I debated as to whether this should be a chapter on its own, as it started from a scene that ballooned to 4k (like so many parts of this story). In the end I decided to go for it, as I think more frequent shorter (i.e. around 4-5k) are more preferable to less frequent longer ones. Plus I think in this case there's enough conflict/drama to have this be standalone, but let me know if that's not the case.
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Robin is drowning in a sea of dead. Hands claw at his body and he claws back, snapping at everything within range. His surroundings are a whirlwind of torn flesh and faces, and Robin shuts his eyes. He tries to concentrate but their screaming is deafening and their hands now claw at his face, his throat, his arms, so he trashes out of their grips. One tries to embrace him and grab his wrists, but Robin flails and bites down on their shoulder and the phantom retracts, still gripping his wrists. They don't bleed where their flesh is torn, only scream. Robin tries to call on his magic. but it fizzles and dies, too exhausted and too much of it still sealed inside the dragon's table.
A pair of hands grabs his face and unlike the rest, it's solid and strong enough to wrench his head back. Robin growls at the gesture, but then he feels a liquid sliding down his throat. He twists his head and bites down hard, feeling glass and flesh give out, and the sting is new and foreign and makes his world shift.
The voices ease and Robin finds himself pinned down on something soft. He panics and struggles against the hold, eyes scrunched shut, but the arms holding him down are strong. There's another set of gentler hands on his face, and through his haze Robin makes out two familiar voices.
"Why isn't he waking up–?!"
"I don't know, it could be a side-effect from one of my batches–!"
Robin stills as his world and falls silent besides the two voices. The phantom feelings of the dead fade away too, and now he only feels two sets of hands on him, but unlike the previous ones, one just holds him down while the other merely touches him.
"... Robin?"
He cranes his head back first to see the one holding his face.
"Tharja?" he asks with a cough. There's a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he's confused as to why she's here. He's not sure where he is either, but this isn't her room.
"I sensed you were panicking and thought you were attacked," a pale-faced Tharja says and steadies his head as Robin tries to move it. "Careful, you broke a glass vial in your mouth."
"Vial?"
"To wake you up." She reaches for his mouth and Robin feels a sharp sting. Moments later, Tharja's hand retracts with a sizable piece of bloodied glass, which she deposits on a small pile.
Something wet drips down on Robin's collarbone, and he looks up at the owner of the hands pinning him down.
Chrom is looking down at him with a worried expression. He's bleeding through his tunic, and the blood in Robin's mouth does not taste entirely his.
"Get off me," Robin says, his growing panic making his words come out as a hiss. Oh gods, did he actually go for their throats–?
Chrom's grip goes slack and Robin pulls himself up and away, backing up against the bed's headboard. Chrom falls back on the other end, and though he's a little pale, he doesn't seem faint, so the wound must be shallow...
Tharja reaches out to him with bloody hands, and her ring finger has a strange bleeding indent in it, like a bite mark.
Robin flinches away from it and her hand stills, then retracts.
"What did I do?" Robin asks, even if he knows the answer. His mouth is a wet mess and the beds of his nails are bloody.
"It's just a scratch," Chrom says, and Robin can immediately tell it's a lie from how he avoids moving his neck and his hands trail over various red scratches on his arms.
"What did I do?" Robin slowly asks again, barely keeping his voice even.
Tharja looks between the two of them, though her eyes linger at Chrom, equally curious.
"You..." Chrom squirms under their gazes. "I woke up to get some water and heard you muttering in your sleep."
Robin's dream resurfaces in broken up fragments and he holds back a curse. Damn it all, why did he have it tonight, why was that man in it?
"I tried to wake you up, but you weren't responding." Chrom's gaze falls to Tharja. "And then you barged in."
Tharja lets out an agreeing hum as she plays with her fingers in thought. "And you didn't seem to wake up, so I used one of my potions. Which you bit down on." She's still eyeing his mouth, but Robin doesn't feel any more pricks of pain, so she must have got most of the glass out. His throat is sore and stings beyond what should be expected from a potion, but it'll heal. In time.
Still, to think this is all the result of another nonsensical nightmare...
Robin takes a deep breath. He really thought he would be safe with Chrom.
"You two need to call for a healer – get Lissa if you're worried about secrecy," Robin says, adding the last part when Chrom looks about to protest. Lissa threads a fine line between a mischievous gossip and a trusted friend, and her quarters are the closest to them.
"Only if you come with us," Chrom says as Tharja nods before his expression softens. "I only tried to stop you after you started clawing at yourself."
Robin is about to protest, but with the adrenaline wearing off, he feels more aches in his body. His hands and throat feel like they've been dipped in boiling water and his chest stings like he's had a bad run-in with a razor.
Looking down, Robin sees more red. There's a spot near his heart where the flesh looks most torn, but he quickly brings his knees up to obscure it from view.
Chrom's face is lined with worry. "We were collateral."
"And you broke a glass vial. In your mouth." Tharja adds, insistent. "Probably swallowed a couple of pieces too."
"I'll be fine," Robin quickly says. "You shouldn't have tried to stop me."
Chrom gasps. "You were hurting yourself–!"
"I wasn't–" Robin stops himself as he realises the only thing that can kill him is himself, before gesturing to the rest of his body. "This will heal. I've had worse."
"So have we," Tharja says in a monotone.
"But you shouldn't, not anymore. War's over."
"Exactly," Chrom adds, and his insistent look tells Robin he hasn't actually understood his argument. "And it's over for everyone. You included."
Oh yes, Chrom very much does not understand.
Robin draws his knees closer. "This isn't because of the war." If anything, he is among the Shepherds least affected by all the fighting, even during their campaigns. While others would toss and turn or get the occasional bout of paranoia, Robin always found himself composed. Back then he chucked it up to his amnesia and not remembering what a life was supposed to be outside of a war, but now he realises it's because he never had such a thing. "This is my own separate issue to deal with."
"It shouldn't have to be," Chrom urges before he bites his lip. "... I could make out some of the things you were saying while you were sleeping..." he trails off, eyeing Tharja, then Robin, unsure.
"What did I say?" Robin's voice comes out as a hiss again. He shouldn't let himself get this agitated. He should calm down, but he can't.
"... Most of it was random sentence fragments, but it sounded like you were talking – no, having an argument with someone. You said Plegia and Ylisse at one point." Chrom gives him a small smile. "You said you were working at bringing peace."
Some of the tension leaves Robin. If that's all that Chrom heard, merely harmless snippets, then all would be–
"Who's Forneus?"
Robin stills. "... No one."
Chrom stares at him, still frowning.
"... No one worth bringing up," Robin tries again. His voice has lost its bite and feels hollow. "Long dead."
"So this was someone you knew?" Chrom continues, and Robin's newfound hollowness makes way to the small burning ball of hatred he's managed to suppress so far. "Was he a Grimleal?"
Tharja frowns. "I don't recall any Grimleal of significance with the name Forneus–"
"Don't speak his name," Robin hisses as his nails dig painfully into his knees and his wings puff up.
Tharja goes quiet, but Chrom's frown deepens. He's going to speak again and Robin holds back a growl.
"I don't want to talk about him," Robin slowly says, dragging each syllable.
Tharja looks between the two men with increasing discomfort. She reaches out for Chrom's shoulder. "You should go heal yourself–"
"Do you remember what we said before we went to sleep?" Chrom asks Robin.
Tharja grimaces. "You really should go–"
Chrom gently puts down Tharja's hand. "Please don't try to kick me out of my own room," he says, somewhat incredulous, before turning to Robin. "So, do you remember what we said?"
Robin doesn't want to respond, but he knows if he does not, Chrom will grow increasingly irritating. "I do."
Chrom nods. "This is what I was referring to. We want to help, but you have to talk to us first."
Robin doesn't speak, because if he does he will say something very unkind.
"Now's not the time," Tharja insists, and her grip on Chrom is stronger this time, making him flinch when she grabs him by a scratched arm. "It's late and we're all tired–"
"Then when will it be time?" Chrom cuts her off. "We've been in this castle for weeks and we've barely talked to each other. We're all busy enough, if we postpone this Robin will just get even worse–"
"I've told you, I'm fine–"
"You're not, and stop pretending you are," Chrom cuts him off. "And it's ok if you're not, I just want to know–"
"Do you, Chrom?" Robin hisses, his voice echoing as something within him gives way. "Do you really want to know about the Fell Dragon Grima?"
When Chrom doesn't respond, he looks up to see the two humans have gone paler at his uncharacteristically biting tone. As expected, since he now sounds more like Grima than Robin.
Chrom gulps, but his frown returns moments later. "I want to know about you."
"You already do." Though his words come out as an angry hiss, they're underlined by a fond honesty. "... You know of Robin, and you should stop at just knowing about Robin."
"But you're not just Robin. And that's ok," Chrom adds at Robin's flinch. "I'm just worried–"
"Of what?" Is Chrom worried about how Robin's past will affect him? If it will make him a threat? Is he worried how much of 'Robin' is still left within 'Grima' when such distinctions have lost their meaning? Or is he worried this whole situation is a charade and that Grima–?
"I'm worried that you'll hurt yourself. Or you'll let yourself get hurt," Chrom whispers the last part, catching Grima by surprise.
If this is really what he's worried about... Of all the trusting idiocy–
"I just want to help," Chrom continues. "I know it's not easy–"
"You know nothing," Grima snaps at Chrom, feeling a tightness around his chest. "You may see me as a pathetic little trembling human now, but for every scratch on me you fret oh so much about, my claws have razed just as many cities and armies!" Despite his growling tone, Chrom's concern does not go away and the burning feeling on his chest worsens. "So do not patronise me, you little worm–!"
"No, Robin, listen to me!" Chrom cuts him off and his expressions briefly twists a grimace – one of anger? Frustration? Whatever it was, Grima preferred it over his previous pitying sadness. "I'm not patronising you by worrying over you! But every so often I see you keep bracing for a fallout, and beating over yourself when it doesn't happen!"
Chrom is yelling, and it's so rare for him to do so out of battle that Robin can't help but glance at the Falchion, safely sheathed by his bedside.
Chrom follows his gaze and grimaces again. "There, just like this!" He gestures and Grima wretches his gaze away from the sword but doesn't stop glaring. "The first thing you said to me when you woke up was make me promise me not to hurt you – and I won't, I swear it on Emmeryn's name – but you keep acting as if I will the moment you drop the act!"
Chrom's last word makes Grima flinch. "So you think this is an act."
Chrom face falls. "No, I didn't mean it that way – I meant it as in pretending you never got your memories back! Every time you bring up your past, you act as if I'm some fragile maiden who's never seen combat–"
"Our little misadventures with the Shepherds are a walk in the park compared to what I've done," Grima cuts him off with a growl. "You have no idea–!"
"Really?" Chrom speaks over him, his tone underlined by offence. "You think I wouldn't know of Grima's acts? The heir to a kingdom whose royal bloodline is supposedly destined to kill you?"
Grima has to begrudgingly admit his point. As part of their research into the Fell Dragon before the debacle at the Dragon's Table, Robin scoured Ylisse's Royal archives. The retellings of those ancient battles made his blood go cold at the time, but now Robin knows that not only were their records woefully incomplete, but were also written by those fortunate enough to be in the sidelines, away from the worst of the carnage.
"... You still know only a fraction of the truth," Robin hisses, and continues before Chrom can protest: "But even with the little you know of, you chose to act so comfortably around me?"
"Yes!" Chrom immediately says, placing a hand over his heart. "Because I know — Because I've seen firsthand that things don't have to end this way! That we can choose kindness and forgiveness over violence–!"
"And yet here we are, covered in blood," Robin echoes with a bitter laugh.
Chrom pauses, crestfallen. He has no rebuttal, of course.
"And it is easy for you to preach forgiveness when you've only been told tales, when you weren't one of the countless little brave heroes who fell to their knees and called for their mothers the moment I descended upon them."
"Of course I'm not, Gri–You were sealed for a thousand years. Anyone with a living memory of those battles is long dead."
That is mostly true, but it does not lift Robin's mood.
"... I think you two are focused on the wrong thing," Tharja speaks up with a sigh, startling the two. "Sure, we can say that you're not blameless if that's what you want to hear, that you're responsible and guilty, and so on," she says in a bored tone. "But then what do we do with that?" She gives Robin a wry smile as she pats Chrom's arm. "Get Mr Exalt here to sentence you to a million years in the dungeons?"
Robin understands Tharja is arguing in jest, but the mere thought of being locked away in darkness and isolation sends goosebumps down his arms.
Chrom indignantly sputters. "I wouldn't–"
"Exactly, there's no point in skulking about and feeling sorry for yourself," Tharja cuts him off as she plays with a strand of her hair. "It's much better to focus on doing something productive, like say, setting up peace between Ylisse and Plegia. Helping people, saving lives, all that goody two shoes stuff."
Despite her flippant tone, Chrom nods at her words. Of course he does, and of course she has left out a very inconvenient truth.
"... Those killed by the Grimleal would beg to disagree, especially about the timing." Robin speaks up, and his voice has lost its previous bite. He keeps his eye on Tharja, since she is the one who knows best about this. "All those little poor souls left to bleed dry at the Dragon's Table, all those killed by the machinations of my chosen bloodline, not to mention all those lost in war." His gaze travels to Chrom and he chooses his next words very carefully. "Validar was behind Gangrel, but I was the one behind them all."
Robin waits for the implications of his words to catch up to them, Chrom in particular.
Tharja deciphers it first, judging by her eyes widening as she glances first at Chrom, then at Robin, then at Falchion. She's probably worried Robin has a death wish. Perhaps he does. Being immortal and surviving attempt after attempt in destroying him for good has probably messed up his sense of risk.
Right on cue, Chrom's expression stiffens, then briefly turns ugly before he schools it back into neutrality.
To think Chrom asked him not to apologise when he brought up Emmeryn's death. Robin's curious what his reply would be now.
The three of them sit in awkward silence until Robin finally unfurls his knees from his torso. He's tired, both from arguing and from his restless sleep. "I understand if you want me to stick around to stop Ylisse and Plegia going for each other's throats. I will make sure that they don't, even when those with memories of this year's war have been buried and their names become forgotten."
He can also make sure that no one else threatens the two countries, let them be battle-hardened kingdoms or even continental alliances. Yet, that's talk of battle and death, and though that's all he can leverage as that's the only thing he's been good at, the immediate future seems peaceful.
"But let's stop pretending I'm the person you knew me as, or that I can ever go back to being that."
"No, that's not..." Chrom mutters before he lets out a deep sigh and gives Robin an unguarded look. He looks just as exhausted as he sounds. "You're aren't being purposefully obtuse, are you?"
This is a rare case where Robin genuinely isn't. For all the desperate proclamations in his half-crazed past, all he ever wanted was to help people, but apparently he's never been good at understanding what people want. Or the true meaning behind their words, such as this case.
"We tried one way and now your blood's in my mouth." And it tastes just as sweet as all blood does, and that's exactly the problem. "Let's stop before it gets worse."
Another uncomfortable silence falls between them. Chrom is looking away, shoulders slumped. Tharja has wrapped one arm around herself and is absentmindedly nursing one of her injured fingers.
"Fine," Chrom eventually says, and Robin holds back a sigh.
Great, now that this is resolved, time to get those two to a healer then check if horse tranquilliser will do the trick – another perk of being immortal is that he doesn't have to worry about his heart giving out.
"You don't have to stay here if you don't want to," Chrom adds and Robin freezes. This is not what they talked about. Is Chrom trying to–? "Please don't take this as me trying to send you away. I'm genuinely not, and if you trust anything I say then trust me in that right now I'm telling the truth. But, I also don't want to trap you someplace you're miserable."
Robin's not sure why Chrom thinks he's miserable. He's not, he's just tired. If anything, compared to his time in the Dragon's Table, he's positively chipper.
"And not just you," Chrom adds as he turns to Tharja. "This extends to all the Shepherds. Our peace treaty with Plegia is all but confirmed now, and we have no other enemies to speak of." He raises both hands, flinching as he moves his injury, but firmly clasps them on Robin's and Tharja's shoulders. "You can leave, travel the world, have a family, live to your heart's content. If you are to stay by my side, stay because you want to and because it will make you happy. Not because of a self-imposed duty." He gives them a small, slightly sheepish smile. "That's what my crown is for, after all."
Tharja reaches out to hold Robin's hand and a stinging, suffocating feeling rises to the back of his throat. Probably has to do with the glass still stuck in his throat. "I'm happy going whenever Robin goes. It's not like I have a home."
'Anymore' is what's left unsaid, and Robin knows this from one night long ago where he tried to learn more about Tharja's past and listened to sleepy half-lucid story of how the Grimleal scout for new recruits and how a young girl with more ambition than sense ended up entangled in their bloodshed, her only respite from the waking world being a mysterious, persistent visitor of her dreams, that she eventually encountered in the real world. Just like Chrom, just like so many others, she too...
Chrom lets go of Robin's shoulder and holds on to his other hand. Like Tharja, it's warm, but then Chrom brings it dangerously close to his chest, to the spot where Grima– where Thoron...
He wretches his hand away and Chrom startles. "R–... Grima–"
He gets up, breaking away from their holds. "I need time to think. You two go to a healer. Lissa's room is literally next door's, Maribelle is in one of the guest rooms and Libra's spending the night at the Central Temple."
"I'll see you in the morning?" Tharja asks as he puts up his robe.
"Sure."
Without looking back, he leaves the room and hurries through the corridors, barefoot as to make little noise. He passes by two snoring guards slumped against each other – Tharja's handiwork no doubt, and a reminder to pester Frederick again by insisting guards carry curse repellents on them along with their usual gear. His wings are not bound and the feathers sway as he walks, so he pulls the robe tighter around himself.
What now, then?
Looking back, their argument was silly. He didn't help, acting like an angry child. Especially when in the end his thoughts circled back to one of the many roots of his worries.
Was Chrom's last gesture deliberate? Was it some symbolic gesture that Chrom has forgiven him for what his – now dead – future self did and trusts him?
And it's not just him. From Lucina's retelling, all the Shepherds had been killed. He's not sure of how directly responsible he was for each one's death, but at a minimum they were all killed by those who revered him as a God and claimed to be acting on his will.
Maybe Chrom's death was a catalyst and everyone else's was more fuel to the fire, turning it from a roaring blaze to an all-engulfing inferno. 'Robin' would be nothing without them, existing only insofar as their memories of him, and as each of their lights was snuffed out, so were any traces of 'Robin'. He would have nothing else left–
Except that's not true, not now and not in the doomed future, was it? The Morgans came from that future, and despite their attempts at subterfuge and cheerful attitude, he sees echoes of that dark future in how they cling to him like he's about to disappear to dust. He would like to say it's a miracle they survived long enough to travel to the past, but he does not believe in miracles and...
Robin stills as a horrifying thought strikes him.
Would his future self hold some semblance of affection for his children? Had he tried to kill them? Capture them? Use them, even? He wants to think he could never bring himself to hurt his offspring like that, but he also wants to think he'd never hurt Chrom or Tharja, or anyone from the Shepherds, and they all know how the future turned out. So he doesn't know, and he can't ask the Morgans...
And to think he thought himself better than Forneus.
He should never have regained his memories. He should have gone on being amnesiac Robin, worried over his lost past but ultimately assured of his victory over the Fell Dragon.
He's so absorbed in his thoughts he nearly walks past his room. The door is slightly ajar and he scolds himself over forgetting to lock it. To think he can remember his unending captivity within the labyrinth down to the last second, but not that he has to lock his door whenever he goes out...
Maybe his age is finally catching up to him. It would certainly explain why his future self would be stupid enough to travel back into the past, to when there exists an amnesiac version of himself who is able and willing to kill him. It might even explain how Lucina kept evading his grasp, as, much like her father and despite her combat prowess, did not have a tactical bone in her body.
Yes, old age would be the more preferable explanation than the alternative, which is that this future self's scheme went exactly as planned, as what else would the end of the world want if not the end of himself–?
He pushes away that dark thought and focuses on the faint moonlight coming through thin curtains. The last time he entertained them was when they found out he was Grima's Heart and Chrom's would-be murderer. They were worse back then, more 'actionable', but now darkly ironic when considering his true situation.
A small breeze makes the curtains sway, and he walks to the window to pull them back. Strange, he usually leaves them pulled back as even the thin fabric makes the room slightly darker.
He eyes his bed and sighs. What now? Their argument was only halted, and he couldn't let go of Chrom's question of what he wants to do with his life.
Frankly, he doesn't know. Maybe ask the Morgans what they wanted – isn't that what good parents did? – but then he'd be passing on the burden of his decision to them, wouldn't he?
Another slight breeze has him shivering as he removes his robe. He moves to close the window, confused as he usually leaves it shut–
The latch is broken.
There's a muffled sound of movement behind him, and someone grabs him from behind and places a cloth over his mouth, wet with a strange-smelling substance.
His hand hovers over to where his robe's inner sleeve and emergency tome would be, but he just undressed and the intruder – assassin? – saw that too.
He struggles, trying to kick and punch his mysterious assailant, but his human body is too weak and susceptible to those poisons and soon enough he fades into unconsciousness.
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Robin & Chrom: *emotionally fraught argument*
Tharja: I'm just here to vibe
(As always reviews are appreciated)