Thrumming, drumming, running madness. Sweet and salty delight. Rushing, crushing, hushing sadness. Timid and tipsy fright.
Round and round and round it went.
And no one was the wiser.
One and two and three they go.
And they were none the wiser.
It wasn't like having another personality. It wasn't like that at all. He didn't think? He supposed not.
He was Grima. Grima was him.
But Grima was also Robin.
And Grima was also Grima.
Round and round and round they go.
And none of them could stop it.
Morgan supposed he regretted it. Or Grima regretted it. One of them regretted it. All of them regretted it. This whole host thing? It was torture. They hurt. Grima hurt. But they had to be stronger, the strongest, they had to be, so there was no sadness there, only vague, tickling pain. For Robin, there was nothing. She'd died. Her soul was no longer really mingled within them, but her presence sang with every thrum of a thought, and she was there, somehow, even if she wasn't. For Morgan…
For Morgan, living was a nightmare.
He heard Grima inside him, or… or maybe now it was him inside Grima. He didn't know. Everything was tipsy. Topsy turvy. The world was all feathers and blood. Red and tainted. Soft and sloppy. He didn't know anymore.
It was only when Nah appeared that he truly felt like himself.
And he was convinced she wasn't even real.
"Morgan…" She was standing in the corner, a good distance away from him as he peered at his mirror, touching his cheek, prodding it gently. Where did the eyes go? His other eyes? "Morgan, you're… different."
"Yes," he admitted. He let his fingers linger on his skin. He didn't really feel it, but he knew it should be warm. He rubbed his fingers together, hoping the friction would allow him to feel something, but no. Nothing. He stared at his open palm, flexing his fingers and frowning deeply. "Nah? Is this normal?"
"Is what normal?"
As she drifted closer, he could sense her gentle presence, and it washed over him like a cold press against feverish skin. He wanted to lean into that sensation, lean into her, let her pull all the bad out of him and bring him to peace. He'd do anything to just let her fix him, make him whole again. He stared into her face, round and soft looking, rosy cheeks and large eyes, and he was half in love with her all over again.
Grima was too.
That was the funny bit. They couldn't really differentiate now. So as Morgan loved Nah, so did Grima.
But equally… as much as he wanted to press his lips to her pallid throat, he'd love to just… tear it open… to drag his lips across that tender flesh and use his teeth to rip through the papery layers and let the blood and sinew dribble and dangle from his lips.
Not that he'd be able to feel it. Not that there was any blood left.
He licked his lips, turning his eyes from her throat to her eyes. They were narrowed at him.
Oh, she knew exactly what he was thinking.
He smiled at her weakly. "I can't feel anything," he said as casually as he could. He wanted it to be nonchalant. Yeah, so he'd lost his sense of touch. No big deal!
"What else is new?" she asked him coldly.
"Ouch," he cooed, straightening up. "Sounds like someone's bitter."
"Grima's stronger in you now," she spat. "You shouldn't have tried to kill yourself Morgan. You may have already lost."
"There was no fight, Nah," he said innocently.
"Of course there was!" She looked so angry. Her little face pinched up, and her teeth bared at him. It was almost as if she was real. "You just gave up. I can't believe you gave up, Morgan. You're stronger than that, and you know it!"
"If I was stronger than that," he said softly, "you'd still be alive."
She looked surprised. How did a dead girl look surprised?
He wanted to cry, but he hadn't the tears.
She took a step back. He took a step forward. Whenever she was around, everything felt better, and he wasn't as muddled. She was a beacon. Beautiful and blessed. He was drawn to her because she was light, and he was completely shrouded in darkness. But she wasn't real. And he was breaking.
"That's…" She couldn't deny it. She knew it to be true. "Morgan… there are just some things you can't change."
"I didn't want you to die," he whispered. "I don't want anyone to die. Except maybe me. But I can't die. I tried. Nah…" He stared into her face, which was absolutely stunned. "You should have killed me before I could kill you."
"I just wanted to save you, Morgan."
"Look how much good that did us," he snapped, turning his face away. "You should have killed me. I want to die."
"Don't say that…" Her voice was swimming in his head, light and airy, blowing away the hiss of Grima. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to fall into her arms and cry and repent. "You seem better now. Do you want to talk about it?"
"What is there to talk about?"
She scowled. It was so funny. She was so stern, even now. He smiled at her, and it felt misplaced on his cheeks. He resisted the urge to touch his lips to be sure he was actually smiling. It wouldn't help. He wouldn't feel it.
"You're infuriating," she huffed. "Grima, Morgan! Do you want to talk about how Grima controls you?"
"I am Grima," Morgan said absently.
"They've convinced you that's true," she said heatedly, moving forward. The presence, that cool healing air that wafted toward him, grew stronger, and he was overwhelmed with the sensation. He swayed as she came closer. "You are very much your own entity, Morgan. You can live without Grima. Grima can live without you. You are not the same."
"But we are."
"But you're not!" She reached out, and her cool hands cupped his cheeks. That he felt. He shuddered, her fingers prickling his skin and sending chills down his spine, his heartbeat accelerating, his eyes widening. It was so real. It was the sensation of her presence but amplified, pulsing through his skin and melting through him. He stared down into her eyes, and for a moment he was convinced that she was real.
"You're dead," he whispered, tears burning his eyes. "What do you know?"
"I know you," she said. "Isn't that enough?"
"Not really. You're not really real, so…" Morgan leaned into her touch. It was so relieving to feel something. So utterly… utterly relieving…
She stared up at him, and he felt the heat of her gaze. His mind was swimming with the cool sway of her presence and the burning of Grima toiling within him, gnawing at his thoughts and emotions and preying on his love and fear.
"You don't think I'm real?"
"You're dead," he answered simply.
"But that doesn't mean I'm not real." She held his face firmly in her hands, beginning to stroke his cheekbone with her thumb. "You said you can't feel anything. Can you feel this?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"Then I must be real."
He shook his head. He had to keep shaking it. Tears were clouding his vision, and his body was shaking, and his mind was slowly flipping, a hot mist bubbling up within the catacombs of his thoughts, muddling his remaining senses. He shook his head. He could feel her cold fingertips, and he wanted to scream, because if she was real… if she was real…
"No," he croaked. "You can't be real."
"Why not?" she demanded. "What's so bad about that? You can't really hurt me any more than you already have, Morgan. You realize that, right?"
"No!" He stumbled back, balking at her words, balking at her touch, rejecting all senses and sensations, because his head and his heart were not aligning and the words she spoke made sense to only half of him. "Stop! Don't say that!"
"Say what?" Her voice drifted toward him, but he hardly heard. He buried his head in his hands. He was shaking so badly, and Grima shuddered. Oh, he wanted to tear her fucking tongue out. Oh, he wanted to cry and let her kiss his tears. "That I'm real?"
"Yes!" He took a deep breath, dragging his nails across his skin, wishing to feel the pain of his flesh tearing, but understanding that he had probably lost that ability forever. "What… what are you doing to me? Why do I feel so bad?"
"That's Grima," she replied, "not me."
"No, it's you, I can tell!"
"You make no sense," she snapped. He moaned, sinking to his knees. "Gods, you're pathetic. Stop succumbing to it. You're only making it worse on yourself."
"Stop!" He gasped, shaking his head furiously, cupping his ears and digging his fingers into his scalp. "Stop telling me what to do! Leave me alone!"
"I can't."
He could see only red. He took a deep breath, his bones shifting and quaking as he lurched upright, his knees wobbling and his eyes aflame. He looked at her, and he tasted the sweet haze of warmth as blood pooled in his mouth and ran thickly down his throat. He was drunk on the memory of her father, of her mother, of that glorious day when he'd taken them and gnawed away at them, lovingly and loathingly, just simply ripping apart the very essence of them. He looked into her face, and he saw her father, his eyes cloudy with pain and resignation as death crept up slow, and he'd done nothing to speed up the process.
He stumbled toward her and grabbed her by the neck. His fingers latched upon her throat, her skin marble-like and frigid, stinging the pads of his thumb as he caressed the contour of her jaw.
"I should kill you again," he whispered giddily. His eyes, all six of them, flickered greedily along her face. She stared up at him, her expression eerily serene. He wished he'd made a mess of her, ripped her open and let her scream as she bled out. They wished they'd done more to make her suffer. Knowing now that this was her fate, that they'd triggered this beautiful, sickening thing, they wished they'd made it worth their while.
"You can't," Nah said flatly. "Sorry. I know that must really piss you off."
"Oh, don't think you're beyond my reach just yet!" They were electrified and torn. Love was burning in their eyes, love for this girl that could not be quelled, but all the same a primal hatred was freezing through them, and they could not quite fathom the dichotomy, could not quite fathom their own nature. Now, Grima supposed, they were regretting it. This human was a mess of bloodlines, and as their blood and mind belonged to Grima, they could feel their heart beating for Naga. Naga's thoughts and Naga's tears and Naga's fears and Naga's very own Voice.
"Let Morgan go," she said softly, raising her hand to their cheek. She thumbed away a stray tear that had appeared in one of their many eyes, and he tightened his grip on her throat until her eyes widened a bit in pain.
"I am Morgan," they laughed, more tears gathering, their red tinted vision growing bleary. "Can't you see that? I can't stop being Morgan just because you hate this part of me. You know I hate you too."
"I think you do," she whispered, her eyes narrowing. "But you can't really completely hate me. Because you chose Morgan. You idiot."
They wanted to throw her to the ground and crush her windpipe. But their fingers trembled at her neck, and the tears were falling steadily, and they realized that what had worked once could not work again. Their lips trembled.
"I have another body," they reasoned.
"Like I would show myself to Robin," she laughed, a wispy little chuckle that made him weak and frightened. Morgan. Not them. Oh, Morgan loved this girl. Oh, Grima loathed this girl. Oh, they were so… so out of touch with reality now. She couldn't really muddle their plans, could she? She wasn't that strong.
"Then," they reasoned once more, leaning close, savoring in the chill of her flesh, not knowing if they'd ever get this opportunity again, "how can I make you suffer?"
She stared up at them. He was so giddy with these revelations, giddy with the humanity of Morgan and giddy with the cruelty of Grima and giddy with this overwhelmingly pure presence of hers. Ah! They'd nearly forgotten how Naga's presence truly felt. They were exhilarated. Her very essence was scraping through their lungs as they breathed, and they could almost taste her, all almost divine and all almost dead.
"If you truly are Morgan," she said brightly, "how willing are you to die?"
They laughed in her face. They had to remember that she loved Morgan, and that this… was not hurting her. This was not intimidating her. She might even be enjoying it.
That was sickening.
"Tried the suicide thing, remember?" They grinned, resting their forehead against hers and letting their eyes dig holes into her, forceful and direct. She blinked profusely. Yes, this was working. "Oh… I think I know exactly what'll hurt you."
She looked suddenly wary. As though she was truly comprehending what was before her, as if she was finally getting it. She was in love with Grima, and that could not change. They dug their fingers into her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her choke.
"Let's go back," they said gleefully, their nose bumping against hers, "to a world with just you and me. Shall we?"
Her eyes widened.
Round and round and round they went.
And no one was the wiser.
"Wait…" she uttered faintly. They squeezed her neck tighter, rubbing their nose against hers and laughing joyfully.
"Yes, I think that's just what I'll do!" They saw the tears in her eyes, and part of him felt guilty. "I think I've finished this stint at politics. No more. I'll pick off the stragglers and put it all to torch!"
"No…"
"Yes!" They clenched her throat until she was forced to disperse, bursting into a pale green haze, like the mist over a sea. They stared at the place where she'd been, their fingers twitching at the air. "It's long past time that this world ended."
"She is… very small."
That was all Say'ri could say when they arrived back at the shrine that was Nah's corpse. Nothing had changed. Whatever Morgan had done, it stuck. She was untouchable.
"Yeah," Brady drawled. "Well, she was y'know, like a toddler in manakete years so…"
Say'ri drew closer to the shrine, but Owain immediately yanked her back. Sunlight was beating down on them, and Cynthia felt as though she was baking in her armor. There was no breeze to cool her, and she kicked at the long grass and glanced at Noire. She had not spoken since she'd awoken from the small coma that using magic had put her in. Now she was simply standing and staring at Nah.
Cynthia didn't want to be here. The air tasted thin and it made her feel lightheaded and small. Nah's flowery grave sat like a tumor in a place meant for worship, a dark bubble without air or life. When Cynthia glanced at her, she looked so at peace, her little body slumped casually between the grooves of the broad tree trunk. Flowers and sunlight bathed her, turning her auburn hair alight like live copper wires, and as Cynthia stared she realized that this was it for Nah. This girl, this little clever friend of hers, she had been meant for more than this sad little fate. Dead before her life even really began.
Nah and Yarne… and Gerome too… Gerome too…
She didn't want to cry. She had to be strong. She was a leader! She had to be strong!
But everything was looking so bleak, and just seeing Nah's serene little face peeking out beneath the trimmings of flowers made Cynthia sick.
The scent of flowers made her sick.
"Mother, mother!" There were frames in her memory, like a faded painting left to rot away in an airless, lightless room, and there her mother stood with her back always facing her, strong and straight and striking. If Cynthia got close enough, the scent of flower petals, something like tulips or roses wafted toward her and floated around her head. A heavy aroma that pervaded her nostrils and tickled the back of her throat. It made her dizzy and giddy. "Mother, read my fortune! Mother!"
Now the scent made her stomach turn. It burned her nostrils and scraped at the back of her throat.
Flower petals made her dizzy and nauseous.
She hated feeling so awful. She hated that even this small, peaceful part of her mother had been tainted by Grima.
"Say'ri," Cynthia called, jogging up to the swordmaster, bouncing on her feet in spite of the rotten feeling that clung to the pit of her stomach, and clenching knot of festering emotions. Bad vibes clumping together, lumps of guilt and grief clogging her vitals. She ignored it. "I know… I know that Lady Tiki meant a lot to you but… I still don't get it. Why did Nah become the Voice?"
Say'ri had been overwhelmingly quiet on their journey back here. Everyone had been, in fact. No one really wanted to admit how terrible things were going. The weight of the deaths of their comrades and enemies were falling upon them, clouding their vision with overwhelming guilt. Gerome and Yarne. How could they really be dead? And Nah? Her body was only meters away, and yet Cynthia could scarcely bring herself to admit that her friend was truly gone.
"I was not informed of the details," Say'ri said softly. She was staring at Nah's pretty little corpse, her shoulders sagging. Cynthia had so much to ask. About her mother and father, about Lady Tiki, about the war. But the words were stuck inside her throat, caught between the tickle of roses and the burning of tulips. "Lady Tiki only… well, frankly, she was never quite clear when she spoke. As wise as she was, she could also be an infuriating tease."
"I think that must be a manakete thing," Cynthia laughed softly, her eyes trailing sadly to Nah's face. "Nah could act kinda like a little kid sometimes!"
"Cynthia," Say'ri said, raising her dark, jaded eyes and setting her mouth so the scars upon her cheek twitched mildly. "She was a child. You all are still children. And it saddens me that you must bear such hardships."
"We'll manage," Cynthia said weakly. In another place, in another time, she may have exclaimed it with gusto, spouted it as a fact. But here and now it was just a soft spoken lie that she needed to cling to in order to keep together.
"Fie," Say'ri murmured. "If I believed that, do you think I would be here?"
It was a little bit of a blow to her ego. She couldn't deny it.
"Well we came all the way back here for you, Miss Say'ri," Cynthia said stiffly. "So I mean, if you can offer up any guidance at all, that would be great."
"Aye. We may soon leave. I only wished to see her with my own eyes, to see the girl Tiki chose as her successor." Say'ri turned to face Nah, her expression crumpling. "And I find myself even sadder than before."
Cynthia's heart stung with guilt, and she touched the woman's shoulder gingerly. "I'm sorry," she said earnestly. "I'm sad too. All the time, really. But we can't let that stop us from moving forward!" She clenched her fist at her side, and took a deep breath. "I want to make Nah's death mean something! I want to make sure that this world is free from Grima, and I'll do anything to make that happen, so please, please, please, Say'ri, tell me what you know!"
The woman looked down at her, startled a bit it seemed by how loud Cynthia was. And then her shock melted into a strange sort of fondness, her scarred face softening considerably, and she smiled. She touched Cynthia's cheek, her callused thumb sliding to her chin.
"You are very much like your mother," she said finally.
Cynthia's heart stuttered a bit. A peculiar warmth filled her, expanding within her like a balloon, and she bit her tongue to keep from giggling madly. Her? Like her mother? Oh. Oh! That was just the best thing. The best thing Say'ri could have possibly said to her.
She flushed with satisfaction.
"Thank you," she said, her voice weak from giddiness. "Thank you very much!"
Say'ri laughed a bit. It was a strange, throaty sound. "Oh," she murmured, dropping her hand. "I forgot how nice it feels to laugh. You are lovely company, Cynthia. But I am afraid I haven't the information to satisfy you."
"Nothing?" Cynthia croaked.
"Not of particular use," Say'ri admitted sadly. "I understand about as much of this manakete business as you, I expect. Lady Tiki could be irrationally cryptic. So here I am." She waved to the pretty, flowery corpse, whose childlike face glowed in the bath of sunlight that dribbled from between the lazing clouds. "Picking at decade old scabs, opening old wounds, and one can only hope I spill a clue or two along the way. I haven't the faintest, Cynthia. Nah was certainly the Voice, but now that she is dead? I often wonder if the Voice even exists any longer." She stared forlornly at the brilliant shrine. "After all, the race of manaketes seem to be lost forever."
Cynthia wanted to say something, to object and say that there had to be hope, that there had to be some manaketes left, but it was a heavy blow to understand that there was no hoping, and that the truth had been delivered to her frankly.
Manaketes and taguel were extinct.
And humans were next.
Owain announced that it was about time to move on. Cynthia's heart had sunk too low to care. She stole one last glance at Nah before mounting her Pegasus. This girl who had loved too much, who had loved Morgan until her last, who had tried and tried and tried but could not fix this mess of a world on her own. Tears burned Cynthia's eyes, and she could not take another day of this crippling sadness.
She could not take anymore of this. Of everyone she loved dropping away, bleeding out and falling apart. Death was just too final. She needed more time to love them. To let them know they were loved.
It just wasn't fair.
Her father had told her once that it was okay to lose sometimes. That everyone lost a little, and it was up to her to gain a lot. His words rung in her mind, his smooth face and narrowed eyes, his lazy smile as he ruffled her hair and mocked her, calling her an assortment of awful pet names.
She thought about him as they moved on. Hopped from barren wasteland to barren wasteland. The only saving grace was Say'ri and her stories. Noire didn't really talk anymore, and Owain had no cheer left to sustain them, and Brady could hardly look anyone in the eye, and Inigo did nothing but thumb through that damn book of his, and Kjelle… Kjelle was unchanged. Steadfast as ever. So yeah. Cynthia really did cherish Say'ri's stories.
They were making their way back to Ylisse through Feroxi lands. They figured the less time they spent near Plegia, the better. When they camped out for the night, Say'ri launched into another story.
It was how Lady Tiki had died.
"It was my fault," Say'ri admitted, lowering herself onto the ground and staring forlornly into the fire. Cynthia watched her with pity and awe. "Our numbers had dwindled and our morale was low. On top of that, Chon'sin…" She bowed her head shamefully. No one moved. No one spoke. After a minute or so of an aching silence, with only the soft spitting and hissing of the live fire to fill the empty space, she continued. "I felt very much alone. Lady Tiki convinced me… begged me… to take her to Mount Prism. To pray, she said. But only us two."
"Was she an idiot?" Kjelle asked sharply.
Say'ri shot Kjelle a furious glare. "You'd best hold your tongue," she snapped, raising her chin high. "Tiki was far bolder and far cleverer than any of you could possibly conceive. Don't dare mock her in my presence again."
Kjelle was shocked into silence, and Cynthia was grateful. Say'ri continued without hesitation.
"I decided to oblige. I thought nothing of it. Tiki was prone to spontaneity. As we journeyed there, she told me what her mother had told her. That to keep the balance, the world must always have a Naga and always have a Tiki." Say'ri sighed, and she closed her eyes. "Aye. Even if they are not truly them. A Divine Dragon and a Voice. That cannot change. The world will always have them."
"Didn't we go over this?" Brady rested his cheek on his fist. "Nah became the Voice when Tiki died. And… well, we don't really know what happened to Naga."
"It is our job to find the new Voice," Say'ri said firmly. "Manaketes may well be gone, but the Voice may very well remain. We cannot defeat Grima without the Voice's guidance."
"Okay," Owain said. "But… finding them is going to be hard. It could be anyone, really."
Cynthia didn't want to point out that Say'ri herself had admitted doubts about the Voice's existence.
"No," Say'ri sighed. They all stared at her vacantly. "It is not a random selection, young lord. This is what I was attempting to explain, you see… Lady Tiki told me that day that she chose little Nah to succeed her. She said the me that there was something about her, from the moment she had met her, that drew her in. Familiarity?" Say'ri hummed, touching her forehead gingerly as though to draw out the recollection. "Mm, aye. Something of that sort. Now this… this greatly bemused me. A successor? For what purpose? Tiki may not have been a child like Nah or a teenager like Nowi, but she was ample young for a manakete. And yet she made her will and her grave, and did not consider that she may very well live."
"She must've known," Brady whispered. "She had to have, y'know? She was telling you so you coulda… I dunno, helped Nah adjust, maybe?"
"If I'd the chance," Say'ri murmured bitterly. "We were ambushed of course. Everything after that was a blur, but the result…" She shrugged her empty sleeve and gestured to her scarred face. "I survived by chance. Tiki died as a dragon, and… there'd been some sort of blast. Made by Grima, likely. Her body shielded at least part of me. And… in the end…" Her voice broke off. She sounded unbearably sad, her voice trailing softly in the air, crumbling into dust and coughing into the wind and smoke.
"Manaketes haven't got a single care for themselves, do they?" Brady muttered, bowing his head.
Say'ri didn't reply. Cynthia suspected she couldn't. The woman seemed to be on the verge of tears, but too stubborn and too proud to let herself go. And for that, Cynthia couldn't blame her.
That night she was tasked with guard duty. She was fine with that. A brigand or two, a Risen or three? She could handle it. She was strong!
But as the night drew on, she thought about her father more and more. She grew anxious as the bitter air lashed at her cheeks, froze her in her armor, bit her ears and chapped her skin. She paced back and forth, trying to rid herself of his voice, of his scent, all sickly sweet and nauseating. She loved him and her mother dearly, but all the memories of them were so tainted now. For they were all soft and light and sweet, and all of that had become hard and grotesque in the passing years.
She began to cry.
She had to take a walk.
Her father's voice floated in her head.
"Hey, honey bee." Gaius had winked, gathering her up and laughing as she squealed.
"Father, I told you not to call me that!"
"What do you want me to call you, then?" He'd ruffled her hair, the same striking orange hue as his own, and he gave her that lazy smile, his heavily lidded eyes beaming down at her. "I've got a whole list of sweets for you."
"Father, no!" She'd shaken her head. "No sweets! I don't want to be a sweet thing, I want to be tough!"
"Tough, huh?"
"Uh huh!" Cynthia had nodded firmly, clenching her fists beside her face. "Just like Mother!"
Cynthia wiped at her eyes furiously. It was dark and cold and empty, trees reaching up around her and stretching toward the sky. She looked around, but she realized she'd lost the path she'd taken, and had ended up somewhere in the heart of these thick, labyrinthine woods. The wind was crawling all around her, but nothing made a sound, and she was swaying, feeling emptied of all her courage and all her cheer.
"Hello?" she called into the darkness.
She knew. She could sense someone there.
She held her lance firmly, gripping it for all that was in her, and she gritted her teeth.
She wasn't going to play nice. She was so exhausted of playing nice.
"Come out!" she cried, leveling her spear, watching the thick trunks and the sliver of black gaps that hung between each and every one; darkness sweeping around her, over hear, beneath her.
Someone was clapping.
She spun around. And around. And around. And around. The tip of her spear was revolving, a needle on a dial waiting to halt, to pick its kill. She exhaled shakily, and the darkness stole her breath.
From the shadows, a woman appeared.
Her silver hair seemed to be illuminated somehow in the darkness, her dark face glowing with a devilish glee.
"Robin…?" Cynthia nearly lowered her lance. And then she realized, her heart dropping like a stone, exactly who this was. "Grima!"
They giggled, their slender fingers brushing their lips. And their eyes flashed a dizzying red, their smooth cheeks cracking open with a hiss, and two more sets of ruby red eyes glinting madly at her. Steam was rising from the fissures in their cheeks.
"Cyn-thi-a!" Grima sang. "What a long way from the pack you've wandered!"
"Did you lead me here?" Cynthia snapped, leaning forward and pointing her spear at the creatures awful, mangled face. "Why? What could you possibly want with me?"
"You're easy to confuse," Grima cooed. They clasped their hands together, and shrugged. "I just wanted to see you, is all. And here you are. Tell me, is it true you gained a little follower? I thought I squashed all of Chrom's banners, but oh well. I'll enjoy it more this time."
"Shut up!" Cynthia was fuming. She couldn't think or breathe. She felt as thought the darkness was squeezing her, slithering up and latching onto her legs, stabbing into her joints and locking her in place. She was shaking as she stood. Her fingers trembled at the shaft of her lance. "You know… you know what? You can't get to me. You can't warp my mind like you warped Lucina's, and Laurent's, and Morgan's, and Severa's, and…" She swallowed thickly.
Grima's chortle echoed across the air, slapping her once, twice, thrice, like a blade swiping across her cheeks. It was venomous in the air, and she swallowed that and felt it settling in her bones. Decay was suddenly inevitable.
She was going to die.
"Say it," Grima whispered, gliding toward her, using Robin's pretty, mangled face to stare into her face and leave her feeling as though she'd been positively emptied of all sense of herself. "Gerome?"
And then the air constricted. And the leaves behind her crunched. The ground shifted.
She turned around, tears pooling in her eyes, and she let herself quake and tremble at the sight of him, not so much lurching, more like creeping toward her, his eyes hollow and his skin sallow and his cheeks sunken in, and he was so close so suddenly that she hardly had time to scream.
She dropped her lance.
His tattered clothes and grimy armor, his blood caked axe and his matted hair. He was hardly recognizable and yet… part of Cynthia was glad to see Gerome's corpse. Seeing his face gave her some vague twinge of joy and some vague twinge of horror. And she began to sob. Because there was no way.
There was no way she could fight him.
She felt so measly. She was so ashamed. She turned around to face Grima, but they were gone.
She dropped to her knees and screamed. She screamed so loudly, so fiercely, that she hoped it'd rock the whole earth and send the world crumbling. Send Gerome back to the grave.
But it didn't.
She squeezed her eyes shut as one of his arms wrapped around her, the stench of him burning her nostrils, turning her stomach, leaving her blind. Rotted meat was sloughing off the bone. She swallowed hard.
He was hugging her tight as the cool blade of his axe bit into her neck.