Fanfiction:Zipp Dementia Chrono Break 6
Chrono Break
By Zipp Dementia
Note: the song the bard sings in this section is not my creation, it is the work of the esteemable DJ Pretzel. To hear the song, right click and save as the following link: http://djpretzel.web.aplus.net/songs/Chrono_Trigger_Town_Life_OC_ReMix.mp3
The Quayside Inn was busy, or rather as busy as it ever got on a Winter’s night in Truce. Fritz sat at his usual table, one near the window, with his friends Wedge, Biggs, and Dallon. The Quayside was aptly named, as it overlooked the wharf where the numerous trading vessels from Medina and Choras unloaded. Fritz liked to look out at the ships in the dusk. Unlike his wife, Elaine, who frequently took the ferry to Poore, he had no desire to ever undertake a sea voyage, but he did like to look at the ships and contemplate where they had come from and who they brought with them. Truce, though spread out across the coast, only had a permanent population of around a couple hundred, but at any given time, that number could be increased five fold by merchants and tradesmen coming in from the other continents. Here, at the end of Winter, trade had yet to really pick up again, but even so there was a fair number of ships docked. From his window seat, Fritz gave them a silent welcome and raised his tankard in salute to them.
“Oi, Fritz. You paying attention to this drivel?”
Fritz looked away from the window towards Dallon, who was addressing him in his rough voice, a sardonic smile planted beneath his heavy black mustache.
“What? Uh...” he tried to recall the threads of the conversation that had going on at his table. Wedge saved him from having to form a more cohesive answer.
“It’s not drivel,” the young man said, scratching his pock marked face. “Least ways, Gregoire doesn’t think its drivel. He’s been raising a lot of fuss over the issue.”
“Gregoire’s an idiot,” Dallon replied. “He’s just trying to make his mark on history, and Truce ain’t big enough for him to do it. He’s throwing a fit. How old is he now, 25? He should know better”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. He’s got a good number of supporters. Samdel’s been raising a fuss about town, too. You know Samdel’s well liked.”
“Samdel’s a trouble maker. Always has been. He’s always looking for attention. Comes with being the youngest in a family. And ever since James left, he’s had no one to fight with.”
“It’s not just Samdel, though. This isn’t just another prank. The mayor’s letting it happen. That’s as good as giving his support.”
Dallon didn’t respond. He seemed hesitant to say anything against the mayor, who had been a pillar of the community for over fifty years.
Wedge saw his chance, and continued. “His daughters, too, you know, they’ve gotten their husbands behind him. Little Romana is too young to be part of anything, but that’s still five families, you know. Frederick was in here the other day giving a big speech. He’s married to Alba, you know. Mary and Gregory are in support of it. Haven’t heard from Jessica, yet.” Wedge took a carefully timed sip of ale, but didn’t take his eyes off Dallon, who was glowering into his own drink.
“Never you mind what Jessica thinks,” he said darkly. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Dallon shot Fritz a sideways glance. Fritz returned the look, but he didn’t really know what was expected out of him. Certainly he couldn’t think of anything to say.
Dallon apparently picked up something from his stare because he tossed off his sulk and spoke again. “Just you watch. This will die off as soon as the season picks up. People are just bored. Get em back to their shops and their fields, and they’ll be too busy to talk about anything except their beds waiting at the end of a day.”
“He does raise some valid points, you know, Dallon.” Biggs spoke up, his large bulbous eyes staring straight ahead, giving his statement a casual air. “If all the business is moving down to Poore, then shouldn’t the taxes follow?”
So that’s what it was. Fritz let the conversation slip away from him again. He didn’t care to engage in talks of politics. The Poore situation didn’t worry him. Truce had been the center for the ferry trade for years, and as long as that continued, Truce would hold an important place in the kingdom. In his opinion, people were just scared by how fast Poore was growing. Even Thera, located at the north end of Zenan bridge, was beginning to grow simply from Poore’s spill over. He himself found it surprising, just as he had found it surprising when he’d heard the summer’s festival was to be moved to Poore, along with Leene’s bell. But Fritz had always stuck to one basic principle of politics that he didn’t care to change... he had to believe in his Lord. He would believe in his Lord.
In the middle of the inn, a bard started plucking at a stringed instrument. The bard’s voice carried through the inn and Fritz let himself get lost in the words. As far as he could tell, it was a traveler's song:
“Home is where I want to be but I've been torn from out its pages for a need to be reborn; taking all of the last chances I can get, the distance multiplies in rhythm with the debt; For any prayers you send my way that I get by, I'll pay you back when I've returned; I'll pay you back when I've returned.
You said the town life's not for me; it wasn't big enough for who I'm meant to be, but it's not easy, taking it along every street recalls the time I saw you last; every avenue a moment in our past; For every story that I bottle up in time, I'll tell you each when I've returned; I'll tell you each when I've returned.
It's getting dark now and there's not much left to say; just leave a light out each night and I'll find the way back to arms and eyes where I want to be found; not these silhouettes that never make a sound; For any candles that you burn so I might see, I'll pay you back when I've returned; I'll pay you back when I've returned.”
Fritz was about to get up and give the man a bit of coin when the door to the inn was thrown open and fourteen year old Samdel, the mayor’s youngest son (of three sons and six daughters), charged in.
“Gregoire is fighting the king’s men at the residence!”
Before he quite knew what he was doing, Fritz was out of his chair and being swept out the door along with the other drinkers. He couldn’t pinpoint his reasons for following them. He had just brushed off any connection to politics, but his free will had been stolen away by circumstance. He didn’t really feel he had a choice in the matter. One second he was fondling a coin in his pocket and secure in his position as a dissenter, the next he was outside in the brisk dusk air, joining a small mob.
Fritz looked around him at the gathered villagers. Though some were holding torches, none really looked prepared to fight. Everyone seemed gathered almost by chance. Fritz doubted if anyone had any idea of what they were doing, any more than he had. In a daze he looked for some connection to what had been a normal life only seconds before, but though he knew everyone in Truce, their faces now seemed unfamiliar. He didn’t see Biggs or Wedge. Dallon was next to him, but he didn’t speak. It was as if events had them all enscorcled. Together, they followed Samdel and the mob up a hill towards the Mayor’s Residence.
Fritz recalled another time when he’d been swept into events beyond his control, about five years ago. The memories came back to him now, so that the stone path leading up the hill seemed to become colder and darker, the stone hall of a dungeon, the torches carried by Samdel and his friends fitting eerily well into the image. He hadn’t had time to say goodbye to Elaine, even to tell her where he was going. The monsters in the guise of men had come for him in the night, led him away on charges that weren’t his to answer to. As the hill climbed steeper, Fritz felt his legs turning to lead, yet they wouldn’t stop. He was being dragged away by some force outside of himself. All he could think was that it was Fate, that hand of unchangeable iron which listened to neither reason nor pleading. He tried to remember how it ended, attempted to plead his survival out of history. But no... his sentencing had been quick. Death by torture.
Except that HE had appeared. The one man who could change Fate. Even as the jaws of death had closed on Fritz, he’d been pulled from them. The man had made it seem effortless.
Now the party crested the hill and, though he knew he would be there, Fritz felt the shock of seeing him again in the flesh. His lord. The man who had saved his life.
Crono and the soldiers remained on horseback as the mayor and his oldest son stood against them, raging against his verdict. The son, a man named Gregoire, was by far the more vocal. Crono took notice of his well built body. He could easily be a soldier, at least physically. Crono doubted if the man (he guessed he was around his own age, maybe a little younger) had ever actually been in a combative situation. Maybe he’d seen some brawls, but he’d never killed a man.
Loud voices and footsteps announced the arrival of more villages, some of them holding torches that cast a sombre light on their faces. Crono might have recognized some of the faces from his childhood, had he cared to look. He barely glanced in the direction of the newcomers. A few ran forward, four women (followed by their husbands) and a young man, and he guessed they were part of the mayor’s family. His attention remained focused on the mayor’s oldest son. The man was raging to the crowd, now, speaking openly against Crono’s new law. It was proof, the proof he’d wanted, that his subjects weren’t loyal. Now Nadia would have to admit he was taking care of things in the only possible way. First, he’d have to teach them respect.
Crono inched his horse forward. Behind him towered the mansion that was the mayor’s residence, built centuries ago when Truce was first founded, and maintained throughout the years. The lights from the gigantic windows poured out onto the hill, casting Crono in a dim light that clashed violently with the flare of the torches. His armour shined in the light, and his mane of red hair framed his face like fire. “I’ve listened to your complaints. Now I shall repeat my verdict. As penalty for rebellion and tax evasion, Truce will be made into a temporary military state. You will answer no longer to the mayor, but to the king’s soldiers. The Mayor’s residence will be given to them.”
Gregoire, showing no fear, no respect, ran forward. “You’ll be taking away our home!”
Crono gave him a wry smile. “You can have it back as soon as the rebel leaders come forward and issue their formal apology and subservience to the crown.”
The words had the effect he wanted. He’d talked again with the tax collector before riding out, and he was well aware of who had started the trouble. He had pinpointed him in this moment. Gregoire could see the challenge he had issued. Crono was giving him no choice but to dishonor himself. Either he had to come forward and denounce his own attempts at rebellion, which would take the power out of any future attempts, or he had to let his family lose their home and position in defence of it, a move that wouldn’t earn him any favour, either.
Gregoire stood, shaking in one spot while he pondered his choices. Meanwhile, Crono turned his horse and addressed his men. “:Ghetz, from this moment you are in temporary control of Truce. You will administer its taxes and laws, and send reports directly to me. For now, the other soldiers will accompany you. I will send more upon my return to the castle. Sariah, you will ride with me.”
Ghetz nodded. Crono looked back at Gregoire, who still hadn’t answered. “Alright, Ghetz,” Crono said. “Take up residence.”
Ghetz turned his horse towards the house. The other soldiers began to follow. As James came into the light, a man who bore a striking resemblance to Gregoire yelled out. “So, James! This is how you return to your hometown! You take over the house of your father by force!”
James didn’t respond, though he noticeably stiffened in his saddle. So he was part of the mayor’s family. Crono rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A strange coincidence, that Sariah would choose for this mission the man who had grown up as the middle child of the mayor’s family. An ugly mistake, or something deliberate that Crono did not yet see? He’d decide later. For now, he was simply pleased that James was holding himself together.
Gregoire made his move just as Crono was about to turn back to the crowd and disband them with a few choice words. The man grabbed a torch from his younger brother and ran forward, brandishing it against Crono’s horse. The animal reared in fear and pain. Sariah was instantly at the horse’s side, grabbing for its reigns, and placing himself between the angered Gregoire and his Lord, but it was too late. Crono fell from the saddle and hit the ground hard. His panicked horse pounded the earth around him. Sariah couldn’t see if Crono had been struck by the animal’s powerful hooves. He concentrated on bringing the horse under control, trying not to think of the sound of the fall, and the gasp of breath he’d heard Crono release; hoping it wasn’t his last.
The other soldiers were riding back from the house, having heard the horse cry. The mob was silent. Gregoire hadn’t move another move. His face was pale in the light of his torch. It turned paler as Crono let out a grunt and began to rise from the ground. In one hand he held a sheathed katana.
Crono rose to full height and looked around him casually, taking in the scene. Within seconds, the other soldiers were off their horses and holding Gregoire. The man didn’t struggle. Ghetz grabbed the torch from his hand. James hovered at the edge of the fire light, still mounted, his horse inappropriately choosing this time to graze on the grass of the hill.
Crono leaned easily on his sheathed blade and looked at Gregoire. “To attack the Lord of the land is a matter of the highest treason. You have struck a blow against your very king. The punishment for this is death by torture.” Unseen, Fritz stiffened in the crowd. Gregoire’s knees gave way and he stumbled forward, held up only by Arch and Redmond. Pierre stood nearby, keeping an eye on the crowd.
Crono let the moment hang for a moment. Then he straightened. “Release him!” His voice was calm, but there was a definite tone of command behind the calm. The soldiers felt it as a gathering storm, and they only hesitated for a moment. Crono spoke again. “One of you... give him your blade.” This order the soldiers were less quick to follow. Sariah approached Crono and whispered warnings in his ear. Crono ignored him and stepped forward. “Will none of you lend your blade to this man?”
Finally, James stirred and rode slowly forward towards his brother. He paused in the saddle, looking down at him, then unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall to the ground. Gregoire didn’t move. Crono waved his hand impatiently at the blade. “Pick it up.” He sighed when the man just looked at him. “You wanted a chance to strike against your king, then I’m giving it to you. Raise your blade against me like a man. If you want to cut me down, then here’s your chance. A fair fighting chance.”
Gregoire looked around him, as if for help, but none was coming. Slowly, he bent down and picked up the blade. In response, Crono unbuckled his armour. Made and designed by Melchior, the armour came off quickly. While he undressed, he spoke. “If you are going to raise a blow against any man, you must be prepared to look him in the face as you strike. You must be prepared to be struck down yourself. Are you willing to make that sacrifice? If you are, then show me!”
Within a minute, Crono was stripped of the golden plate, revealing his muscular frame. He went into a fighting crouch and placed his hand on his blade. He waited. Gregoire raised his blade. Crono’s thumb pushed the edge of his katana, pushing it an inch out of the scabbard. Gregoire dropped his blade, fell to his knees, and vomited.
Crono straightened, looking at the man with contempt. The crowd was still. The only sound was that of Gregoire expelling his stress onto the grass. In silence, Crono recovered his armour, dressed, and mounted. In silence, he and Sariah rode away from the scene. There was no more need for words. The rebellion was over.
Fritz backed away as the horses strode past him. His lord didn’t even turn in the saddle, didn’t give a single sign of recognition. The whole event had been quick, had happened in a matter of minutes, but for Fritz they were eternal. He felt the disgrace of the entire town and wondered at it... he couldn’t even recall whether there really had ever been a rebellion. Certainly he hadn’t rebelled... had he? Guilt overcame him from a source unknown and from somewhere deep within him, a hidden knowledge sprang up. Fate would not be denied. The thought wasn’t entirely his own, and all the more frightening for it. It was as if Fate had been watching him for the last five years, not denied, no... simply delayed. Fritz felt its jaws on him. He had to believe. He simply had to believe in his Lord.
From: Fanfiction