Disowned By Time (Fire Emblem, Morgan)

Disowned by Time (Battle Scene)

Morgan's home was his two feet and the cloak around his shoulders; one layered with wool and a soft silky outer fabric that repelled most harmful spells and harmful elements. Still, he was shivering in the bitter cold. The cotton of his trousers and the silk of his shirt neither kept his warm nor protected him from the danger of his own thoughts. The brass colored buttons were cold against his skin, and the gold trimming was practically ice strung along the hem of his shirt.

He was not safe or shielded, but he wasn't entirely unarmed either. At his hip was a small dagger and a tome was hidden under his waistband. He already examined it, flipping through the pages to find one clue or another regarding what in the Gods' names he was doing in the middle of a brewing blizzard! He had trudged through miles of snow, the ice melting at his touch and soaking his shoes and toes. His nose was glowing pink, burning against the harsh wind.

Gods! How did he get here?

He ran a hand through his hair, snow biting at his exposed fingers and tossing his otherwise calm locks back into chaos. A face lit at the edge of this thoughts, slowly brimming to the surface of his mind. A pale face, a young face, framed with hair the color of silver. He knew it immediately, a glimpse of his memories returning to him.

Morgan's name, his age, his mother... Yes! The face of his mother. He knew her, he knew she was a powerful tactician and gifted in the wisdom of strategy and the art of magic. He admired her, aspired to be her! Robin was everything! Yes, Robin. He remembered her name. The pieces of his memories sparked a new sense of determination in him. He needed to find her, needed to figure this all out. This world, something was different about it.

Morgan felt the very fabric of the world; it was smooth and elegant like a new quilt spread atop a bed of green grass. There were ridges here and there, where the quilt mounded over a rock of a flower. He felt the buzzing of a hole in the quilt, where the seams broke apart and times overlapped. But the hole had long since been repaired, stitched together by nature's laws.

Then there was him: a boy nearly 10 years old and twiddling his thumbs as a blizzard consumed his body. He was lost, wind spinning him in different directions until he came across a clearing where ice turned to crystal and the clouds parted to reveal a diamond blue sky. The place boiled with magic, though he couldn't tap into it's familiar aura. Shivering, he pulled the cloak further up his neck and huddled the round of his cheeks into the wool. Warmth was a distant ally, unanswering of his calls.

"Wh-Where am I? How'd I end up here?" he stuttered out, his lips sticking together uncomfortably. The crystal ruins, tattered by the wind and various grave robbers, stood like a beacon in the blizzard. An eerie stench took to the air. Distantly, he heard the familiar rhythmic tap tap tap of soldier boots.

"Footsteps!" he noted out loud, his heart stuttering to a vibrant life and caution filling his senses, "... Probably not friendly." His eyes darted from pillar to corner, searching for the owner of said footsteps. "And likely more down those stairs... Think Morgan, think! How would Mom handle this?"

His mother, the great tactician of Ylisse, oh how he could really use her guidance right about now. This was another world! Nothing like what he has felt before, and he needed something, anything, to get his head on straight. Morgan's breath fanned out before him, clouding like mist and disappearing into the air. Something dark, with glowing red eyes, creeped out from around a corner, a sword the length of his arm in one lazy hand.

He gulped, instincts pushing him a step backwards and consuming the rapid beat of his heart. Five steps, four steps away, three steps; it charged towards him with unbalanced steps and limp noodle arms. It's mouth was open in a scream, though no breath escaped past the undead's lips. It swung the knife like an amature, but with the killer instinct of a bear lurking in the dark.