AN: Sorry about the wait, I've been busy with finals and working on some SWTOR fics.
The second section of this chapter will be familiar to those of you who've read the original fic, but there's a lot of new writing after it (I know I personally sometimes skim through rewrites if the writing's familiar). I've been experimenting with short flashback snippets. Any feedback is welcome!
:: Small Revelations ::
Chrom leaned forward as far as propriety allowed, frowning down at the masked swordsman standing on the far side of the arena floor. Now that they were out of the dark forest he could see that Marth was unexpectedly skinny, looking almost malnourished despite his prowess in battle. The sword he carried looked inordinately large, almost like...
...wait.
Chrom rubbed his eyes and turned to the nearest Shepherd.
"Robin, look at Marth's sword. Is it just me, or...?"
"Marth's sword?" Robin squinted at the swordsman, tilting his head this way and that to get a better angle as he tried to see the sword sheathed on Marth's other side. "Um. I'm not sure what you're talking about... I guess it looks a bit bulky for him. I'm surprised he can wield it as well as he can, though it does explain all the decimated trees we saw after that battle."
"The trees? Are you talking about the ones destroyed by the flames?"
"No, unless the flames suddenly turned into swords - though I wouldn't be surprised if that happened, all things considered." Robin looked thoughtful. "There were trees damaged by what looked like a very large sword, all in the general area of where Marth was fighting. I assumed he was unused to fighting in such a dense forest."
Chrom had always hated fighting in small spaces; as a child still learning to wield Falchion he'd decimated entire sections of the forests around Ylisstol before finally mastering some more streamlined techniques.
He shook his head. It wasn't like this was a problem unique to Falchion and there were plenty of large, bulky swords out there. Most likely Marth's sword simply had a similar shape and that combined with the distance and the arena's dim lighting was playing tricks on Chrom's eyes.
Marth slowly began to circle around the arena, sword still sheathed as he watched his opponent. Khan Basilio's champion was a tall swordsman with dark, spiky hair and an unusually slim sword; he matched Marth's movements step for step, face set in an impassive expression.
They'd moved across about a quarter of the stage before Marth reached for his sword. His hand had barely landed on the hilt when his opponent jumped into action, quickly closing the distance between them while drawing his own sword in a fluid movement. Within seconds he was in front of Marth, sword arching up towards the masked man's neck.
Marth was fast; he yanked out his sword just in time to block the swing and leaned back, bracing himself on one leg to absorb the blow. Basilio's champion froze, staring at something on Marth's chest, and Marth took advantage of the distraction to push him away with a flurry of very familiar-looking blows.
Chrom kicked propriety out the window and leaned forward as far as possible, hands tightening on the railing in front of him until his knuckles turned white. Dimly he could hear his Shepherds muttering in confusion, and even the armored Feroxi knight who'd fought him at the gate turned to give him a surprised look.
Like many noble families with ancestral weapons passed from generation to generation, Ylisse's royal family had a very unique fighting style made all the more recognizable by Falchion's special properties. The previous exalt had died before Chrom was old enough to be taught anything more than the very basics so Chrom had cobbled together the rest of his techniques using a mixture of mainstream fighting styles, his trainers' memories, and his own trials and errors. He was quite literally the only person who'd ever fought the way he did.
Or so he thought.
"I see it now," Robin muttered. "Isn't Falchion...?"
"Supposed to be the only one of its kind?" Chrom frowned down at the all-too-familiar blade in Marth's hands. "Yeah. It is."
Validar had just settled down with a treatise on shadows in the human mind when there was a swift knock at his door. Really, he'd dismissed the hired hands with explicit instructions to not contact him until he sent them a sign. One would think that having their pick of Ylisse's treasures - not to mention the sizable amount of gold already paid to them by Plegia - would inspire these common criminals to perfect obedience. Humans were truly the most unreliable of creatures.
"Enter," he said as he carefully closed his book, not wanting to get blood on the pages in the event that a...firmer form of discipline was required. The door creaked open and Validar raised an eyebrow as Rhett, the one Grimleal among those he'd brought, slipped in and dropped into a shaky bow. Before he could open his mouth, however, another young man stepped inside and closed the door with a soft click.
The stranger lowered his hood and Validar stared, for once at a loss for words.
"You are...Robin, am I correct?" He fought to keep his voice impassive, but it was difficult to control his rising excitement. Though he had managed to find his son not long after that woman fled, he had been too occupied with the Grimleal and the war to do much more than keep an eye on the orphanage. It was something he'd come to regret as Robin grew up and disappeared from his sight; he'd had no clue of the boy's whereabouts for the past few years.
Truly the fates smiled upon him!
"...I am Robin," the boy said in a quiet voice that made Validar's hair stand on end. "But he is not me."
A pulse of magic emanated from Validar's pocket; with a gasp he quickly retrieved his prized possession from the depths of his robes, taking out the signature tome of the Grimleal's leader. Rhett dropped to his knees and clasped his hands; Validar resisted the urge to do the same as he reverently cradled the slim book while the boy - the boy who was so much more - simply stood there with an impassive expression.
The tome was the treasure of the Grimleal, a priceless artifact passed down from generation to generation. It could only be wielded by those who held the favor of Grima, yet the Fell Dragon's slumber meant none had been able to read it in over a thousand years. It was essentially the crown of the Grimleal's leader, an object important for symbolic reasons yet lacking a practical use...until now.
Validar watched rapturously as the eyes of Grima emblazoned on the cover glowed with an unworldly light and instinctively knew he could now read the once indecipherable words within its pages at leisure. Grima's Truth, the tome written and blessed by the Fell Dragon himself, was alive once more.
The light faded and suddenly the world appeared dull, the furniture faded and the sunlight weak. Validar kept a tight grip on the tome as he stood and bowed as low as he could.
"I will uphold your promise," he vowed, reverently tracing the tome's spine and feeling the ancient magic thrum beneath his fingers. "This I solemnly swear as leader of the Grimleal and your humble servant."
"There is no need to bow."
Validar hastily straightened up. His god gave him an unreadable look before drawing out two chairs and pushing one of them in Rhett's direction.
"There is much I have to tell you," Grima said as he sat down, motioning for them to do the same. Rhett all but threw himself into the offered chair while Validar hastened back to his seat and leaned forward, trying not to appear too eager but not caring if he failed.
"I will start at the beginning. How much do you know about the tome you hold?"
"Do you know anything about Plegia's new king, Validar?" Chrom asked as they traveled through the desert. "I've heard he's long been a powerful figure, perhaps even served as Gangrel's personal adviser."
"Validar?" The name was vaguely familiar; Robin remembered hearing it a few times during his travels before meeting Chrom. "I believe he's the head of the Grimleal, though I don't recall him being particularly active in politics. Most Plegians worship Grima so it's possible they wanted a familiar, trustworthy face after all the chaos and he was the natural choice."
"A religious leader, hm?" Chrom looked thoughtful. "Perhaps he'll be more open-minded than his predecessor."
...
...
...
"And you must be Sir Robin!" Validar smiled, a flash of startlingly white teeth against his sorcery-darkened skin. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Do you know me, Sire?"
"There are few Plegians who don't know of Ylisse's masterful tactician," the king chuckled. "Rest assured neither I nor my generals hold a grudge against you for the war. We are merely disappointed you had to see your homeland in such a light. Perhaps with time we may redeem ourselves..."
...
...
...
"Plegia is proud to claim a long, proud history of the dark arts. Grima's Truth is one of our sacred treasures, our 'Falchion' if you will. In a show of our goodwill I offer it to you, Sir Robin."
"W-what... I... I can't accept this, Sire."
"What good are the greatest tools if they are not used? It's said that this tome was written by Grima himself. To have the words of the Fell Dragon fighting side-by-side with the fang of the Divine... is it not a marvelous thought?"
"Sire, I-"
"Even if you refuse to use it in battle, I believe you'd enjoy the contents of its pages. It's said that Grima was highly skilled in the art of warfare; perhaps you can learn something."
"I..."
"I insist. You may return it after the war has ended."
...
...
...
"Robin, dinner's ready. Robin?"
"Hm? Oh, I'll be right there!"
"I've been calling you for a while. Is everything alright?"
"I've just been reading the tome Validar gave me. He said it was written by Grima and honestly, I believe it. Some of the stuff in here is fascinating."
"That's really interesting! What language is it written in?"
"What do you mean? The words are a bit archaic but they're not in another language."
"Huh? Robin, I can't read this at all."
Robin waited until Grima had left the hotel far behind them before speaking up.
"What you said in there... was it true?"
"I said many things in there," Grima's dispassionate voice drifted up inside their shared head. "You'll have to elaborate."
"What you said about your tome, about the seal and the curse of the Dragon Tribes... is it all true?"
There was a long moment of silence. Then...
"How long have you known me, Robin? Ten years? Perhaps more?"
"That sounds about right."
"Have you ever known me to lie?"
"...asks the time-traveling mutant dragon who's currently pretending to be the human twin of the guy whose body he stole."
There was a soft huff of laughter. "Fair enough. But know that to my servants, and to you, I will speak nothing but the truth."
"Oh, am I one of your servants, then?"
"You are Grima."
"So what you're saying is that you've taken over your own body and locked yourself away in your own head."
"Indeed."
"I was being sarcastic."
"As was I."