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Lon’qu has a bad feeling about this.
It’s not even the shame at his defeat by the hands of Marth, who apparently had other secrets besides his intentions to keep. He twitches a little at the memory.
Not that Lon’qu is interested in revealing that, especially not in the presence of the Ylisseans. They don’t need to know about his fear; he just hopes they can leave soon.
Whatever Basilio called him for, he’ll wait for, just not while they remain.
But the small girl—the princess, Chrom’s sister—sighs, “He’s so mysterious and dreamy…”
A man less serious than Lon’qu would laugh. Instead he grimaces at the irony.
“Sounds like Marth’s got at least one fan,” remarks the tactician.
Definitely not me, though. He might never see Marth again, but he would hardly forget this. And for whatever reason, the tactician’s attire seems oddly familiar. Partially due to the swirling thoughts in his head however, he can’t quite put his finger on it.
“Well, I mean, come on,” the princess continues, “He IS sort of dreamy, isn’t he?” Ugh.
Chrom turns to her with a frown. “And YOU’RE sort of dreaming!”
His sister giggles. “Yowch! Lighten up, Big Brother. I was just kidding.” For her sake, that is probably best.
“Milord? Milady? If this fascinating discussion is over, we’d best return home. The exalt will want this news of our new alliance immediately,” pipes up a smooth but unfamiliar voice.
Lon’qu suppresses a sigh of relief. It’s the smartest thing he’s heard all day, and he sneaks a glance at the speaker. The build of a fighter, but with his hands folded calmly behind his back, the poise of a knight. He’ll admit he pays more attention to swordsmen in fights, but he does distinctly remember the shield he served as for Chrom and others, who used that defense as vantage for attacking.
At least the tactician knows their mettle. The alliance is Ferox’s nod toward that strength of the army and tactics behind it. But he still wants them to leave.
Chrom also (thankfully) realizes the merit in his knight's words. “Right as always, Frederick.”
Finally. He silently thanks the kni—Frederick.
“Hold boy,” Basilio rumbles, “Before you go, I have a little present for you.”
Lon’qu raises an eyebrow. Basilio never made a mention of this; usually he would have ordered some mead and food by now, but he never—he gestures subtly for the lurking Lon’qu to come.
Oh, gods.
Despite himself, Lon’qu isn’t in a position to refuse. He grits his teeth and marches over, his face stoic but limbs stiff and tongue frozen.
“This is Lon’qu, my former champion.” Basilio probably didn’t mean any offense, but his new epithet stings nonetheless. “Not much for talking, but he’s peerless with a sword. As good as Marth, in my mind.”
Mollifying it may be to hear that from Basilio, Lon’qu knows he has nothing on the man. He still has time; perhaps by present he only meant a short meeting before sending them off.
…He’s terrible even at convincing himself, anxiety not quelled in the least.
“To be honest, I can’t figure out how Marth bested him so quickly.”
Lon’qu sweats a little. This is a bad idea.
No, rephrase that—there are better plans that don’t involve him joining the Ylissean army. He’d much rather stay here to atone for his shame; hone his blade skills where everything is familiar and he doesn’t have to deal as much with women.
But speaking of which, Naga must hate him, because at that moment the princess says, “Marth beat him? But he looks so big and strong.” and approaches him.
He’s still frozen and suddenly his mind is full of mobs and blood and his own weakness, but he manages to disentangle his tongue and bark, “Away, woman!”
She starts. “Hey! W-what did I say?!”
It’s then that Lon’qu notices a change in Frederick. He had gone from politely curious and occasionally darting eyes around the room after the myrmidon appeared to them to anger at Lon’qu’s outburst, his stony glance a warning.
Lon’qu is more embarrassed than afraid. He has the confidence he could take on waves of brigand’s at his current peak, but loses it in the presence of a girl who means no harm. He knows that. He knows that. And yet—
“Ba ha ha! Let’s just say ladies tend to put Lon’qu on the edge.” The secret’s out and he wants to be anywhere, anywhere that isn’t here. “Nonetheless he is capable. Perhaps he even has the makings of a khan.”
Lon’qu tries to pretend that doesn’t make him even the slightest bit proud to hear and succeeds in keeping his face without expression.
“Consider him West Ferox’s contribution to the Ylissean cause.”
The happiness he still denied he felt plummeted.
“You’re certain about this?” asks Chrom, not bothering to hide his surprise.
Basilio doesn’t budge, which is just like him, unfortunately. “Yes, yes, he’s your man now.”
A nonplussed Chrom addresses him this time. “And Lon’qu? You have no objections?”
“He gives orders. I stab people. I think our roles are clear.” He’s resigned. At this point he’s more trying to convince himself than anything.
“…All right then,” Chrom finishes awkwardly. “Welcome aboard.”
Since this encounter, he feels like he might not ever know peace again.
…
Basilio the lug, Lon’qu thinks almost fondly, wishes him well as he leaves with them. He’s not one to really look on the bright side, but he may as well get used to the situation or die trying. It’s just until the tension among the halidoms subsides, and he can go back. Just until then.
He drags his feet along and wonders in the back of his mind why they haven’t bumped into anything on the ground. A vague wonder, but it sticks there anyway.
“Milord? Might I ask to be stationed in the back?” he hears Frederick ask Chrom.
“That’s new, Frederick. Sometimes I feel like seeing your face rather than your back occurs within a blue moon.”
Frederick makes a sound as if he’s about to say something else, but Chrom beats him to it. “It’s not something you need to ask permission for, especially with all our different paces. I’m sure you’re tired, anyway. Go on and rest.”
“No manner of fatigue would prevent my service to you, milord. I won’t be for long, but I requested Stahl and Sully to walk in your front and scout for trouble. Fortunately, I have already cleared the path of rocks on our way to Ferox, so it should be smooth marching from here.”
Well, that explained the oddly smooth terrain, but Lon’qu finds himself at a loss for the few words he ever has.
Chrom seems to be in the same boat, because there’s a pause before his reply: “Please rest, Frederick.”
Lon’qu isn’t here to eavesdrop, and the conversation already has reached his end, so he tunes out. Or at least he tries until he hears heavy steps coming toward him, and lo and behold, Frederick is standing next to him.
“May I speak with you?...Lon’qu.”
He’s slightly taller than Frederick who is no longer on his steed, but the knight’s general aura seems to tower over trees and mountains. Somehow, he has another bad feeling.
His tongue is still frozen from Ferox, though he manages a stiff nod. They march behind the rest of the army.
“There are a number of things to discuss,” Frederick begins.
So say them. There’s only so much awkwardness he can take.
“First, allow me to be honest. I do not have complete faith in this new alliance.”
Lon’qu raises a single brow, mouth unmoving. Why wouldn’t he tell that to Chrom first when the prince asked for it? Why go directly to the foreigner?
Frederick looks ahead of them, even as his words are directed at him. “I apologize for my bluntness. We are certainly the ones who needed it, that I will not deny. I certainly did not expect Basilio to offer anything else.”
That makes two of them.
“I have every wish to trust you, Lon’qu, but my station mandates otherwise.”
Not the happiest news he’s heard, but he supposes he can understand. Basilio is unpredictable in both the best and worst ways. And while Lon’qu isn’t new to skilled liars, Frederick sounds sincere enough. He’ll engage him for now.
The weather is warmer on the way back to Ylisse, and he attributes that to how his tongue loosens, no longer as frozen, “Is this a concern of the prince?” He can be blunt as well. He is.
He expected Frederick to either be angry or try to make an excuse. Instead, though, the knight sighs. “Lord Chrom is a kind and brave soul. Exalt Emmeryn and Princess Lissa, unsurprisingly, are of the same mindset. It is why they deserve no less than the best. But it is also why they may attract the worst of the worst.”
Lon’qu doesn’t need to look at Frederick’s face to hear the affection in his voice, soon turned melancholy, though he glances up by chance to catch his brow furrowing further. He lets the other man continue.
“Milord has no such concerns. It is of my own volition that I approach you this way. While I would sooner forfeit my life before defying any of their wishes, I cannot completely share in their trust. If it means I am able to keep them safe even as I lose the good favor of the newcomers, then so be it.”
This time he turns directly to Lon’qu, almost catching him off guard. Ironically enough, the look on Frederick’s face is more unguarded than anything. He says a million words without opening his mouth, instead communicating through the darkening circles under his eyes and the slightest hint of wrinkles around them.
Strangely, Lon’qu is the one to break the silence this time. Or, he tries. His tongue only partially melted, and all that escapes from him is a cough, making Frederick’s expression flash to concern, which only jumbles him up even more. Here is a man admitting he hardly trusted him, yet looking at him like that. He’d always assumed instinct was always fight-or-flight.
He tries again. “I don’t know what you expect me to do, hearing that,” he says honestly. This isn’t a battle of wits, and while he may not speak much, he should start here to make all worth it.
Frederick says nothing, and slowly Lon’qu gains confidence. He has to pick and choose his words, not because he’s trying to figure out the best thing to say, but just to say something, anything to articulate his swirling thoughts.
“I’m not here to beg for yours and everyone’s trust. I didn’t even think I would be here. I’m just as surprised as you are about what Basilio decided. But like I said, he makes the orders. I follow them.”
He takes a deep breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Frederick appraising him with an unknown expression. “If you don’t trust me, you don’t trust him either. Me, I can understand, with my fear and all…and though I won’t beg you to trust Basilio either, just know that his respect for the way you all fought is real. Were any of you unworthy, either he wouldn’t have bothered or I would have left.”
There. He’s said it all. It feels a little better, cathartic even, and his steps don’t drag as much.
Frederick mulls over it all. “Lon’qu, I do not fault you for your fear. You have your reasons, despite the outburst towards the princess, and while I have not seen you in combat to truly ascertain your skills, that the warrior Basilio said you could be a khan of your own speaks much in your favor.”
That surprises Lon’qu, but whatever stupid thing he might have said while flustered dies in his throat when Frederick goes on. “I greatly appreciate what appears to be your honesty. I will admit, my doubts have not always proven true. Our tactician is an example. Time and time again he has only led us to victory and forges bonds with and within us. It is almost hard to believe Lord Chrom found him—an amnesiac—lying in a field and then having him join us. But as expected of milord, it has led us to an improving future.”
“You sure think highly of him,” Lon’qu noted, and balks as Frederick smiles, eyes crinkling around the edges.
“An understatement, perhaps. I am a knight of the people. But for Lord Chrom I would become a greater, no, Great Knight, and much more.”
There’s silence and Lon’qu barely registers that Frederick made a pun before they both realize they have already arrived in Ylisse. Chrom and Lissa immediately steal away to report to their sister, while everyone goes their separate ways.
Lon’qu remains with Frederick. At the silence, Lon’qu assumes their exchange is done and moves to walk before a hand takes his shoulder. “Wait, Lon’qu.”
“Yes?”
“There…there was a rock there.”
For all his determination to snuff out liars, Frederick is a terrible one himself, and Lon’qu allows himself a smirk. “Oh? I thought you’d have picked it up by now.”
Frederick’s face doesn’t change, but Lon’qu swears in the lighting he can see pink starting in his ears and for some reason there’s satisfaction in that. “Yes, quite. Er,” suddenly the fluster is gone, and he’s all business again. “Lon’qu, would you like to spar with me tonight?”
If that wasn’t sudden. “I…wouldn’t be against it.” He’s not here to make friends after all, so it’s not like he’s got much better to do. Though with the increasing comfort he feels around Frederick, he might be going at it another way, and perish the thought that’s embarrassing.
Not to mention, he wanted to train from the very beginning. This is his chance, he reminds himself.
Frederick smiles again and there’s a flip in his stomach but he tries to ignore it. “Wonderful. However, even if you are a new recruit, it is not my plan to go easy on you.”
‘A new recruit’, coming from Frederick? Maybe that comfortable feeling was mutual, then.
Lon’qu smirks again. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
It’s then that Frederick seems to realize his hand is still on Lon’qu’s shoulder and he quickly retrieves it, the pink in his ears now definite and slowly moving to his face. Not that Lon’qu can talk, he’s probably even worse. He’ll blame it on the Ylissean heat for now.
Before either of them can either move or even speak again, Chrom and Robin are running toward them. The news of Gangrel’s next scheme, involving the daughter of a duke—Maribelle, Lon’qu learns—is made known. Even Exalt Emmeryn will travel, along with the army, of course.
“Gather up all the Shepherds. There’s no persuading Emm, but we WILL keep her safe.”
“Yes, milord!” Frederick went to follow the order but not before exchanging a last glance at Lon’qu, laden again with unknown emotions from both sides.
It seems they will fight together sooner than expected.