"...nor...asto, we have t...something," a thin, reedy voice, by broke into the darkness of his consciousness, disturbing his slumber.

"What should...do...ther...ri?" questioned a second voice, audibly younger than the first. As his consciousness slowly returned to him, the only word he could think of to describe this one was 'thuggish'.

"I don't..." the first voice broke in again, aged and oleous. "Ah!..." the voice gasped in surprise. The light of the late afternoon sun invaded his retinas as eyes began to slowly drift open. He briefly noted that he appeared to be seated in a large tent with thin mesh walls, though which the late afternoon sun shone as it set upon the dunes of sand he witnessed in the distance, casting the scene a vibrant red.

"Did we wake you?" the second voice asked him. As the formerly somnolent man turned to look at the speaker, a part of him was pleased to note that his unconscious assumption was more or less correct. A tall, auburn-haired man with short, spiky locks that peaked above the center of his forehead, clean-shaven but for the small bit of stubble on his chin stood to his left. He cut an imposing figure, made all the more frightful for the deep grimace that his face appeared to be permanently contorted into, brows raised and furrowed together darkly. However, what really drew the still drowsy man's attention was the stranger's choice in clothing. He appeared to be garbed in what Frederick often wore underneath his armour– a starched white shirt with a collar that folded neatly outwards onto itself and a pair of black pantaloons that went down to his ankles. That was where the similarities ended, however. Atop the shirt, the frowning man had on a jacket as black as his lower garments which appeared far shorter than any cloak or coat the increasingly-lucid man could ever recall seeing. Indeed, it appeared more akin to a Roseannean gambeson in length than any piece of outerwear he recognized, but it was clearly far too thin and unpadded to serve the protective function that the foreign article of clothing did and its cut exposed far too much of the man's shirt-clad chest than would have been expected for a piece of armour. About his neck, tucked neatly underneath his shirt's collar, was tied a thin black piece of silk, which reminded him slightly of Virion's cravat. Pinned to the lapel of his jacket was a small metal rectangle in the colours of Plegia's flag with the image of a crown above a horizontal sword, signifying his rank as the Governor of this province. Below it was a second pin, this one in the shape of a silver dragon's head with six red eyes; above the head, ensconced between its horns was a crimson droplet. Looking down at himself, however, the man found himself wearing almost the exact same thing, with the only visible difference he could find at first glance being a 'cravat' of deep purple silk rather than the other man's black.

"Good afternoon, my Lord," the first voice greeted him, words dripping out of the mouth of the old man to his right like black oil, sending a shiver down his back that he thanked Naga the two men before him did not notice. As his gaze turned towards the wizened old creature, the man gave his thanks to Naga that at least this one's garments seemed familiar...On further inspection, though, it seemed as if his gratitude might have been a bit premature. And misdirected. For the old man before his eyes wore not the garb of a servant of Naga, but rather the habit of a priest of the Grimleal. The wizened elder's bald head was covered with a skullcap, the colour of bone that had been scrubbed clean by the sands, on whose surface was the likeness of an eye, dark and baleful. Around his shoulders hung a cloak, the shade of dried blood, which was held in place by wide collar of beaten gold, festooned with the profane symbols of his worship. From nearly every inch of his body hung grim-looking charms and foul amulets, while ancient fetishes made of a riotous combination of blood spattered bones, feathers, and other unidentifiable components were arrayed upon his form. From the thin golden belt on his waist hung an ancient censer, which filled the air inside the tent with a thick and heady scent from the incense which burned within; the heady combination of smells – honey, cinnamon, and other spices, with an underlying note of fresh blood – filled his nose and caused his head to swim as much as any fine wine could. The old priest's veiny, papery hands trembled with madness or age– could not say what– as they clutched a tome of scriptures, bound in dark purple leather.

"Come, Sire, there's a better place for You to relax than out here in the dunes," the younger of the two said, his face twisting into a smirk.

At last he recognized the man in front him. Eyes widening in disbelief, he managed to rasp out a single name, "Vas...to."

The brutish man's face brightened – as much as such a face could – pleased at being referred to so intimately by his leader, and he put out his hand to help his liege to his feet.

"At Your service, Master Grima."

The next moment, he found himself inside a luxurious edifice which seemed to glow, such was the sheer sumptuousness of its decor. The vast sandstone vaulted roof soared overhead, held up by gilded ribs and buttresses. The dark green floor, made from Plegian marble upon which lay many thick, purple rugs, was polished to a mirror-gleam, reflecting the light of the many chandeliers which hung above. Bolts of translucent violet and lavender fabric were draped all around, hanging from pillars and bannisters, while plumes of thick, rose-coloured smoke arising from the many massive braziers lighting up the hall which burned incense filled the air, tinting it a faint pink, further lending the scene an ephemeral, oneiric quality. In passing, he noted the many richly-attired guests around them, lounging atop luxurious divans, as they were attended to by handsome slave-boys dressed in low-cut thin black mesh bodysuits and very little else, who bore golden trays of fresh fruits – grapes, oranges, and pomegranates among them – and large pitchers of chilled sweet Plegian wine. Several of the scantily-dressed boys seemed familiar for some reason, he mused to himself idly, but felt no compulsion to go and confirm his feeling.

He felt himself drifting through the lavish surroundings, barely lucid, as if he was pulled along by some unseen force.

"Master Grima," hissed Ardri, interrupting his musings, "Welcome to the headquarters of the Cult of the Pleasure Dragon. This is our temple and our home. Your journey from the capital to the frontiers of Province Dolhr must have been tiring. But worry not, Master. You may rest away any weariness here, in this 'garden' we have cultivated in our little corner of the realm," he finished, smiling as if laughing at a joke of his own. As the man glanced around, he did indeed catch sight of vibrant crimson flowers, the colour of fresh blood, growing in little raised beds and filling vases throughout the luxuriant hall.

Vasto bowed, adding "Indeed, milord. You do us a great honour by visiting this little corner of the province Yourself though it lies on the border with thrice-damned Ylisse." His face again made his usual grimace towards the end, as he growled out the name of their traditional rival.

"Now, now, Governor," he felt his mouth move of its own accord, lips twisting into a smirk as words spilled out unbidden, "that is no way to speak of our 'fellow' countrymen," he corrected the frowning man playfully, one finger raised in the air as if in mock admonishment.

At this, addressed man's grim expression twisted into a smirk of his own. "Ah, of course, Sire," he chuckled. "I guess that could be offensive to our 'brothers'." Turning around, he continued, leading the other two men up the marble staircase to the second floor.

"In any case, as Father Ardri said, 'flowers' do indeed bloom here in this corner of the desert, and it would be our honour to show them to You."

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he led the other two men down a hallway, lined with even more of the bulbous red flowers from below, until they were face to face with another pair of bronze double doors, smaller than the ones that led into the edifice proper, these standing just higher than a man. As he slowly swung the doors open, Vasto addressed him again: "I am sure, Milord, that the capital has a great many things that we could never hope to compete with out here, but in this one thing, Sire, I truly feel that no other place could compare." As he stood before the now open doorway, Vasto stepped to the side and stretched his arms out, the Grimleal priest taking the other side.

"May I present to You, my Master, what has rightfully been called the jewel of all the pleasure-houses in Province Dolhr – nay! – all Plegia. The House of the Crimson Poppy!" the old man's voice exclaimed.

As his eyes adjusted to the sight, he noted that this was indeed an apt moniker. Rich red patterns papered the walls of the large apartment before him. All around, the now identified poppy flower filled lacquered black vases sitting atop fine teakwood shelves and tables, red bulbs leaking a white nectar from within.

He then found himself being led up another, smaller staircase, to a hallway whose floor was paved with tiles of black and white marble, arrayed in a checkered fashion. The sound of the crowd below muffled to an almost silence this far up, where few patrons were permitted. Those that he did see seemed to be of a class much higher than the men down below. At the center of the hallway was a small plaza with a stone fountain in the center, in whose waters floated poppy blossoms. At the little square, the hallway split into 4: the entryway they stood in, one hallway to the right and the left, and another, fourth way, across from them, just past the fountain.

"Consul," Vasto spoke, "the House of the Crimson Poppy is more than just a pleasure-house. It is also a prison for the worst of our enemies. Or rather," he paused, face twisting into a hate-filled grin, "for their children."

The governor turned around to face him, and extending an arm out towards Ardri, continued, saying, "It's no exaggeration to say that this place wouldn't ever have even existed, much less grown without the work of the good father here. If it weren't for his constant trips around the realm and his network of followers who keep an eye out for the finest 'flowers' in Plegia and elsewhere and send them to us here, we would never have become the symbol of Province Dolhr that we are today. And that goes all the more for the place we stand in now. After Your Majesty shot down those wretched Ylissean sheepdogs, it was Father Ardri who found their children holed up in a mountain on the border, trying to survive the attack. They thought they were safe," the tall man grinned wickedly, "but little did they know that their suffering had just begun. Oh how their parents must be turning in their fiery graves."

"The Fells' blessings on thee, Governor," smiled the aged priest, "you flatter me so." Turning, he bade them continue further, saying, "But enough talk." They walked towards the fountain and turned left.

Oddly enough, as they walked by, he could have sworn he saw a figure that looked like Lon'qu next to the fountain, as if he were standing guard. Over each of his eyes was some sort of reflective black...shell, shiny as a beetle's carapce. He was holding what appeared to be a wyrmslayer, though it was small enough to be wielded one-handed. Looking closely, this Lon'qu look-alike held his 'sword' in the strangest grip, with the 'blade' facing up towards his head, while the tip was pointed towards the ground. It was attached to his body with a sling and he noticed a strange pipe of sorts extending from the tip of the 'sword'.

Before he could he think on it further, he found himself in front of a small, teal door at the end of the western hallway.

"A lot of our guests are men of wealth and power – and a taste for wielding them," Vasto spoke, reaching out for the bronze doorknob. "Sadly," he smiled sardonically, "they find that society doesn't give them enough chances to do it in their daily lives. So what's a rich, slightly bored, decadent old noble or merchant to do?"

Turning the knob, he continued, "Why, he comes to the House of the Red Poppy for a chance to break in the daughters of the elites of the now defunct Sacred Band of Ylisse, of course!" At this, his wry smile grew even wider as a sick gleam filled his eyes, thrilled at the prospect of having wrought the greatest possible revenge on the worst enemies of his country.

The first thing he noticed as the door opened was the smell. Even before the room inside was revealed to his eyes, the rancid smell of several days' worth of sweat, blood, and other, more distasteful bodily fluids and byproducts assaulted his nose, hardly mitigated whatsoever by the increased amounts of incense being burnt on this floor.

As he stepped into the room, nose wrinkled and eyes watering from the smell, what he saw caused him to stop midstep and rub his eyes.

There before him, in the room, stood Cynthia and Kjelle. Or, rather, hung. Stark naked.

A mass of iron chains descended from the ceiling, connected to heavy shackles on their arms, which were raised above their heads in the air. The pair appeared too exhausted to even stand, but the length of the chains prevented them from kneeling fully, their knees floating a few inches off the ground while the weight of their bodies was held up almost entirely by their arms.

In the back he thought he saw Noire and Nah, similarly bound up.

Their nude forms were pushed up against each other; nearly every inch of their skin was littered with angry red welts from whips. Cynthia's face was dirty, save for where the tears which had streaked down from her red eyes had washed away the grime. Her usually neat ponytails were disheveled and uneven, almost as if they had been groped and pulled at by clawing hands. What hurt the most, though, was seeing her usually spunky and vibrant eyes look so flat and dead even as whimpered softly. Turning to Kjelle, a black eye and a bruise on her jaw, next to a split lip marred her normally handsome face. On both of them, bruises, dark and stormy, stood out against their pale skin. As he looked closer, he noticed that the discolouration seemed to be concentrated in two areas particularly: their necks...and the insides of their thighs.

He wanted to throw up.

Whatever the other two men might have said after that, he had no idea, and soon found himself standing in front of the door at the end of the rightmost hallway, this one painted a fading maroon.

"Some of our patrons," Vasto's voice broke into his consciousness again, "have some more...unorthodox tastes. They might be men of power to the rest of the world, but in here, they're even lower than pigs."

As his guide opened the door, he heard the crack of a whip, and fully expected to see a scene like the one in the previous room. To his surprise, however, he saw Severa, her long red hair let down from her trademark twintails and buzzed short on the right side of her head with metal studs and other piercings in her ear and lips, holding a black bullwhip. She wore a black leather corset and silk stockings of the same shade held up by garters.

"Gawds!" she exclaimed, peeved. "I told you not to come in here when I'm having a session!" As the man looked around, he noticed three or so men, corpulent but looking like they were probably rather well-off, crawling around on the floor, almost entirely nude save for their smallclothes.

"Ah but I think you'll be rather pleased to see the gift I've brought you," Vasto chuckled, reaching inside his jacket. He pulled out a small clear pouch with a strange brown substance, rolled into a ball inside of it. Almost immediately, she dropped the whip and one of the three men on the floor procured a long pipe from somewhere. The second man pulled a bit of the substance from the ball and loaded it into the pipe's bowl while the third, holding a small silver rectangle, popped open the top of the object and produced from it a flame, which he then held up to the bowl of the pipe as Severa placed it to her lips and inhaled strongly, suckling greedily at it as does an infant to its mother's breast. Pulling away, she breathed out, a cloud of white smoke escaping from her lungs as her eyes lost their usually sharp focus and a dazed look over took her face as they glazed over.

He stared in wonder at Severa, trying to understand what that substance could possibly have been and how it could be so strong as to alter the personality of a woman like her so drastically.

It seemed he would get an answer to his unasked question as Ardri spoke up, pulling out a similar pouch from the folds of his robes. "There is more than one kind of pleasure," he hissed, smiling, "and the name of the House of the Red Poppy is not just out of whimsy."

"After all, we're the biggest producers of opium on Ylisse, if not the world," finished Vasto. "It wouldn't do to let a girl as stubborn as her run free in here, even if that's what her clients think they're getting. And as the good father said, just as there is more than one kind of pleasure, there's also more than one way to break someone," he chuckled darkly.

As the man turned back to gaze at Severa, who was already too far gone to notice the masked men lapping at her drool and licking her feet, there was just one thought that filtered through his mind. Terrified, he wondered – Where was Lucina?

As if in response to his question, he found himself standing in front of the final door, this one painted a dark navy blue.

This time, he felt his body extend it's hand and twist the doorknob.

He stepped inside, steeling himself for the worst.

The sight within was not at all what he was expecting. He had prepared for the vision of some gruesome image to greet eyes, some horrible violation of the blue-haired princess from the future. The sight of her broken, shattered will and body. Not...not this.

Lucina was indeed there, but nothing seemed too out of the ordinary. She was lying facedown on a bedroll on the ground covered with a dark blue quilt with white trim, head facing the door. He saw her peaceful sleeping face and was relieved that nothing appeared to be amiss.

Relieved that nothing appeared to have happened to her, the man made to turn around to ask Vasto or Ardri about this, when he noticed her outstretched arms which were shackled to the wall in front of her with a length of chain. On either side in front of her knelt blue-dressed maids, each with a bucket of water and a cloth with which they cleaned her hands.

Now thoroughly confused, the man wondered what this was about when Vasto finally spoke, answering the questions swirling through his mind.

"Now this, Sire, is the what we have been waiting to show You. A prize worthy of Your Majesty alone," the tall man spoke, bowing deferentially. "The eldest daughter of the Exalt of Ylisse himself!" he laughed mirthlessly, hatred darkening his voice.

"'Twas the blessings of the Fell Itself that we came by her, Master Grima," whispered the wrinkled Grimleal. "One of my acolytes saw her in the mountains attempting to gather resources after You struck down their convoy, my Lord, and followed her back to the cave where she and the rest of the children were sheltering. After that, it was quite a simple matter to 'gather those flowers' in the middle of the night. Finding the other children of those damned Nagaite thorns would have been enough of a blessing for one lifetime for me, but I knew the moment I had her planted in my garden that this little rose would require some special care. The others' petals have already flourished and fallen, but this little seedling is still germinating. And soon, her 'flower', still intact, will be ready to be 'plucked' and offered to the Fell. Imagine!" the priest shouted, "the bloodline of Ylisse, of Naga herself, being offered up and despoiled by the Fell Himself!"

Horror, mixed with a tinge of relief, struck the man as the meaning of the priest's words became clear to him. They had captured Lucina and were intent on offering her in some gruesome sacrifice to the object of their foul worship, but a small part of him was relieved beyond measure to hear that she had been spared the fate that had befallen her companions, even as another part scolded him for having such an ugly thought. Yet, even now, the body-that-was-not-his-body betrayed no signs of his rapidly changing emotions.

"We thought about it, of course," Vasto said wryly. At this, the man felt his heartbeat pick up again. "She'd make us a lot of money. But as Father Ardri said, she was far too valuable to sell to some random noble or wealthy merchant prince. We knew we had to save her for something special. But still, I had a few ideas about how we could put her to good use."

As he walked towards Lucina, Vasto bade the women retreat into the corners of the room. "After all, even if we can't just 'pluck' the little Exalted bitch's 'flower', she's still useful in other ways."

"Some of our guests have some eccentric tastes," he continued, standing at the crown of Lucina's head, to his right. "After all," he smiled, his eyes cold as flint, "the little slut's still got a pair of hands and a warm mouth." He waved his hand and a pair of maids from the left side of the room approached the sleeping maiden and raised the edge of the quilt up and over her legs, revealing the soles of Lucina's bare feet. "And a pair of feet, for those who are into that kind of thing."

"But enough of that, Sire!" exclaimed the tall governor with a clap of the hands. "As we said, we were saving her for a special occasion. And that day is today, Consul. As the head of both our church and country, who could be more deserving than You of claiming the honour of, heh, 'deflowering' the daughter of the dear, departed Exalt? It was for this that we requested You presence here, Milord. We hope our little gift pleases You."

At this he felt his eyes drift from her pale feet to her face, where her eyes where beginning to flutter open. Her mouth opened and a soft voice whispered:

"Robin..."

"...obin? Robin~!"

Broken from his reverie, Robin turned around from where he sat, at the edge of his bed. The light from the crescent moon shone in through a window in the chambers he shared with his wife, lighting up his already silvery hair and pale, white skin, which leant him a otherworldly look.

He saw his wife sitting upright in their bed, still half asleep as she clutched a pillow to her chest and pouted. Stifling a yawn, she opened her eyes fully, her left one gleaming brighter than the other as the Brand of the Exalt shone in the midnight light.

"Lucina..." he whispered, thinking back to what he had seen but moments ago. For a moment, he just stared at her, trying to reconcile what he was seeing just now with the all-too-real visions he had seen earlier.

"Honey, come back to bed," she murmured, "It's cold...Wait," she added, more alert now as she finally saw him, drawing her gaze over his form, "why are you dressed now, Robin?" she asked in confusion at his state of dress at this time of night.

After ruffling her hair and laying a kiss upon her forehead, Robin stood up and checked his trademark coat's pockets for his tomes and clipped his Levin Sword to his belt, before pulling on a pair of gloves as he turned to stare out the window.

"There's no time to sleep, Lucy," he frowned. "We have a world to save."

Off in the distance, Robin swore he could see a light shoot up over the horizon in the direction of the Outrealms Gate.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading "Fire Emblem Awakening: Emergence"! I hope you enjoyed the story, in spite of...all the disturbing stuff therein. I wouldn't normally write about such topics, at least not nearly as explicitly as I did here (which is probably hardly at all compared to some other stories out there, but this is my personal limit, I feel) if not for the fact that I actually saw a great deal of this in a dream I had. I'm interested to see if you can tell which parts are actually from the dream and which bits are conscious additions. I actually had to delete some material to keep the focus more tightly on what I saw in my dream and on what I feel the major points of impact are here. Also, bonus points if you can guess where the name of the title comes from!

And happy birthday to everyone's favourite time-travelling princess, Lucina – Happy Birthday Lucy!