, or deep red, or a flashing crimson that mimics the Risen.

"Little brother Morgan," she says again, but this time she lashes out with Falchion, and he barely manages to block with the second of the now-triplet blades. The weapon is unbreakable, but it vibrates in his grip from her force. She whirls and attacks, attacks, almost too fast for him even though each move is just like the ones she's used with him in sparring.

"Lucina!" he says, almost screeching. He has to refrain from saying sister-if he is to win this war, he knows linking himself to her in such a way might ruin his chances for gaining his father's support if he is heard.

Lucina is now nothing more than an enemy, can be nothing but an enemy, and he is not the enemy. But still, he can't help but try to bring her back.

"Lucina!" he pleads. Since her attacks have begun, he has not made a countermove. "Please, Lucina, please stop this!"

The once-princess of Ylisse slows, but only hardly. "How futile," she comments. "When your mother and father are dead, tiny one."

Morgan has only heard those words spoken once by his sister, in an admission that had left her almost sobbing. To hear the words spoken in such a cold, cruel way convinces him of his suspicions, though he has no way of pulling her from Grima's controlling grip. But he cannot stop trying.

"Please, Lucina!" He strikes at her and she meets his blade with her own, and he pushes hard on her to remain in a deadlock. His arms tremble as he looks into her eyes with his own through the mask. "Please, don't let Grima control you like this! You're strong enough to fight this!"

Lucina scowls, not in irritation, but condescendence. "You have no power to stop us."

Morgan almost reels back in shock. "'Us'?!"

She laughs, far from her joyous, if rare, melody. Her voice is rough and mocking. "Worry not for now. My master has not entered this world yet. You would already be dead. But this way, at least," she says, mustering her strength and pushing him away from her, "I have my chance to slaughter you!"

Morgan is immediately on the defensive, but he can't deflect her forward jab in enough time-the edge of the original Falchion slides almost imperceptibly across the side of his neck, where his mother's spell-protected coat doesn't reach.

Lucina pulls back at once, but he knows that it isn't any act of mercy that she didn't hack his head off then and there. She darts back in, jabbing and slicing, and he's forced to dodge and block. He doesn't consider himself half the swordsman that his sister is, and in the second world he never came close to defeating their father in a swordsmen's spar. As soon as possible he needs to gain his distance to be the most effective, but there's no way Lucina would let him get away easily.

"Stop!"

The tip of the first Falchion knocks into the side of his mask, sending the object tumbling to the ground just as Chrom steps in and fights back Lucina, ignorant of her heritage in another world, another time. At once Morgan is aware that they are surrounded by people-maybe not close enough to see his face-but he raises the cowl of his robe to hide his appearance before sending a quick wind spell to send his distracted sister flying.

Lucina rolls to the side and Chrom slices after her, just narrowly missing her arm. Morgan sends another, more powerful elwind to stall her; she takes the brunt of the magic attack but still meets Chrom's sword with her own. Chrom knows enough not to fight toe-to-toe with her, leaving Morgan as wide a target area as he can manage. Lucina catches on quickly and darts toward the Ylissean prince, but from another angle a burst of a thunder spell speeds at Lucina and hits her. Chrom takes the advantage and dives forward, but Lucina hits the flat of his blade with her own; his attack puts a gouge in her side. Though it's small, her clothes around the wound darken immediately and she hisses.

Chrom barely has time to pull back away from her retaliatory strike. Lucina doesn't rush after him, though. Instead, she rises to her full height; the flames around them sets her blue hair and clothes with a brilliant orange hue and highlights the paleness of her skin. The fire almost seems to be coming from Falchion itself.

Lucina stares at Chrom, then turns her gaze to the white-haired, tome-wielding woman emerging from the trees. Lucina watches her other-world mother for a long moment and a smile slides onto her tattooed face. Robin's eyes grow wide and her left hand instinctively goes to grab her right one.

Lucina chuckles and sheathes her sword. She turns to look at her brother. She says nothing, but her expression and her eyes say all he needs to know for the moment.

"I shall spare you for tonight," she concedes, but nothing about her tone admits defeat. She sounds like a bored but cruel puppet-master, lazily deciding to save her playthings for another day rather than cutting their strings.

She turns and leaves, seeming to disappear into the flames, and for all that has happened Morgan finds himself hoping that all she's doing is going to check the army supplies or find someone to spar with.

Chrom and Robin remain fixated on Lucina's departure. Morgan shakes his head and turns back toward where his mask had dropped. He picks up the blue, butterfly-shaped headpiece. Slightly sideways down the middle is a darker line of blue marking where the mask had once been broken, but since then mended with magic. Morgan places the mask on his face but doesn't lower his cowl.

He hears footsteps and a hand grabs his shoulder. His mother's grip is hard, but he doesn't blame her for it.

"Who are you?!" she demands, trying to turn him around. His eyes water immediately at the sound of her voice, and he has to swallow past a sudden lump in his throat. He doesn't dare turn around to face her.

"...You may call me Mark," he concedes.

"Oh, really?" she says. "The famous tactician of old?"

Of course she would know the name. That was why he had chosen it. Still, the fact that she knows such a fact so early on nags at his mind.

"Whether or not it is my real name does not matter," Morgan replied.

Robin is silent, and after a moment she pulls back her hand. "Why do you have my coat? My mother made this."

She remembers, he realizes. Grima hasn't yet come to this world. Of course. Perhaps Grima didn't have the sort of power to transport himself-and his avatar-alongside Lucina. But who knows when he'll come?

"Answer me."

Morgan keeps silent.

He hears more footsteps, and then his father is speaking.

"Why are there three Falchions?" Chrom's voice is confused, but not harsh like earlier. He sounds...kind, almost. Like he's afraid of scaring away Morgan, like a small animal.

Morgan realizes that he has yet to sheathe Falchion. He does so, slowly, gathering his thoughts. Tactician though he may be, it's hard to not think of how much he wants to embrace his parents.

Finally, he turns to them. It was a bad idea, because now he wants to cry at the lack of recognition in their eyes.

"Explaining in the open is not the best course of action," he explains. "But if you must know anything right now, know this: That woman...Lucina...cannot be trusted. She will kill you if she has the chance. But," he added, turning more toward his mother, and the woman's eyes filled with dread. "She is only a taste of what is to come."

Hello, Rose here. Dunno why I'm uploading this. I have no plans yet to continue this. I literally wrote this today after going a long stretch without writing due to time constraints. In any case, the ideas in this are really interesting (if I could do them right), so I'll refrain from marking this complete in case I ever want to come back to this

I'm going to point out that "You may call me Mark" isn't my original idea. I first saw it in a fanart, but I can't remember how to get to it-if I did, I'd link to it. It was a very pretty picture on tumblr, though.

Thanks for reading!