Posting a day early as I'll be busy tomorrow. This one is mostly setup, though the last section is one of my favourites in this entire fic. Thank you to the two guests who've left reviews so far, I'm glad you're enjoying this fic's frenetic tone as well as my attempt in worldbuilding awakening's setting.
Warning for graphic description of corpses and cannibalism.
(Since this site does not support strikethrough, assume any underlined text is strikethrough'ed instead)
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
Robin approaches Lissa with a grave look and the cleric momentarily worries their little peaceful return to Ylisse is about to be over.
They've crossed the border and are a few hours away from the palace, about to reach the capital. So far Robin has been quiet and kept to himself at the start of the journey — though when she said that to Chrom she reassured her Robin was fine and needed some space — but he was back to his old self some days later, mingling with the rest of the Shepherds. A few of them did give Robin strange looks about his new eye-like markings, but when Lissa, backed by Libra and Maribelle, explained that it was likely a backlash from Grima's revival and subsequent defeat, any tensions were quickly dissolved and things went back to normal.
"Lissa," Robin says as he leans close to her for privacy. "I must ask you a favour."
Lisa slows her pace, so that they are out of earshot of others. "Sure, what is it? Do you have any pain? Or did another strange tattoo show up?"
To her relief, Robin gives her a confused look. "Uh, no…" He gestures to the red mark on his eyes and cheeks. "Do you know of any way I could cover this up?"
Lissa's worry rushes out of her with an exasperated sigh. "Eh? Why?"
"We're about to enter the capital," Robin states and then does not elaborate.
"What does that have to do with—Oh!" Lissa pauses in realisation. So that's why they avoided going through cities and settlements on their way back. "I mean it is quite prominent and uh, a little bit spooky, but who cares? You're still our tactician."
"Indeed, but once we arrive at the palace we'll have to meet with the royal court," Robin says with a grimace. "They already mistrust me and I don't want to give them another reason to try and have me executed."
"They can't do that! Not while Chrom and I are around!" Lissa exclaims, scandalised, which attracts a few odd looks from the rest of the Shepherds. Robin flinches, trying very hard to play it off as a casual conversation and Lissa's ears heat up in embarrassment. "But... I get what you mean... I'm sorry they're such jerks."
"I'm glad you do, and no apologies necessary," Robin says with a sigh. "I don't want to use a hex as those could be detected, which will lead to another whole host of questions... so I figured out of everyone here you'd be the best to ask."
Lissa puffs out her cheeks. "Really? Me of all people?" She hoped that Robin would know at this point that she wasn't very lady-like, no matter how much effort — or lack thereof — she put.
"Well, you are a princess," Robin says with growing discomfort. "Surely you had to wear... makeup some during a ball or some other event?" he asks, looking completely out of his element, which Lissa finds pretty funny.
Plus, she can see his point. "You're right, but I hated every moment of it and that was either my maids or..." She pauses as an idea strikes her. "Oh I know who can help us!"
She grabs Robin by the sleeve and before he can protest, drags him to the very back of their formation, made up of their cavalry units. "Hey Maribelle!"
Maribelle is one of the few nobles who actually knows Robin and likes him — and more importantly will sit at the council with Chrom in place of her father. Well, that and hopefully Ricken's uncle, if the small mage's many letters about their adventures and praises for his companions were any indication.
"Lissa my treasure, it's always a pleasure to have you around," the lady in question greets them with a smile. "Sir Robin too."
Lissa smiles back. "Can I ask you a favour?"
"Anything my dear."
"Can you use your makeup to cover up Robin's eye thingies?"
Maribelle pauses, but after some confusion her expression relaxes. "But of course. If you find a place to sit, I'll just need a moment to get down."
As she brings her horse to a halt, Sully and Stahl slow their pace as well, looking at the three in confusion.
"You all go on ahead, we'll catch right up," Maribelle says in a prim tone that leaves little room for argument as she disembarks her horse.
Robin frowns as Sully shrugs at Stahl and the two resume their usual pace. "As much as I appreciate the offer, I don't think we should stay back like this, even if we think we're safe—"
"Oh hush Robin, this'll barely take a moment," Maribelle cuts him off as guides him to a nearby fallen log and starts rummaging around her bag.
"You... carry a makeup case with you?" Robin asks.
"Of course, a lady of the court must always look presentable." She eyes Robin over with a critical look. "Now, you just want the… red markings gone? You've been awfully pale since you woke up, perhaps I could also add some color to your cheeks, or—"
"Just the eyes please," Robin says with a tired sigh.
"Very well," Maribelle smoothly says as she takes out a small white ball of pigment, a shallow cup and a flask of rose water. She fills the cup with the rose water and places the pigment in, then kneads it until parts of it become soft enough to stick to her fingers. It smells nice, and Lissa sits by the grass as Maribelle kneels by Robin and starts delicately patting down his face, starting from where the red meets his lips and moving up.
Lissa is enjoying the smell of rose water mixing with the aroma of the surrounding foliage when Maribelle reaches up to Robin's cheek and he flinches out of her touch. Lissa is too distracted to see what caused his reaction, and only sees him pat down the area Maribelle touched, almost as if rubbing his eyelid. Maribelle freezes as her calm expression goes slack.
Robin reaches out for Maribelle's implements. "Actually, if you just give me a mirror I can do it myself..."
But Maribelle evades Robin's attempted grab and pats him on the cheek again, earning her another flinch. Lissa holds back a gasp as she sees something move under the skin, strangely bulging like...
"By the Gods, Robin, are those eyes?!"
"Uh…" Robin stares at the two dumbly and his hand reaches up to his cheek.
At his lack of response, Maribelle reaches out to touch Robin's other cheeks and he leans back enough to almost fall off the log.
Just as Maribelle is about to strike again, Robin puts his hands up in peace and Lissa's mouth hangs agape as the skin inside the eye-like marks moves and folds over itself, revealing four more eyes.
… Since when? Did Robin always have extra eyes? Or did they show up when his strange red markings did?
...Why hasn't he told them? Or at least her? Sure they are freaky, but the more she stares the more cool she finds them. But they kind of look like Grima's... is that why Robin has kept them hidden?
"That's… blowback from the failed ritual..." Robin eventually says and tries to close his extra eyes, though he ends up squinting at them. "I... didn't want to worry you any more than you already are."
Lisa's expression softens. Aw, of course! She too would be creeped out if she had extra eyes growing out of nowhere. Hopefully Maribelle doesn't get too mad…
"... Goodness, this little adventure has done a number on us all," Maribelle mutters as she places down the cup and rubs her temples with her clean hand. She takes a deep breath, then gives Robin a disapproving look. "You should have told me, as eyes are a very sensitive area and I was applying too much pressure! Not to mention I could have accidentally smeared some of it inside. Tell me, Robin, would you have liked to go blind?"
Robin looks equally relieved and apologetic. "No ma'am."
"Good," Maribelle huffs as she takes up the bowl again. "Now stand still and let me work."
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
The crown sits heavy on Chrom's head. He knows deep down he's not the one supposed to have it. Emmeryn should be the Exalt, no matter what accusations of cowardice and weakness the bloodthirsty nobles threw at her, no matter his Father's failed plans to make sure the next heir would continue his bloody crusade, no matter how both tried to get Chrom on the throne first, hoping his skill at the blade translated to an equal amount of cruelty in his heart. It should still be Emmeryn, she should have made it out of this alive and continued to lead this Kingdom to peace and prosperity but…
Emmeryn is gone, and Chrom can only hope he lives up to her legacy.
He spies Lisa giving him a wink from a few steps below the throne, risking the wrath of the entire Ylissean High Council. Further down from her, Frederick is trying to hold back tears, Maribelle might as well have become a statue but how stiffly she stands and Robin glances around mildly uncomfortable before he catches Chrom's gaze and smiles back. He's not sure what he did to hide the red markings on his face, and he wishes he didn't feel compelled to do that in the first place, but he understands this is Robin's way of making sure his coronation goes as smoothly as possible. They all have tried to do so in their own ways, from Sully making him promise they'd spar after this whole 'dog and pony show', to Gaius sneaking him a flask of unknown and questionable liquid before the ceremony started.
So though the crown sits heavy, Chrom manages to let out a smile, glad he won't have to do this alone.
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
Grima remembers light distorted by the round glass of a flask. He remembers a wet darkness, surrounded by red and enclosed by an animal's upside-down endometrium. He remembers a pair of eyes looking down at him, first then awe then with growing fear.
He remembers a sharp pain as a liquid sloshes down on him and melts his scales, he remembers lunging at those now bloodshot eyes and getting his first taste of flesh. He remembers how sweet it tasted, how satisfying the act was, how his heart, if he had one, ached with confusion, then fear, then a great unending anger.
He remembers being stuck in the labyrinthian laboratory with the corpse of that man.
He remembers him rotting...
He remembers him rotting, he remembers how the little worms and maggots crawled in and out of his melting skin, he remembers the stench permeating every nook and cranny of the labyrinth, a constant reminder of that man's failed betrayal, he remembers how unbearably foul it became as the maggots and worms piled on, forming a thin carpet over a corpse that refused to decompose.
He remembers coming up with the simple, straightforward solution of eating what's left.
He does not want to remember the act, so he instead remembers lying in wait in the laboratory, thinking.
He remembers realising what life is.
He remembers mastering his magic, as his body grew in size and power. He remembers finally breaking free of that damp rotting prison and taking his first flight high in the sky. He remembers each drop of blood he tasted afterward, not from the mindless beasts that pathetic creatures like his creator like to feast on with no second thought, but from the so-called intelligent species themselves. He remembers revelling in their horrified gazes as they realise they are no longer on top of the food chain, that they are like the very worms they so casually crush with every step they take, and that Grima will be their end, towering above all creation until there is no such thing left.
He remembers the Regent of the Divine Dragons — if those overgrown lizards can be called such — Naga, rousing from her slumber to oppose him. He remembers their struggle as her 'champion' and some worms that didn't faint at the mere sight of Grima's form are locked in battle and how Naga's tooth cuts through his champion and then through himself.
He remembers feeling tired for the first time. He remembers the light giving way to darkness. He remembers thinking his defeat shouldn't have felt like another betrayal, for Grima was not like the long-slumbering dragons that had been mysteriously sealed. He remembers thinking many things, for he can do little else.
He remembers how the first feeble conscience reaches out to him, a mind of no morals and greedy for power. He remembers how he entertains its meagre goals, for he has little else to do, and how that one mind is joined by another then another, and they start calling themselves the Grimleal.
He remembers his delight after he finally figures out a way to break Naga's seal, using the very flesh of the creatures she sought to protect by sealing herself away. He remembers laughing, then growing frustrated at the fragility of human bodies, then learning patience.
He remembers waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting, getting glimpses of the outside world through the Grimleals' words, as they tell him of how awful life is and how much they look forward to their Lord's revival and their ultimate reward.
(Grima will reward them with death, but he does not transmit that thought. Throughout his slumber he's had time to reflect on his previous actions and now seeks to temper his anger, to think and plan and trap and watch in delight as his victims fall into his maws.)
He remembers his delight then anger as one of his vessels comes so close to his perfection but is ultimately too weak to let him return and break Naga's seal. He remembers the vessel's mewling mind offering meaningless apologies and lofty promises that he will make a vessel worthy of his Lord.
He remembers his bitter amusement at those proclamations, but then being pleasantly surprised when that imperfect worm, Validar, for he has impressed Grima enough for the Fell Dragon to know his name, finally creates his perfect vessel.
Grima remembers feeling that connection to an empty body waiting to be used. He remembers trying to push though—
...
His vision is foggy and unfocused, and Grima realises the vessel is small, too small, even for the standards of those tiny worms.
"... There is something wrong with him!"
The vessel is too weak for Grima to even move, so he solely focuses on its vision and hearing. The vessel has other senses too, like smell, taste and touch, but they are either weak or its scaleless body is too foreign for him to sense through.
"... No such thing!" comes the failed vessel's voice. "He is perfect—"
"He's like a corpse!" the first voice from before says. Grima catches its body out of the corner of its eye, though it is a blur of purple and beige. "He doesn't cry, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat, he doesn't move—!"
"Because he is incomplete! This body is still an empty vessel until our Lord—"
The vessel grows weak and tired with the same exhaustion that has Grima trapped in eternal slumber. It's frustrating but he's patient, so Grima pulls back and bides his time.
...
Grima looks through his vessel's senses soon after his first attempt. He knows the vessel will not be ready, but he wants to gauge its progress and check how fast it develops before it's ready for him to come through.
He's assaulted with the sense of touch, as something is wrapped around him. He's swaddled and moved, and through the purple cloth he catches a glimpse of a busy market street and then an endless desert...
Confused and overwhelmed, he pulls back and waits.
...
The third time Grima pushes through the connection, he realises he hasn't communed with Validar for quite some time, and that though the Vessel's vision has improved and its body has grown, his failed Vessel is nowhere to be found.
Instead, he sees the other familiar shape. Through the Vessel's improved vision, Grima makes out a deep purple robe, long fair hair, but little else. Their face is turned away, facing another shape in flowing robes as they shake their head, get up and leave. The purple shape watches them depart and their shoulders sag before they turn to Grima.
He sees a face but can't remember it, obscured like a scratched out painting.
The shape reaches out, pats the Vessel's head, then cups its cheek, while their other hand finds his hand and holds its fingers. The sensations are new and disorienting and Grima tries to recoil physically, so much so that the Vessel's fingers twitch.
The shape gasps then leans in closer. Their touch is more insistent, warmer, and Grima doesn't know what they're trying to do, but decides it must be unpleasant.
"Robin..." the purple shape whispers as Grima retreats to familiar darkness.
...
Though Grima is still sealed away in his enforced slumber, he sees more and more of the waking world through his Vessel's eyes. Its senses have improved dramatically over time, and it will only take a couple of years before he can fully channel his power through it and return to his former glory. Until then however, he observes, and he learns many things.
The caretaker of this Vessel must be the one who bore him alongside Validar. Any fondness Grima holds for her is solely because she tirelessly looks after his Vessel, making him spend less power to maintain its form. The caretaker feeds and cleans and does many things with the Vessel, with some serving little purpose, like humming at it late at night. Grima tends to linger when that happens, but solely because he's curious as to what purpose that humming may serve. Do human bodies require such things to grow?
The caretaker also carries his Vessel whenever they move to a different area, which is often. Grima is not sure where they are now, but he knows his failed vessel is trying to find them. He keeps trying to reach Grima, pestering him for clues on his Vessel's location, but Grima stays silent. Grima dislikes his simpering tone. Besides, his Vessel is already well-cared for and he sees interesting, useful things.
One such thing is happening now as Grima lingers by a doorway, where his caretaker and another human are talking in hushed tones. Grima has enough control of his Vessel to walk slowly, though it tires him quickly.
"... You need to look out for yourself too," the unknown human, a man holding a knobbly staff, says to the caretaker. "You may not have to worry about the Ylisseans now that the war has ended, but the bandits will take advantage of their absence."
"I am taking care of myself just fine."
"But how much time does your son take up from your day?" The man leans to his staff. "I'm sure many other healers have told you this, but there is nothing that can be done. I don't know what curse or hex has befallen him, but I don't think it'll be gone anytime soon. He's almost an adult now is he?" He lets out a deep sigh. "Your boy may breathe and have a beating heart but he might as well be a Risen—"
"Don't say that," the caretaker cuts him off.
The man goes silent and lets out a long sigh.
"Sometimes he looks at me," the caretaker adds.
The man hums in an unreadable tone, and Grima decides he does not like him much. So, he takes a step forward and crosses the beaded curtain, the little crystals that trail along the Vessel's skin momentarily overwhelming him with the sheer tactile feedback.
Still, Grima persists out of sheer stubbornness. The added surprise of the two humans only adds to his satisfaction, especially as the old man pales, whereas the caretaker rises and smiles at him.
"And sometimes he walks too," she says as she approaches him, and Grima realises his Vessel is now as tall as her. "You can hear me, can't you Robin?"
Robin. That's what she calls his Vessel. He's not sure why she bothers. Validar must have told her of his plans. She must know she bore no true son, but rather an empty vessel for Grima to occupy.
A hand lands on his cheek, and Grima leans in to the touch even if it's uncomfortably warm. He must familiarise everything there is about the waking world when the seal breaks. He can't let himself be overwhelmed by a mere gentle touch.
...And if this is what Grima will return to, it's not half bad.
...
Grima spends most of his time looking through the Vessel's eyes, ignoring the many annoying calls from his so-called followers. Now that he has his Vessel, he has no use for them.
So far, his senses are as sharp as any human's, which is still a far cry to what Grima's true form could do. He can walk at a regular pace and for longer periods, and if he really puts his mind to it, even turn his neck and move his arms. Progress is slow, but he has learned to be patient.
At this point his caretaker has taken him even further away from Plegia, with its dunes and deserts making way to cliffs, canyons and the occasional vegetation. They have camped out on a small rock outcropping, the caretaker unravelling their blankets and fashioning a canopy out of them.
A sound echoes across the canyon, of a few smalling rocks followed by human voices. Grima stands on his own as the caretaker bolts upright. He watches as she lets out a curse, and packs the very bare essentials into her satchel. She stills to listen for the voices, then quickly undoes the canopy, kicks some dust over their dying flame, then throws the cloth over it and the rest of their belongings, packing them out of sight of the road. She reaches out to his vessel, pauses, then removes her heavy robe and drapes it over him, pulling the hood over his head as she stands on her tiptoes. His vessel is taller than her now.
She grabs his sleeve and guides them away from the rock, through the confusing maze of sharp rocks and tiny outcroppings.
Grima grows more tired with each step but he persists. Something interesting is happening.
They run all night.
...
Grima has been peering through the Vessel's senses for the longest continuous stretch of time. He's expending a lot of energy keeping up the connection to his vessel, but he must do so. They seem to be in danger and his caretaker is not fit enough to carry him. He has grown too big, bigger than her, and something seems to be wrong with her back.
His caretaker grows frustrated at their slow progress through the rocks, so she guides him back to the main road, holding tightly to his sleeve.
Three humans follow them from behind, and their clothing is similar to his, to his caretaker's. To his failed vessel's.
At the same time, another group of humans appears through a turn of the road, but they are different from his caterater and their purusants. Brighter. Stinking of Naga.
He and his caretaker are stuck between the two groups, who notice each other and start shouting. His caretaker is shouting too, guiding him behind her as both groups converge on their position. They keep shouting at each other, in different languages that Grima is too tired to try and make sense of.
A hand reaches out to Grima, but his caretaker slashes at it and Grima realises she's always had an axe by her side.
Their voices glow ouder, accompanied by the ring of metal. The caretaker backs away, pushing him against stone—
And there's spells and swords and blood and death—
And Grima loses track of the vessel's reality until he's pulled in by a sharp sting.
Grima is on the ground, his caretaker draped over him, the life draining from her. A sword is buried on her back, piercing her front and into his vessel's body as well. More bodies are littered around them, but Grima tries to focus on the human holding the sword, another faceless figure that seems to be yelling then plunges the sword deeper.
And Grima's vessel starts fading.
For the first time since Naga's Champion pierced through his scales with the Falchion, Grima feels dread. His caretaker is dead — just like his long-forgotten champion — and his vessel is being destroyed, the vessel it took such a long time to make and get used to and he can't stay patient any longer, he can't go back to that suffocating nothingness.
Grima pours himself through the fragile connection. It's excruciating, and he feels as if the scales are ripped off his back, but he persists, forcing himself to be stripped to the barest thread of his existence until that human body feels like it's fully his.
His power seeps out of his immature vessel but the body holds itself together, even as the still-living humans let out gasps of horror before they fall dead like their compatriots, seized by Grima's power. He raises a shaky hand and grabs at the hilt of the sword buried into him, pulling it out with a gasp as he takes in his first conscious breath.
His wound throbs as it heals and Grima scolds himself for worrying. That rusted bronze sword can't hurt him, it's not the Falchion…
What did the Falchion look like, Grima wonders as he gets to his feet and walks past all the dead bodies, as the canyon opens up in a wide verdant field. He can no longer recall its shape, only that it was wielded by Naga's champion...
And he can't remember the champion's face or name either.
Ah, so he didn't make it through completely unscathed. He momentarily panics, but quickly reassures himself he will be fine. Even without his memories, he is still Grima, and that won't change what he is or his goal. He just has to keep walking, he can't remember why, but he must...
He eventually forgets how to walk, as his knees buckle and he collapses on a field of grass. The sky is a dark starry blue, and he can't remember if he ever bothered to stop and look at it while awake. He can't remember many things now; he can't remember his Creator's face, he can't remember why he was stuck in that suffocating darkness, he can't remember how he ended up in this open plain, he can't remember what he is, he can't remember his name, but he recalls a warm hand on his face and a whisper of 'Robin'.
But seconds pass and he forgets that too, as his eyelids grow heavy and his body goes numb.
...
"Chrom, we have to do something!"
"What do you propose we do?"
"Uh, I don't know!"
There's light in his eyes.
"I see you're awake now."
"Hey there!"
"There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know. Give me your hand..."
He can't remember who he is, and now there's light in his eyes and two kind faces—
Grima Robin wakes with a choked scream.
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
:D Next chapter will be up next Saturday. Reviews are appreciated.