A/N: Remember when I said I was gonna finish fics? Yeah that never happened. My fic attention span goes from one fandom to the next so fast, so anyways im back on my FE bs again. I'm getting on the AU train choo choo. This takes place after the final battle against Grima. If you don't want any spoilers, I'm just gonna warn you in advance this is probably gonna have some. Not sure how far imma take this, might just leave it here or do more not sure yet. All depends on the fleeting whims of inspiration. Crossposted on AO3 under same username.
The second time Robin wakes up in a field, Chrom isn't there to greet her.
For what feels like a lifetime, there had been nothing but an empty void, silent and dark. She wakes up feeling rested, as if her time there had been nothing but a nap. The grass feels soft against her skin, the breeze is gentle, and the sun is bright.
She has nothing but the clothes on her back. The tome in her hands feels familiar, feels comforting, feels right. Her memories are hazy. She does not remember much, and what she does is fuzzy. What she does know is this; her name is Robin, and she used to have a mark on the back of her hand.
Robin doesn't know where she's headed. She lets her feet guide her, sure and steady, down a path that leads to places unknown. Something in the back of her mind screams to go somewhere, but to where, Robin doesn't know. So she goes, walking and walking until she finds a road.
Robin keeps going along the dirt road until she eventually arrives at a town. There are merchants lining the streets, advertising their wares to any who walk by. Robin has some money on her, but only enough to last her a day or two if she rations it. She needs to find work, and fast. She passes stall after stall, storefront after storefront. As she passes the baker's shop, she briefly glances at her reflection in the window. Robin stops. Her eyes are red, and her ears are pointed.
Well, that's new.
Robin almost pities the poor fools who thought she would be an easy target. She moves with almost brutal efficiency, taking down bandit after bandit with the lightning that shoots from her hands.
There is a raw, primal urge that screams at her for more. More death, more destruction, more chaos. MOREMOREMORE. The feeling is addicting, a rush of power that makes her feel like she could take on the entire world and win. It scares her. But she cannot stop it. Everything becomes a blur of claws and blood. By the time she calms down enough to regain her senses, the path is covered in bodies.
Robin has a monster in her blood, and she is terrified of it. The cries of those she killed echo in her mind.
"Dragon!" They scream. "Monster!"
I'm not a monster. I'm not.
No matter how many times she tells herself this, she still never fully believes it.
When Robin finally gets her hands on a dragonstone, the voices in her head quiet. The transformation from person to dragon is no longer a violent mess, but it is still awkward. It takes her a few minutes every time to get used to having four legs instead of two. It is a rush, exhilarating, yet at the same time calming.
Flying brings a whole new world of opportunities. The feeling of the wind under her wings is freeing. It feels natural, like a limb she didn't remember she had. Robin loves it. In an unfamiliar world, it is something that feels familiar. Like something she's always known.
Robin becomes a wanderer. She travels across the warm sands of Plegia, through the snowy lands of Regna Ferox, and eventually makes her way back towards Ylisse.
She stops in the same field she woke up in before. The sun is bright, the breeze is gentle, and the grass is soft. She is tired. So, so, very tired. She lies on the ground and watches the clouds go by until she starts to doze and eventually falls asleep.
The third time Robin wakes up in a field, Chrom is there to take her hand.
Chrom has waited what feels like forever for Robin to return. When he finally finds her, peacefully asleep in the same field they first met, he feels on top of the world. He sprints to her, rushing through the tall grass, a man on a mission.
"There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know," he says when he reaches her.
Chrom grasps her hand, unblemished, markless, and so very skinny. He helps her to her feet.
When he comes face to face with red eyes and pointed ears, he knows something is wrong.
"Robin?" he asks, hoping, praying, that it's really her; that he's not dreaming, that this is real.
"Robin," she echoes. "My name is Robin. I have no mark on my hand."
She looks at him and furrows her brow, groggy and confused. While it's obvious she isn't Grima, she isn't the same Robin he knew either.
The blade he carries makes her uneasy. She instinctually wants to run at the sight of it. The voices in her head kept at bay by the dragonstone surge back to life, screaming at her to get away.
Danger. Fight. Run. Fight. Naga. Hide. Danger.
The logical yet quiet part of her mind says the opposite.
Safety. Love. Comfort. Stay.
She feels like a cornered, feral animal. Her mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, jumbled thoughts, and hazy memories.
"Welcome back," he says. He gently grasps her hands. She looks at him, and he smiles at her. The voices in her head quiet once again.
"It's over now."
Slowly, hesitantly, she smiles back at him.
Home.