There was a calling—quiet and insistent, like the voice of conscience that insists you must to first things first. She did not know who it was, or what, but there was no threat; she followed it subconsciously, as she seemed to have no physical form.
It did not matter to her, though; she was peaceful in this state, if not a bit lonely.
The calling became louder still as she approached its source. She could not see it, as she lacked eyes, but a figure appeared before her anyways. It greeted her, but it did not call her by name.
"You wake," the caller whispered. She did not hear it, because she lacked ears, but the words were there still. They lingered in her subconscious like so many other things that dart to and fro like tony minnows in a pond, scattering when she goes to gather them up.
Yes, she replied. There was not a sound, because she lacked a voice. The caller understood her anyways.
There were suddenly questions then—brave little wonders that floated to the surface of the minnow-pond. She asked, noiselessly: Tell me, where am I now?
The caller might have laughed then, a gesture that was heard by no one and melted into nothing. "I cannot say, child, for I myself am unsure. I have dwelt here for millenia, and none whom I choose have asked me of this." She felt a warmth then—barely, for she lacked skin to feel with. "Perhaps I should choose more selectively."
Am I but a child? she asked.
"You are not young," said the caller. "In my view, you are—so small, so young and new … but you are not an old soul, my little one. You tempered yourself quite a lot the last time around."
She was silent then, for a moment. I do not know of myself, she told the caller. What is my name?
"I cannot tell you that," the caller replied. "When you go out and grow again, you will know."
Then she felt nothing, and there was a pressure, as if she were being confined, and suddenly she felt everything.
"Go forth, child," the caller told her. "Return."
And then she had eyes; she opened them, there was a blueness so clear and perfect that it seemed like a dream.
Then she had a voice. "I am back," she said to the clear blueness, though she had no idea of where this was. And then she rose and found her feet, and saw that she stood atop a green hill at the foot of a mountain, and that she wore nothing but a shredded tunic.
She heard birdcalls in the trees to her left, and she turned to look; there was one, with a red breast like none of the others, that seemed familiar to her, like the face of a friend you haven't seen since you were very young. She took a gentle breath, awash in the feeling of sweet air in her lungs and warm sun on her face, and her eyes lit upon a village not terribly far away.
There was nowhere else to go, so she went.
She found the village full of farmers and children, and it was a happy place. Animals ran between the houses, chased by laughing children, and the older children stood in the fields, working or supervising the younger ones. Mothers carried baskets and mended holes in clothing and tended fires within small cottages, and fathers pounded metal into tools and chopped wood.
Somewhere, in her chest, she felt a strange stab of sentiment.
Her bare feet shuffled along the dirt path that cut through the center of the village, and felt her face redden beneath curious stares of the people. But none of them called her out or looked at her with disdain—it was merely curiosity, and nothing more.
And then she was at the center of the village, where a grand tree stood tall and proud, and she sat.
Villagers began to gather around her. They must not get many outsiders, she thought, as she observed the children looking on with excitement and the adults with a hint of wariness. But she was tired now, and the wariness did not unnerve her, because she knew it was instinct to think suspiciously of a stranger dressed as she was.
A young man stepped forth, and he reminded her for a moment of someone—she did not know who, but she felt affection rolling in waves as she took in the familiar build of the boy, and the same kind of cheerful feeling.
"Are you in need of something?" he asked. His voice was polite and reassuring, with the slightest hint of an undertone that told her that he would drive her out within a moment's notice if she meant to do harm.
What was she supposed to say back? She felt no urges, no needs. But she did not know where she was or who she was or why she was here, and she told them so.
"And, you see," she added, softly, "I have nothing but the tunic I wear now."
There was a murmuring that passed through the village people. And then a young woman came forward to stand beside the young man, and she was led into a house by the cornfield with the boy and the young woman.
The young woman called herself Lana, and she was twenty-eight. The boy called himself Josh. He was seventeen. They told her they were siblings.
Lana asked, "What is your name, then?"
But she could not answer. She had no memory of herself at all.
"Don't worry," said Josh. "Your memories will return soon, I'm sure of it."
"You can stay here until they do," said Lana. "It won't be safe for a lady like you who can't remember a thing to be out in the world by yourself."
Lana gave her another tunic, and some pants and good boots, telling her to keep them as she no longer wore the tunic and the boots had become too small anyways. They fed her bread and juice, and when Josh went to the cornfields to do work, she went with him. He taught her how to do menial work, and she went up and down the rows of corn, tending to the tall crop.
The other children came to see her now, and they asked her many questions. She answered what she could, but the number was disappointingly low.
"Are you staying?" asked one of the little girls. She carried a rabbit delicately, and when answered with a "yes," the girl cheered and pushed the rabbit into her arms and ran into the village to spread the news.
The rabbit snuffled her arms, and she felt very secure in this little farming village.
Three days passed before she remembered her name. In the morning, she went into the kitchen to greet Lana and Josh, and as she swallowed down her broth, her eyes followed the swoop and call of the red-breasted birds through the window, and it came like lightning—sudden and sharp.
"I remember!" she sputtered, dropping her empty wooden bowl. She knew there had been a reason why the red-breasted birds had been so familiar.
Meanwhile, all consumption of food at the table ceased, and Lana and Josh looked at her with round eyes.
"My name," she continued excitedly. "I'm Robin."
It was silent, and then Josh laughed. He downed his last gulps of broth. "Nice to meet you, Robin," he said, and he shared a handshake. Lana, across the table, glowed at the announcement.
"Robin," she said softly. "It suits you."
And Robin, finally able to answer to her own name, smiled like the sun, and for the rest of the day she introduced herself to anyone she met just to hear her name again and again. It was like finally finding the other glove after agonizing hours of searching, and it fit so perfectly and snugly it was almost as if it was tailored for her and her alone.
The next day, Robin bought a blank notebook in celebration with the little pay she got from doing little chores around the village from the paper-makers by the forest, and she found that she knew how to write. She wrote her name in it, thrice.
Lana suggested she keep a diary. She started her first entry that very night.
Over the next few days, the memories began to come faster, and at random times. They were just names and perhaps a color or a little buzz, but there was nothing else. Robin wrote the names and colors in her diary, but she couldn't figure out the little buzz that came with some of them, so she left them out.
The name Morgan came one day, in the fields as she was walking towards Josh to ask him a question, and on the same day she got Lucina when her eye happened to catch Lana flick a strand of hair behind her ear. A day later there was Chrom, with a rush of blue and a strong buzz that made it feel like it wasn't just an ordinary name. Robin looked over her list very often. Sometimes she would sit and try to remember something other than just their names—what was their gender? What kind of food did they like? Had Robin been close to them? But she could never get anything more than a name.
She wondered one night, lying in bed after doing her daily odd-job routine, if the names she had gathered were even real people. The thought that they weren't made her very lonely, and she slept restlessly, dreaming of a war and of a great haunting dragon and invisible strings.
The day after her dreams, she found herself continuously reaching to her hip, as if going for a sword, whenever anyone approached her from behind. Her hands were itching, and her fingers tingled; she was very uncomfortable. It helped a little if she held her harvesting tool like a sword when she worked the corn, but her prickling fingers felt restless, and she was jumpy.
Several more days passed. The itching got worse, and the feeling that she should be looking for someone began to form. Her dreams became more and more vivid every night.
On the fifth day, a traveling tome salesman wandered through the village. He offered Robin a try on any of his wares, and though she had chores to do, the itching guided her hands to close around the handle of the jagged sword he held out to her. The itching was gone then, in just a moment. Her fingers continued to tingle, and then she swung the sword viciously. Electricity crackled up and down its pointed edges, and the tingling was cured.
The stack of wood in front of her split into halves from a meter away.
Robin's heart thrummed. Her lungs lost their wind. She gave the sword back to the salesman and meekly returned to Lana's house and did not emerge for dinner that night. Her sleep was fitful, and filled with blood and sweat and loss and tears and death. The memory of electricity coating her hand, of a single strike that pierced straight through the chest, of blue eyes going blank and dead by her hands, haunted her usual dreams of war, and when she woke hours before dawn in the midst of a rainstorm, she did not close her eyes again any longer than to blink.
Robin slept more soundly after that, and it was as if all of her restless dreaming was released in that one horrendous nightmare. She was no longer itching and tingling, but her peace of mind had been greatly disturbed—what if she was someone who could bring harm to this village? The sword had relaxed her somehow, and it made her uneasy.
There were no memories to aid her crisis. The blankness in her mind was cold and unnerving, and there was a chill of terror whenever she thought of the possibility of being someone awful, and there was nothing in her that could tell her yes or no.
Robin began to avoid contact with others. She did not want to hurt any residents of this little farming village that had graciously taken her in, lost and without knowledge. Lana was concerned, and Josh was very confused, and the children followed her around like ducks as they clamored for attention, but Robin couldn't bring herself to tell them anything. It felt, somehow, that it would only make the problem worse. So she did her chores, silently, and she did not participate in the daily chatter of the village people.
And so Robin's world became silent.
The villagers knew about the Sword Incident within a few days of its occurrence. The village people were tightly knit as a community, and what happens in town goes around fast as a wagon-wheel. Robin was unsure of how to feel about their whispers, and though she didn't understand them, she felt the pitying gazes of the people where there was once wariness, and then affection.
She knew the children were warned to be more cautious by the more paranoid ones, the older generation. But of course, the children continued to gather to her, and it was difficult to avoid. Robin remembered names and names and names whenever she looked at several of them in a certain way, and the notebook was growing thick with inked pages of names and colors and uncertain post-nightmare diary entries.
The names stopped coming, one day; the evening before, she had gotten Gaius from the sweet scent of red yams in the oven, and then the flow of memory was simply … cut off. There were fifty-four names in the notebook, and not quite fifty-four colors and associations, and now Robin's chest felt a strong longing that could only be explained as homesickness.
But where was this home she missed? Secure though she felt in the village, it was not a home, and it came to light that Robin did not know where she was in the world.
Robin decided, eventually, that she should leave the village. She began to gather money in preparation, little by little. The village was poor and pay was not high, and there weren't very many jobs available in the first place. It would take time, but Robin was unsure if she had any to spend on saving up, and the feeling of needing to find someone was solidifying the longer she stayed here to the point where it was nearly a desperation.
She was aware that at some point she would have to tell Lana and Josh of her plans, but that time, she deduced, would not be soon. Robin had very little to her name, and she budgeted and organized her planned spending. She had herself a set amount, as a minimum, and she would not breathe a word to them until she reached that minimum.
But it would take time. Robin figured if she did in fact run out of time, whenever that was, she could still work things out with her tiny, tiny pocket change. Even the weakest swords did not come cheap, however; Robin feared the worst, that when the time came, she would be without enough for a simple short sword for protection once she left.
It was something Lana had been insinuating on for quite a long time, since Robin had become reclusive: talk. Use your voice, and gather information at the very least. In the end, Robin adored the farming village far too much to continue to cause their pitying looks, and she began to interact again—sparingly so, regrettably. The doubts of her goodwill still remained, and the fear, but she figured that if she was to leave soon, she may as well walk with a better conscience than a guilt-ridden one.
The silence faded, slowly. But no names nor memories resurfaced, and conversation was harder to manage when her every word was choked with the fear of an unknown past. It was easier when she asked things rather than simply stated things in everyday chatter, and there was a growing insatiable need to know more and more as she asked about trivial things.
Robin began to carry her notebook around with her, and when she heard of something that would aid her later on, she noted it.
On the day a traveling merchant spoke of a place called Plegia, the memories began to come in once again. Plegia brought so many negative vibes that she was hesitant to write it in, but she did anyways, as if for later reference. The man had much to tell, and Robin's notebook became fuller and fuller. He was a boisterous man, and throughout his stay in the farming village Robin had not once seen him without his flask in one hand and tome in the other.
Robin asked him, as he prepared to leave the village, where he was headed from here. He laughed a deep belly laugh and replied, "Wherever the roads take me here in Ylisse, m'lady."
She was, in a sense of the word, drastically unprepared for what came with the word Ylisse. There was a surging feeling, a great swelling that filled the homesickness in her chest, and then Robin knew that she had to leave.
"So this is ... Ylisse?" The word tingled upon her tongue, and Robin cursed herself then, because somehow or another despite all her questions and all the time she spent here, she had failed to ask where in the world this tiny village lay on a map. And perhaps if she had, it would have saved her some uncertainty. Stupid, stupid!
Somewhere, deep inside, there was a voice that reprimanded her. You're off your game. This isn't like you. But Robin forced herself to ignore it, because she did not know if the voice was genuine. What was she like, then, if such a blunder was "off her game"?
Questions boiled in her suddenly like the kettle that Lana put over the fire. She felt the presence of a hole, beside her, but the person-shaped gap was unrecognizable, so she took her kettle of questions and put it aside for later. There were more important things to think of, now.
There was a map spread across the table, and Lana and Josh stood on either side of Robin. Her hands brushed the section labeled, in bold lettering, YLISSE (HALIDOM OF). The aged parchment felt familiar, somehow, though for the life of her she couldn't remember ever having seen nor held a map like this. Something in the curl of the rolled-up edges and in the dusty scent of travel that came off as a bit musty from disuse tickled at the edges of Robin's mind, and it made her think of candle-light and a gentle voice and … a plate of hot food, for a reason she was very confused about.
Lana placed a finger at the very edge of the bold line that marked the boundaries of the country called Ylisse. "This is where we are," she said. Her finger traced lines drawn from there to a large dot in the center, and tapped it. "This is the halidom's capital, Ylisstol."
Robin studied the locations she pointed out critically, and thought about the possible topography of the tiny lumps and peaks drawn to be hills and mountains and the blank spaces meant to be plains and fields and valleys.
"Father was drafted into the Knights' Order, a very long time ago," Josh added, noticing Robin's questioning eyes that followed the thinner squiggled lines that did not match the ink that the map was printed in. "He added those little trails when he traveled to the capital to answer his summons, and it came back along with his sword when he … when he couldn't make it home."
Lana laughed a little, then. "I think," she murmured quietly, patting the map affectionately, "that he wanted us to travel around, like he got to when he was in the Order. But I suppose that it's too late now—Mother's not here to take care of the fields anymore, so we haven't the time nor money to leave here." She was very quiet for a moment. And then, in a hushed sort of whisper, she spoke like a glass bubble. "Unlike you, Robin."
Robin pursed her lips and continued to stare at the map, but she wasn't really looking at it anymore. She became acutely aware of the hidden pocket of saved-up pay in her room, and of the lightning sword that had relaxed her, and of that insistent feeling that she must be searching for someone, and she said nothing for quite some time.
"But it's not like you're unable to," she said, at last, and when she turned to send a small little smile at the young woman who had offered a bed and food and work, she saw an unreadable face that was distant and yet so intimate at the same time.
Then Josh reached over and tenderly rolled the map again, and when he looked up and smiled a dry little smile Robin knew that they were, simply, unable to.
In the night, Robin dreamt, but the images were blurred and distorted and they faded, slowly, into a murky, silent, clouded sleep.
Robin woke like the rising sun that morning—slowly, and then all at once. She went down the hall in a thick haze, blinking fuzzy images from half-remembered dreams and shuffling her feet as she thought about breakfast and which morning chores she should do today. It was a daily routine for her, at this point; it had been quite some time past a month that she had been living with the kind siblings who cared for the cornfields.
Lana was there, waiting in the kitchen. This was not an odd occurrence. But she was not busy with the stove, or with other things she had to do, and in her arms there was the map they had shown Robin after she'd asked, and on the table there lay a sword emblazoned with an insignia that was so familiar that Robin had to blink several times to get the image off her mind. From the window she could hear the sounds of menial work, and the sounds of tools in the dirt, and she knew Josh was awake and tending the fields as he was every morning.
A young robin fluttered onto the windowsill, where Lana had put breadcrumbs, and spoke sweetly; it ate up its fill and sang its thanks before it left. Lana watched this happen with gentle eyes, and when Robin's lungs swelled with a yawn she turned, and set the map onto the table.
"Good morning," she said. There was no trace of the glass-bubble tone she had used the day before, and was instead pleasant and resigned. "You're leaving soon, aren't you, Robin?"
Robin was silent, and when Lana's words registered at last, she failed to mask her surprise. She couldn't deny it, because she was, after all, and she could never lie to someone like Lana, anyways. So she nodded, slowly.
Lana hummed, and there was a small little sadness there. "I figured as much," she said. "I knew the moment you began regaining memories that you'd leave someday."
Robin felt a small crack beginning to wedge its way through her chest, but still she kept her silence. And Lana waved her closer, and told her to seat herself, and only when Robin had made herself comfortable on her usual seat at the foot of the table did Lana join her at her usual spot at the head.
There was no sound for a long moment. The noises of work that Josh had been making in the fields had stopped, and then there was the stomp of work boots and then Josh was in the doorway, clutching the rake tight like a weapon. His face was a stone, kind of hurt and looking really put out, and Robin saw a ringing sort of relief hidden inside.
"You said you were gonna wait till after breakfast," he said softly, speaking only to his sister. Lana bit her lip and fiddled with the ends of her hair nervously.
"How did you know I was going to do it now?"
"Gut feeling."
There was another silence, which Lana broke with a sigh.
"Sit with us, Josh," she said. "I know what I said, but … just, please, Josh."
Josh continued to stand. And he looked over at Robin, who was very close to putting two and two together, and then he put his rake aside and sat at his usual spot to the left of Robin. Lana gave him a quiet little smile, just a little hint of wryness, and just like that Josh looked away and crossed his arms over the tabletop. But he no longer had a face of stone, and Robin felt a rush of calm.
Lana laid a hand over the sword that stretched across the small wooden table. She pushed it, slowly, affectionately, gently, until it reached the halfway point, and then stopped.
"It's our father's old sword," she said, and then Robin's mind clicked and put two and two together and came up with five.
But not a word left her lips. She kept her eyes fixed upon the sword and revealed nothing.
Josh was restless, and he tapped his fingers along his bare arms. "Well? You taking it or not?"
Robin reached out and unsheathed the sword as slowly as she could manage. The insignia burned in her eyes, as it had when she'd first seen it from the hallway. It was there, on the hilt of the old blade as well as on its scabbard, and its significance was not lost on her.
"This mark," she murmured, running gentle fingers over its shape. "What is it?"
"It's the Brand of the Exalt," Lana replied, calmly and coolly. "The Order functions under the Exalt's instruction, so all their weaponry carries the Brand."
Robin's mouth felt dry. "Who … who's the current Exalt?"
Josh tipped his head, as if trying to remember. "Uh … currently, it's Lord Chrom, but Father was drafted back before Lady Emmeryn's time, Naga rest her soul ..."
Every kind of internal alarm possible went ringing off like crazy the moment the name Chrom left Josh's mouth, and suddenly Robin was on her feet with the Branded sword clutched tight like a lifeline. She felt her hands shaking, and in her mind she felt a warm presence swaddling her, another hand reaching to sweep her long, pale hair behind her ear, the quiet breath of sleep in her ear in the night, someone lovingly taking her hair and pulling it back into a ponytail as she worked into early morning hours. In her mind there was a voice calling to her, and it made her heart jump like nothing else did, and there was a swelling happiness that spilled over and made Robin drop the blade in shock.
Lana and Josh stood so quickly their chairs clattered to the floor, and looked through cautious eyes trained on her trembling form. Robin felt the concern and confusion radiating from them like the heat of the sun, but she did nothing to console them because she was unsure whether she herself was, in fact, okay.
"Chrom," she said softly, and her heart fluttered.
Robin knew it was time to go. Everything from the electric feeling she got when touching the Branded sword to the way her heart ached when she heard the town's musician play the lyre atop his little soap box told her so; they pointed her away from this little village, this little farmer's hut beside the cornfields, but she knew not where, exactly, they pointed.
"The sword is for you," said Lana. Robin had never heard such a warm sound in the several weeks she had lived in comfort with these siblings, and given their kindred personalities, that was really saying something.
Josh tilted his head downwards, shading his eyes with the fringe he used to curse at when it flopped into his vision. "The map. Take the map. Also." He waved his hand at it without looking up, and lowered his arm to cover his mouth.
Robin suspected he was crying. The name Brady came to mind, but nothing else. But it was not a new name; it had been the forty-third name she had put into her book. She had gotten it when one of the children showed her a little daisy growing by itself at the edge of the road. The flower had seemed somehow relevant, so she had made note of it.
"You remind me of someone," she told Josh fondly. And she said nothing else. She gathered the map and the sword and made to return to her room, but did not move from that spot. She wanted to say thank you, but there was no way to convey the magnitude of those words to these siblings who heard them every day. But she said so anyways, vehemently, and received genuine smiles in return.
It was not enough.