Thin blades of soft, luscious green grass poke through gaps in fabric to the smooth, exposed skin of the back of my neck. Each blade succumbs to the gentle swaying wind, brushing back and forth on the skin, creating an uncomfortable tickle against the flesh. Tense muscles lay on the grassy ground, causing my joints to settle, locking them in painful positions, wearing the muscles out to become sore after mere moments of conscious time spent lying there. Regardless of the amount of time spent conscious, my body feels as if it has been lying there for a fortnight.
Eyelids struggle to open; a blinding white light steals the opportunity to seep into the eye. On reflex, I squeeze them tight again, raising an arm over my eyes to do my best to block the light, feeling a jostling pop in the shoulder and elbow as they move. Each pop hurts in its own sense, yet not enough to ebb my determination. Tentatively, I open my eyes again, and all I can see is blurry blobs of a pale arm, with dark purple, almost black, and golden cloth loosely draping around it as a sleeve to a baggy cloak. Despite the warmth of the bright and harsh sunlight, the dark colors sap the heat from my arm, leaving it cool almost to the point of my hair standing on end.
I wipe my eyes with a cool hand, most of the blurriness leaving with the thin fingers and pale skin. Vision now mostly clear, able to distinguish a lighter purple on the sleeve of the dark cloak, and poufy white clouds in the pale blue sky, I drop my arm, eyes having adjusted to the light, and I just lay there unmoving until shadows move overhead. Blue hair and blue eyes accompany a slightly tanned facial structure. His lips move oddly, constantly opening and closing the mouth. He stops to scrunch his eyebrows, an action I have also done, and he offers a hand.
I lift my right hand, and similarly to the left one earlier, pops in the shoulder, which is quite painful, unlike the left counterpart. Also, unlike the left counterpart, the back of my right hand bears a deep purple mark, almost like eyes staring wide open to fully gather what has been shown. It briefly glows, only for part of a second, before dimming down to be a dark tattoo once again. My cool fingers gently wrap around this man's warm and calloused hands, and he hoists me up back on my feet.
Three figures stand, accompanying the bluenét, one of them a relatively short and thin blonde, whose yellow dress merely draped over a metal cage, and a brunét that wore armor that reflected the sun off the polished surface, the last one is a horse wearing equally polished armor with dark leather knapsacks bulging with items. On instinct, I smooth out my dark cloak, to rid of the thin blades of green grass and to remove small crinkles in the fabric. Looking back at the three people, and they all are doing the same lip flapping that the bluenét had been doing when I was lying on the ground.
I look back up to three sets of eyes stare back at me, each one attempting to penetrate deeper than the last. Scrunching my eyebrow once again, I stare back at them, tilting my head to the side, feeling the two ratted pony tails slide on my back, a matter for later. The brunét pinches the bridge of his nose between his fore finger and thumb and moves his mouth again at the bluenét. After a moment of this, the trio start walking along the beaten path, the yellow clad blonde grabs my tattooed hand, dragging me along with her.
Each step feels foreign, not used to the feet taking part. Each foot just slightly too uncomfortable in the tall, worn leather boots, as if they had been accustomed to being unwillingly large, free of containment of the durable, yet flexible leather.
A weight hits my thigh with each step, consistent and constant, using the loose support of the bottom of my cloak to swing back and forth. I reach my hand inside of the large piece of clothing, fingers meeting with solid leather. Gripping the item tightly, I pull it free from the pocket, and find that I am holding two differently colored tomes. I place the yellow and gold tome back in for the time being, to study the thinner, plainer, brown book.
It feels familiar, as of it is important. The cover is rough, old, and smells of smoke. The off-white pages are scorched, torn and bent, and the edges of the leather cover are frayed. Delicately, I flip open the cover, revealing a shredded edge on the spine of the book, and ink stains on the first full page. The black stains look fresh compared to the fading words next to them. The handwriting taps into a feeling of place, nostalgia, as if of telling me this wasn't written by my hand.
I stare at the words for a moment, merely skipping over the blotted or completely faded sections, "My name is Robin... lost and deaf... Can you help me get to... it is my home... generously for... the return of..." Certain words seem more important than others, and others leave me even more confused. I flip pages, each page is as destroyed as the first, but copy the phrase, "My name is Robin," and the word, "Deaf" on each page.
Flipping back to the first page, I stare at the coarse yellowing paper for a moment before four fingers pull down on the left side of the book, baby blue eyes peering into the open book, tipping the barely balanced book onto the damp, grass covered ground. My attention immediately locks onto the small, spritely girl walking next to me, a gaze that forces the blonde to take a step away. Before I can grab the book myself, the brunét whips around, and looks the blonde directly in the eyes. Instead of backing away from him, she flaps her lips while pointing at the brown leather book lying face down on the ground. He lightly pushes me to the side to grab the book, immediately looking at the open, wet and partially mud-stained page. After a few seconds of reading, he turns to the bluenét and flaps his mouth for a second, and the blue haired man turns around nodding.
Closing the book and handing it to the bluenét, the armor-clad man walks to the horse that has been following us obediently, and rummages through saddle bags, pulling free a small gray dyed book, along with a wooden quill, a small latch about midway up the pen. Opening the book, the brunét hands it off to the other man and he begins writing. It takes a moment of scratching onto the white paper with black ink before he offers the two objects to me.
"So, I'm guessing you are the Robin in this book, it also explains why you haven't responded to what Frederick over there has been saying about you not listening. It's nice to know that you weren't just ignoring what we have been saying. My name is Chrom, and the delicate one that was next to you is my sister Lissa. Introductions aside, we'd like you to stick around with us until we can get you to a town, that way you aren't left defenseless in the middle of nowhere. Is there anything that you remember that will help us get you home?" His writing is smooth, and it looks as if it were written with a professional hand.
I hold the quill pen in my hand, the style feeling familiar, and I start writing a response, thinking back to the earliest thing I remember, which was waking up in the grass not too long ago. Pen tip touches the paper, and my hand takes it along, writing with smooth lines and easily legible words. "Well Chrom, I will have to apologize because I am afraid that I don't actually remember anything before waking up when you three found me. You know just about as much as I know about where I can find home."
I hand the book and the pen back to Chrom, and he reads gently rubbing his finger on the page as a guide, smudging the still wet ink slightly as he reads. He frowns as he writes again, slightly scrunching his eyebrows before handing the book back. "Well, that is an interesting tale, but it shouldn't stop us. We are Shepherds, and we wouldn't be doing our job very well if we didn't help those in need."
I smile and nod my head in thanks. I try to hand the book back, but Chrom just denies the offer. I slide the blue and gray book into the pocket of my purple cloak, which is responded with a nod from Chrom before we set out again.
A half-hour passes of walking on and off the beaten path. A dark cloud grows on the horizon, just over a small settlement, and a stark contrast to the poufy white clouds dispersed in the midday sky. Once the rest of the group sees the cloud, Frederick picks up Lissa with ease, setting her on the back of the brown horse's saddle, before climbing on himself. As he does this, Chrom looks back at me, holding up both hands, open palms facing me, and lightly pushes the gap between us, my guess is to tell me to stay. I look at him and give a slight nod as he turns and sprints towards the rising obsidian fog.
Simply gone from my sight, indistinguishable from building or gate, I am left alone, my mind immediately drawn to the possibility of abandonment. Absentmindedly tracing the mark on my hand, my mind is left to wander, filled with worry and anxiety, a feeling knotting my stomach unhappily, painfully. Instinct has me grabbing the yellow and gold tome from my cloak, a sense of security coming back since the Shepherds' departure.
"No need to be afraid Robin."
I jump in response, looking around to the empty outdoors. Grassy hillsides span for miles on either side of the commonly used path. The voice gives the feeling of exhaustion but soothing as well. As if a weary father comforts his child. It calms me, with a sense of security that is unknown to most. Rattled and anxious nerves now settled, a feeling from the back of my mind surfaces, a command of action.
"Instructions be damned in matters of life and death. Either chose to abandon them or to lend them your aid, the only false action is the one not taken."
My legs work faster than my mind, sending me bolting down after small figures running to a small town in the distance. The worn dirt path gave way to one of uneven cobblestone and rouge patches of grass. Wind, as unruly as it is, sends the rancid scent of smoke and fire at me in gusts, each one stinging my lungs as they breathe in wisps of nearly transparent smoke. Blood is scattered in droplets on the stone ground, a trail leading to the fallen.
My footsteps slow, eyes falling on the bodies lying on the ground. Two of them, clean, sharp slashes cut through fabric and flesh alike, a thick red blood still slowly oozing out, forming puddles under the yet to rot corpses. I take a deep breath, the sight of the dead feeling all too familiar, as if a large aspect of my past self. Discarded weapons lay at their sides, one an old and beaten sword, the other a broken axe. I walk over, a feeling of allurement emanates from the grotesque image of scarlet pools under pale flesh and torn cloth.
My fingers wrap around the blood wetted leather handle of the sword, small droplets of blood run down the edge of the blade, falling onto the cobblestone ground. I force myself to snap back to reality, and look up, and leave the two bodies behind. I find myself in an open area of the townscape, small stands fill the open area, each filled with small goods and produce. Between awnings and wooden posts, I can see movement, a flash of light here and there. I quickly walk closer, scanning my surroundings for a familiar sight, instead all I see is the shambles of a small town.
Out of the corner of my eye, a shape comes closer. Pure instinct kicks in, my new, bloodied blade swings up to parry the bladed axe of my attacker, my yellow tome seemingly pulling itself out of my pocket into my hand. A long arc slashes across his chest, before I let go of the sword, a blast of yellow arcane energy flies from my now empty hand, into the open wound, and my hand closes around the sword's handle before it hits the ground again. I look back, the filthy brigand lies there, unmoving, unconscious, and bleeding out. I fight the urge to finish him off, instead deciding to head out and look for anything remotely familiar.
Scanning around, I see nothing but overturned stalls, most plundered of valuables, others simply destroyed for the sake of destruction. It's only a little way off into the distance I see my previous companions, each fighting their own fights against the brigands. The blue haired swordsman swings his sword in an upwards arc, bringing his blade around and slashes a second time on the opposite side of his foe. The burliest of the brigands rushes the armored Frederick, the blade of his axe strikes Frederick, almost knocking him off his horse. Focusing on this, I feel the energy filling my hands again, the scent of burning blood hits my nose before I let loose a blast of electrical energy.
The yellow ball flies towards the brigand, followed by another. The first narrowly misses, while the second hits the axe blade, with enough force to send the weapon flying out of this hand. It is in this moment that Frederick is able to bring the head of his lance down on the enemy, ending his life.
The sight of this one, particular man falling sends the few remaining bandits running out of the area, leaving the town square empty beside myself and the three people I met this morning. The young blonde holds her staff up towards Frederick, both the staff and the brunét shine for a moment before dimming to their inert selves once again. Chrom meets my gaze as I begin to look towards him, his lips flapping as he walks closer. Instinctually, I roll my eyes and toss him the mostly empty book, pen tied to the outside with twine. He fumbles with the book for a second, his face looking guilty for that same moment before he opens the book and writes a few things down before handing it back.
"Sorry I forgot you couldn't… Anyways. Why didn't you stay back like you were supposed to? What possessed you to decide to come fight with us, how do you know how to fight in the first place? Why didn't you tell us before?"
I look Chrom in the eye and shrug, handing him the book back.
Only a few seconds pass before he hands it back to me, "Well, since you don't have anywhere to go, and you can hold yourself in a fight, how would you feel about joining us as a Shepherd? Worst case scenario, we drop you off in Ylisstol and we part ways. How about that?"
I look up at him, both Lissa and Frederick stand at his sides. I wait just a moment before smiling, and hold out a dry blood-covered hand, which is taken, shaken just once, with a smile creeping on both Chrom's and Lissa's faces.
The strange voice creeps into my head as we walk out of town, "These, Shepherds, will foster your skills, but be wary. Be ever vigilant, they will try to betray you. Don't forget. Ever."
This is a rewrite of a previous story, I promised it a while ago, sorry for the delay.
Karii Lynne