II: Chrysalides
The next time he sees her, she's standing outside his makeshift office, leaning heavily on an oak cane. Her chest and shoulder are still bound in linen dressing, her uniform coat draped over her shoulders, hanging open and unlaced. Robin tries to keep his eyes from straying down to her bared collarbone as he steps out. Subconsciously his hand drifts to his shoulder, newly mended from that morning's session with Maribelle, and he curses himself for not brushing his hair since the battle.
"They let you back up?"
She nods, the very movement seeming to drain her vitality, "Just for a bit. I need to be back in bed in half an hour."
He considers her. For a brief moment he entertains the idea of sending her away, as if more time in that room will help her mend. He stands aside, lifting the flap of his tent out of the way to let her enter. She sinks gratefully down on his cot, setting her walking stick on his pillow.
"Have you seen the prince?" she asks.
He shakes his head, shrugging off his coat and draping it over the back of his chair, "He hasn't left his tent since we returned yesterday. Not since he beat Mustafa half to death," at her puzzled look, he clarifies, "A Plegian general we ran across as we retreated, one who took Emmeryn's sacrifice to heart. Chrom…didn't listen well. Challenged him to single-combat, nearly killed him…Sumia held him back."
"Sumia?" a pale eyebrow rises, a new question in mind.
"I know, right?" he favors her with a tired smile, "She's so earnest in her affections. Chrom doesn't stand a chance."
"If we all survive this, you mean."
His smile doesn't falter as he runs his fingers through his hair, "Don't be concerned. I'm not a tactician for nothing."
Her eyes are trained on the ground, fingers twisted in the hem of her coat, "With the prince grieving, and Princess Lissa exhausted as she is, that means—"
"Yeah," Robin nods, "Until I can get the brick I call my best friend to move, I am in command." He wonders idly if this could be considered a coup d'état, but her slight giggle at his words at least suggests that the thought hasn't crossed her mind.
She looks up, meeting those golden eyes, and reaches for her cane, "You've more than proven yourself, Tactician. For what little it means, you have my support."
She tries to rise to her feet, bracing her weight on the oak, but her strength fails her and she sinks back down with a soft grunt of frustration. Robin crosses the tent in a moment, kneeling at her uninjured side.
"It means a great deal to me, Lady Phila. Here, let me help you," he says, offering his shoulder.
She hesitates for a brief moment, eyes flicking back down to the floor, "Phila."
"I'm sorry?"
"Call me Phila," she repeats, draping her undressed arm over his shoulder, "None of this 'lady' nonsense."
He smiles, reaching up to tug her uniform coat more securely over her shoulders as he gingerly stands and bears her weight. He's stooped a bit, to accommodate her shorter frame, but they manage to hobble toward the door.
"Are you alright?" she asks softly, "You shouldn't overtax your shoulder, even if it was healed."
"Don't worry, you're not nearly as heavy without all that damned armor. And a might bit softer, too."
Oh, Naga above, he should not have said that.
She stiffens slightly, cheeks coloring at his words, "I'll be frank: the last man who called me soft ended up flat on his back with my boot in his gut." He lets out a nervous chuckle at that, the tension seeming to flow from her into him, but instead she gives him a small smile.
"Given that you broke my fall, quite literally," she goes on, "I think I can make an exception."
By the time he walks her back into the medical ward, the color in his cheeks has yet to subside. When he returns to his tent, he buries himself in work and tries to forget those umber-red eyes.
