Chapter Text
Until recently, Plegia's former king was presumed dead. After his sister’s untimely death at the bastard’s hands Chrom’s spiralling rage (a trait unbefitting him) would be enough to send any man fleeing, and Gangrel (reckless as he was) was no different. They sent him a hail of arrows and, ‘til now, they thought they watched him bleed out on the battlefield.
Hell, they might’ve.
It would be Ylisse’s luck that a year, then three, would go by without a trace and then, like a grim miracle, he would reappear washed up in some coastal town on the south-eastern continent. The Shepherds just assumed he was dead, not holed up on some brigand’s ship with a fake name and a deteriorating mental disposition. Gone was his regalia and whatever dignity he might’ve had – all left now were a few haphazard piercings and a temper. They wouldn’t even have known about his survival; had they not been asked to send a small division out to deal with the pirates.
In some ways, they would’ve preferred not knowing.
Cut to now – and the ratty little redhead standing behind bars with his hands bound under the watchful eyes of the castle guard, Chrom, and his faithful tactician – it could scarce be believed that he had once been such a life altering threat. He’s roughed up and bruised from where Ylisse’s men dragged him here, clearly not knowing what to do in such an unexpected situation, but otherwise intact. He looks haggard; but why wouldn’t he? Spending goodness knows how long living a half life as an outlaw would take its toll on anyone.
Gangrel looks at Ember and she stares right through him. There’s suddenly an ache in his sternum. Whatever the hell it is – this thing inside of him – it burns to look at her.
"You-" He starts towards her, wriggling against his bonds, but he miscalculates in his fervour and trips. His knees hit the flagstones and he swears in pain. Until this moment, Ember hasn't really had much of a chance to study him up close, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He looks up at her with disgust.
"You bitch! You took everything from me!!"
"I could say the same," Chrom finally speaks. He has until now been abnormally quiet. Seeing Gangrel (and now participating in… this) is a ghastly reminder of things past, but he feels at least a little comfort in that he’s not the one tied up, “We did what we did for the good of the realm, Gangrel-”
"She made her own choice-" Gangrel spits, "I on the other hand was thrown – quite literally – to the dogs." The anger rising in him is palpable but there’s an undeniable sense of pride and, ah. That classic Gangrel arrogance.
“You forced her hand. This is nobody’s fault but your own, can’t you see?” Chrom retorts, and Ember can tell he’s trying his best to not turn this into a shouting match because he takes a deep breath and holds it for a second too long. She’s thinking about something; if Chrom was looking he’d recognise the familiar expression as ‘hatching a completely sideways plan’. As bad as it feels to admit, the (former) mad king could be a strategically welcome addition to their ranks, for reasons they’ve all seen firsthand. She takes Chrom softly by the arm and leads him out of earshot.
She speaks softly, like she knows it’s going to touch several nerves, “Call me insane but could we, you know,” she gestures vaguely, “Keep him on a short lead and just, have someone watch him? It feels wrong leaving him here.”
Chrom thinks for a moment, looking back over the top of her head at the man struggling to stand on the floor of the cell.
“Are you completely sure? This seems… outlandish, even for you.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and she looks up at him sympathetically. “Chrom, I wouldn’t have even posited this if I hadn’t thought about it, but you and I both know what he can do. There’s potential.”
“I don’t like this – at all – but…” He sighs for the umpteenth time that hour, “You’ve got us this far, which begs the question,” Another pause.
“Who’s doing the watching?”
“Oh, I have someone in mind.”
Frederick stares a hole into the bottom of his teacup. He wishes in doing so it would break so he could get out of whatever hare-brained scheme Em has cooked up, but he's never had an aptitude for magic. His relationship to the tactician has always had an undertone of unease. Of course he respects her, but goddess knows it's deeper than that. He can’t explain why he even complied with her somewhat odd request to meet. He thinks, perhaps, it’s out of his unwavering need to be dutiful to Chrom.
Since the grandmaster had arrived those years ago, she'd spelled trouble for the veteran knight. Incredibly charming and sharp as a whip, she'd cut her path up the ranks of Ylisse's army like a hurricane; and somehow he was the only one left feeling scorned. Was this feeling some kind of misdirected jealousy over her doing as she pleases in spite of every rule of high society telling her no? He supposes, being an amnesiac from an entirely different continent works in her defence somewhat; but if he tried to get away with half of her slights he'd have been made an example of ten times over, he’d have- No. He can’t allow himself to think like this.
Bitterness be damned.
She may sometimes be calculating and a little ruthless, but he guesses it comes with having a strategic mind, and he knows how much everyone cares for her and what good she’s done for the Halidom. He cares for her.
He’ll never admit it.
"So, Frederick."
Ember, who has until that point been distracted staring at him drink, speaks. She gives him that conniving grin that he's so used to and he praises Naga for once that she's on their side. She could make a formidable opponent of anyone she touches.
"I have a job for you." He furrows his brow. Here it comes.
"I need you to be Gangrel's keeper."
Frederick chokes on his tea and Em's lips twitch into a smirk, "Oh, please, it's what you do best. I should know, given your basically doing the same to me when we first met." She examines her nails and then stands and slinks round the desk towards him, “You’re very… thorough”.
“If you think you can ply me with compliments to do something so ridiculous-“ He starts on her and is abruptly cut off.
“That was not a compliment.” She says, smiling nonetheless and hopping back to perch on the table’s edge, "Besides, I outrank you,”
“Barely.”
She grimaces, which is a small victory for Frederick, but she’s as stubborn as she is smart, "It's not like I'm asking you to give up your entire life, I just need someone good at keeping unruly recruits in check and to make sure he doesn't kill anyone. We’ve made it fairly clear to him where the limits of our hospitality lie. He behaves… or we leave him right where we found him.”
“And you trust him?”
Ember doesn’t like to beg, but from the position she’s in it’s hard not to. To let Gangrel rot in the dungeon may be the correct choice, technically, but she can’t see to let a capable fighter go to waste (she also thinks it wouldn’t do to leave him in isolation given his... current mentality). Somehow, death would be preferable, Frederick thinks to himself.
“No,” She pipes back up, “But I trust you.”
The paladin sighs and rubs his face. He can’t tell if she’s lying.
"Fine."