Content warnings come in full effect here, so keep that in mind.
*warbled mario voice* here we gooo
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Robin rises to consciousness slowly and painfully. His head aches over resting on a hard unyielding surface and his limbs are sore from being tied and stretched, the rope digging into his skin with a painful sting. The less that can be said of the terrible cramp of his wings as his back is pressed against the same hard surface as his head, the better. His mind too is hazy, and his vision would swim if he wasn't still blindfolded.
Since whoever captured him will soon figure out Robin is not a typical human, he risks slightly opening one eye that's below the blindfold. His vision is blurry, but he spies a large domed room made of polished marble, devoid of windows and illuminated by torches deposited across the walls. Through his slowly sharpening hearing, hushed voices echoing around him.
"Are you sure he came from the Exalt's bedchamber?" comes a soft voice from behind Robin. Thorpe's.
"He visited in the afternoon but never left, milord. And I saw that witch of his make her way there later in the night," comes a second voice, low and even.
"And you said you heard them scream…" A third voice speaks. The Hierarch. "By Naga's name, is the Exalt—?!"
"My men didn't stay around, but last we saw his injuries were minor. We're unsure what transpired—"
Robin mentally curses as he tries to call on his magic. Flames lap around his fingertips, but it's followed by a sharp sting and an overwhelming wave of coldness. Whatever he's strapped on has counterspells or seals, meant to disorient your typical spellcaster. Which Robin, exhausted both mentally and physically, is at this point.
Their voices stop with a collective gasp. Great, so he's still stuck and his cover is blown.
Robin takes a deep breath and wiggles his limbs to show he's awake.
What follows is overwhelming silence, so Robin speaks up: "I know this is you, Hierarch; Thorpe; The third voice I assume is one of Thorpe's goons."
The stranger huffs in insult. "There's no point in the blindfold then."
"Wait—!" Thorpe protests just as a pair of hands reach behind Robin's head and yank the blindfold away.
Robin blinks, careful to only do so for his topmost pair of eyes, unsure how much they've seen or even if his Brand is still covered despite this night's disastrous series of events. Once his vision clears, he cranes his head back to see the culprits.
The Hierarch is in full regalia as always, though his expression is somewhere between terror and disbelief. Thorpe is next to him, dressed down and looking like he'd bitten on a lemon. The goon is a lean grave man, but Robin doesn't focus on him, as he cares little for the faces of creatures he's planning to maim. There's also another person in the far side of the room, by the entrance, a pale-faced grunt worriedly holding on to his bow. Just like the previous mercenary, Robin only takes note of his weapon and probable skill.
Well, their little group confirms his guess. Still, he can't believe he got caught within home territory. Embarrassing. Unthinkable. He should turn in his title as chief tactician.
Doubly so as it's from someone in the Council. Robin has been keeping an eye out, but he hasn't heard of any plans against Chrom and the Hierarch would never—
His mind screeches to a halt as he realises that a lack of schemes against Chrom does not equate to a lack of schemes against Robin. Which is blindingly obvious now, but in all battles before Robin thought of them, of the Shepherds, as one unit with Chrom as the head. Not to mention spying could be easily disguised on castle grounds, especially if done by a noble's assistants, and the more Robin thinks about it the worse his situation becomes.
Damn it all.
Then he looks down and realises his situation is even worse.
He's been put on a rack.
Robin sharply inhales. This… old equipment was used to interrogate Plegian captives or others unfortunate enough to attract the Exalt's — and by extension the Church of Naga's — ire. He came across it while learning more about the world shortly after he'd first arrived at Ylissod. When he brought it up with Emmeryn out of a seemingly detached interest — but inwardly with a sardonic undertone of the seemingly kind-hearted ruler having such implements — her face had fallen, and she'd said most of it was from her father's reign, and that she'd ordered the deconstruction of such devices. Clearly not all the clergy obeyed her decree.
He remembers reading that some of the more elaborate racks have images and prayers to Naga carved into the wood, with the logic that they would cloud a Grimleal's mind or influence them to repent, or something equally inane. Robin only feels splinters digging at his already sensitive back.
"I've got paperwork to do," Robin says with genuine frustration, tiredly looking at his captors. They're not enemies, not in any true sense of the word. This is pointless.
His gaze lingers on the Hierarch. Robin knows he and his faction didn't like him. They probably know that Robin knows they didn't like him. It's not something he can bring up with Frederick or Lissa or anyone else from the Shepherds though, as he doesn't want to take away the satisfying calmness from thinking they'd defeated Grima for good. He can't tell Chrom as he is already tied up in court matters five ways from Sunday and doesn't want him to worry about having to defend Robin from his own religion's clergy. Robin is supposed to deal with this matter himself.
The men still don't move, looking at Robin as if he's grown a second head.
"Well?" Robin spits out. "Mind explaining why you've abducted your ruler's advisor?"
The Hierarch's face falls even further as he turns to Thorpe. "I understand your concerns, but perhaps we were wrong. I can see the wings, but it is not unusual for those of Manakete heritage—"
"Nonsense, do you not see—? Darius, hand me a cloth!" Thorpe cuts himself off as Goon #1 does as instructed. "Look carefully, your Eminence!"
A wet cloth lands roughly on his face, and Robin lets out a low growl as it rubs harshly against his skin. Any makeup left is washed away, and the rest of Robin's eyes are forced open and watery from the pressure.
Goon #1 holds a lantern over Robin as Thorpe discards his cloth and grabs one of his hands. As the old man twists his palm around the rope, Robin realises he's missing his gloves.
The Hierarch gasps. "That's…"
Thorpe scoffs. "The Brand of the Defile, six red eyes and six black wings, now do you believe me, your Eminence?"
Robin blinks his eyes to get them to focus. From one pair he looks at Goon #1's impassive face, from the others it's the Hierarch's shocked expression and Thorpe's triumphant one.
"Get. Chrom," Robin hisses, startling Thorpe and the Hierarch. "Your Exalt. He can explain this."
Chrom cannot, but Robin needs time.
The Hierarch gasps. "The Exalt? Why would he defend—?"
"Remember your Eminence, we have reports that he's been frequenting His Grace's bedchambers." Thorpe stands up straighter and gives Robin a wary look. "No doubt taking advantage of the Exalt's kindness for an underhanded seduction, likely aided by potions or hexes from his whore—"
"Don't call Tharja that," Robin cuts him off, even if he knows his opposition will confirm their accusations. He also knows objecting to their other accusation of trying to seduce the Exalt is an exercise in futility. Anyone who spends more than five minutes within Chrom's vicinity ends up with such rumours about them, and Robin is no exception.
"As you can deduce, your Eminence, I'm afraid His Grace is already compromised." Thorpe places a reassuring hand onto the paling Hierarch's shoulder. "If anything, it's a miracle we intervened. If we had let this continue, who knows… It must be by Naga's blessing that His Grace is still alive—"
Robin braces against his restraints and lets out another hiss, both at the accusation he'd hurt Chrom and at that damned name… Still. After all this time. Still.
By the Hierarch's terrified look, Robin's outburst has been taken less than charitably. "What can we do? No one else can wield the Falchion—"
"Exactly," Robin cuts him off before Thorpe or his Goon can speak. "And Chrom will not kill me. Trust me, he's had plenty of chances. So I suggest you act sensibly, call him, and we can all sort this out like civilised beings—"
"But we have a man, a human vessel, in our hold, do we not?" Thorpe speaks over Robin, who pauses in confusion.
"… We shouldn't," the Hierarch whispers. "Naga wouldn't — We must attempt to commune with Her first—"
"Naga will not answer. She never does!" Thorpe despairs. "Are we to stand by and let His Grace, the good people of Ylisse, to be led like sheep to slaughter?!"
Robin narrows his eyes at Thorpe's outburst. The nobleman's words don't make sense, not if he believes that Robin is Grima's… whatever—
Unless Thorpe cares more about getting rid of Robin, Fell Dragon Vessel or not. After all, if Robin does not die, he will confirm his own guilt. But, if Robin does die, then Thorpe can push the blame to the Hierarch — that must be why he's been taken to the Church of Naga — and he will have defeated one of his rivals in the Council.
Robin has only begun to untangle this Thorpe's schemes when the man gestures to Goon #2. "But enough of this! We cannot make them confess their crimes with mere chit chat. Come here and turn—"
"No, you will not!" Robin barks to Goon #2, who freezes halfway before turning to approach. "As your Grandmaster, you are to release me and arrest this man!" he says, tilting his head in Thorpe's direction. Unlike Goon #1, Goon #2 bears Ylisse's guard uniform. If there's one thing Ylisse's guard is good for, that's its strict discipline and adherence to hierarchy. Besides being the Chief Tactician of the Shepherds, Robin bears the title of Grandmaster for Ylisse's remaining militia, so he outranks Thorpe, being behind only Chrom himself.
Goon #2 hesitates, looking between Robin and Thorpe. "Milords, this is…"
"You would listen to a Plegian over your own duke?!" a scandalised Thorpe asks. "To a foreigner bearing the Fell Dragon's Brand over His Eminence?!"
Goon #2 lets out a strangled sound but takes a step towards the top of the rack.
"Touch that handle and I will flay you—!"
"See! Does this viciousness belong to the Exalt's so-called composed tactician—?!"
"This viciousness is what won us the war against Valm — Agh!" Robin cries out as the rack creaks and his limbs are pulled oh-so-slightly apart. His shoulders are stretched uncomfortably upwards and his ankles crack. The sting from the ropes doubles and Robin cranes his head to catch the culprit.
Goon #1 is gripping the handle and gives a slight bow to Thorpe. "Milord, I apologise for my initiative, but there is little point in arguing."
Robin lets out a hissed scoff as Thorpe's flicker of annoyance. This charade is more about gaining people to his side than extracting any sort of truth about his relationship to the Fell Dragon. But of course Goon #1, in all his self-perceived notion of straightforwardness and eagerness to please his master, is too stupid to recognise that.
Still, Robin's joints are already pushed to the limit. Any more turns will start causing actual damage, and this will only be the beginning if he doesn't think of something.
"Oh, what are we to do?" the Hierarch mutters in a daze. "We cannot allow the Exalt to be corrupted by the very same evil who made the last Hierarch betray the late—"
"I didn't," Robin cut him off, stung by that accusation. Any reservations he had at Emmeryn's pacifism and misplaced optimism had been buried deep when she died. Chrom's subsequent fit of rage had stirred a long-forgotten fear in him. "Your previous Hierarch was a weak-willed man, a conniving worm allying with other men of his calibre." He lets out a sharp laugh and tilts his head to catch the Hierarch's wide-eyed look. "And I see you live up to your predecessor's reputation—"
Robin's focus is solely on the Hierarch, so he does not see which one of their little merry band of fools slaps him with such force as for his cheek to painfully bang against the wood. A shocked Robin freezes in place, even as his neck muscles complain from the strain.
Within a few moments, Robin's initial shock is substituted by confusion, then by indignation and finally, by anger. The anger he's buried deep but still overflows, clouding his thoughts in a red haze that makes his body tremble.
Thorpe's muffled voice drones on above him. "You must not allow its poison to spread to you, Your Eminence—"
"Do that again and I will rip your hand off, worm."
The sight of the men's expressions of pure horror from the guttural echoing sounds coming from his human vessel fills him with satisfaction. Yet even that pleasure cannot override the waves of hatred rolling through him. He's pulling at his restrains, and the pain of rough rope chafing against open wounds feels like a paper cut.
His captors take a step back, Goon #1 standing before his lord, as if that matters. Humans tended to do that, to crowd together when threatened, a foolish gesture that only made his slaughter easier…
Yet unlike other times, his anger is underlined by a persisting sense of wrongness. Their hunched frames, their expressions, his emotions, they're all familiar like the childhood memory of an old home. Familiar, but wrong. It's not supposed to be like this. Not anymore.
He rests his head against the wood and closes his eyes. "I am Robin of the Shepherds," he mutters, more to himself than his future victi—captors. "The Chief Tactician under Exalt Chrom."
The room falls silent. Robin wonders if it will still exist when he opens his eyes. Perhaps this is nothing more than a nightmare and he will wake up in a tangle of sheets, pale but… secure. Perhaps… Perhaps he even dreamed of the confrontation with Chrom and Tharja, and will wake up by Chrom's side, slightly disturbed from a dream he can't quite remember, but ultimately peaceful.
Or perhaps he's been dreaming for a very, very long time and he will wake up to an all-encompassing void, a desolate valley, or a cramped alchemical lab tucked away in a vast underground labyrinth.
His hands and feet are pulled further apart, sending fire through his limbs as they strain and groan from the pressure. His body makes a fleshy set of sounds he's never heard from humans before, joined by his startled, pained cry.
And this can't be a dream. For all his guilt, he doesn't — he can't hate himself this much.
"You are the Fell Dragon, Grima, a baleful deity who seeks to plunge the world into darkness and destruction."
Despite his aching joints, Robin throws his head back and laughs. Their resulting disturbed faces only make him laugh harder.
They're right, yet oh so wrong. But he shouldn't have expected anything more from these worms. They don't know and never will. They can't understand, they were never meant to.
Just like he was never meant for this vessel, for this life. Yes, it's all becoming very clear and simple to him now, just like at the Dragon's Table. No more grasping in the dark at what he should do, at what he would do.
"What is going on here?"
Libra's soft voice causes him to choke on his laugh and his head up with such force to give him whiplash. His hopes of hallucinating are dashed, as the blonde priest is by the entrance, gently pushing past Goon #2.
The Hierarch's eyes bulge. "Ah, Saint…!"
"Your Eminence?" Libra narrows his eyes to see in the dim light, and his eyes land on the tactician. "Robin? Why are you—" His eyes widen and he looks up at the gathered men, scandalised. "What are you doing?!"
Robin can count the times he's heard Libra raise his voice on one hand, and now is one of them. The usually composed priest hurries to his side, and his hand rests on Robin's forehead, an instinct honed by countless battles. Though Robin has told himself that he will bite off the next hand that dares come close to his face, he stays still and lets Libra's palm rest on his forehead. It's warm.
"Tell me, are you hurt — What is going on here!? Why are you...?" Libra's eyes trace his bound wrists and feet, the tautness of the rope, and it is a testament to the man's composure that he does not try to pull at the rope and dig it further into Robin's skin.
"Stand back Saint!" the Hierarch exclaims, having finally found his voice. He puts a hand on Libra's side to push him away, but the cleric stays firm, though confused. "You must be cautious, we have finally exposed the foul beast within our midst—!"
"What? So this is a…?" Libra cuts him off, his voice still soft despite its firmness. "Sir Robin is our Exalt's valuable ally and friend, have you lost your minds—?!"
"Does this look like the face of a valuable ally, Brother?" Thorpe gravely says, coming around to Robin's other side and tugging at a wing that pokes under his back. Splinters cut shallow scratches across his limb at the sharp pull.
Libra's eyes widen further, as if he sees them for the first time — and knowing how absorbed the cleric can get while attending someone, Robin guesses that's the case. As Libra's eyes trail from the wings to his face, Robin unconsciously growls before he chokes down the noise and closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see Libra's face, not when, not when his cover is fully blown, with the traces of his true form poking under the fragile human guise. Libra, for all his virtues, because of such virtues, is at the end of the day a devoted follower of Naga.
"That's enough!" Thorpe's hard tug lessens, and Robin hears minor sounds of a scuffle. He opens his eyes as Libra grips Thorpe's hand, standing between them and Robin. His lips are a thin line, though his expression is more concerned than angry.
Goon #1 steps between Libra and Thorpe. "Unhand my Lord."
Robin spies Libra's free hand unconsciously reaching for an axe that's not there just as Thorpe wretches his away.
"Stand down Darius, a fellow of the Church is no enemy of ours," Thorpe quickly says, no doubt to reassure the Hierarch than for any actual concern for Libra's safety. "But I must insist, what more is there to know? He bears the mark of Grima, the Fell Dragon, the scourge of humanity—"
"You and I know nothing," Libra cuts him off, his voice uncharacteristically acidic. Despite everything, Robin's heart feels lighter. "And you, your Eminence, you allowed this to happen?"
The Hierarch lets out a deep sigh. "Brother. I am not blind, and neither are you. Surely you can see…"
"Our eyes just as often obscure the truth than reveal it," Libra asserts, like reciting an old idiom. "I don't know what madness has come over you, but this stops now! You are to release Sir Robin, and the Exalt will be informed of this. If it's answers you seek, then you will get them after your trial for assaulting an innocent man—"
The thwip of an arrow is all the warning anyone gets before Libra cries and stumbles to one leg, an arrow protruding from the other.
Robin tugs against the rope, tearing freshly made scabs as the Hierarch shrieks in tandem and Goon #1 pushes Thorpe behind him, blades raised. He wants to speak, to tell Libra to run away and get backup, to scream at the Hierarch's incompetence and reveal Thorpe's convoluted scheme, but all he can do is gape like a fish out of water. Libra…
Their attacker, Goon #2, stands by the door, their bow still raised despite their trembling grip. "I… We… We can't…" He looks from the fallen priest to the Hierarch like a lost child. "He's got him too, right? Like the Exalt—"
"Fools," Libra gasps as blood pools around his feet. "You disgrace Naga with this horrible display."
"Let him go!" Robin roars, finally able to speak, but flinching at the volume of his voice. "Your business is with me, not him—!"
Goon #2, the little rat bastard, squeals and takes a step back, pointing at Robin with a trembling hand. "See, he's trying to protect him! They must be working together…"
"Lower your weapon, fool!" Thorpe yells. "Or are you the one who has turned traitor?!"
The Hierarch kneels by Libra's side. "Brother, please. We must not hurt each other now." He raises a hand between him and Goon #2 in a useless gesture. "This is not a time for discord."
Libra does not reply as he props himself up, supported by the Hierarch. Robin wants to speak but finds his throat choked again.
"Brother?" the Hierarch asks, Libra's head still lowered. "I apologise, tensions are running high—"
"No need, Your Eminence," Libra's soft voice quiets him. "I feel much more clear-headed now."
The Hierarch smiles just as Libra moves. In one swift gesture, Libra breaks the arrow, yanks the front out of his leg and jabs the sharp end into one of the ropes at Robin's wrist. The metal edge digs into the hem and wood, fraying it enough to allow Robin some mobility in one of his limbs.
Holding back a mad cackle, Robin jerks the frayed rope, causing more of it to be sliced against the embedded arrow until his hand is fully freed. He immediately sets out to undo his other bindings as Libra shoves the Hierarch away and undoes the turns on the rack — oh, Robin could kiss him!
Goon #2 screams and fires another arrow, but his hands tremble too much and he wildly misses his target. Thorpe is furiously shouting as Goon #1 lunges into Libra and the two men hold each other at arm's length. Robin undoes the knot on his other wrist and wastes no time doing the same to his leg. His whole body is sore, but he can't waste even the moment to stretch his aching joints—
The third arrow lands just above one of Libra's shoulder blades as its target lets out a groan of pain and collapses under Goon #1's assault.
Robin jumps out of the rack, uncaring his legs are still bound — he still has enough slack to reach the two. Goon #1 notices him and moves away from a seemingly incapacitated Libra, viewing Robin as a greater threat to be terminated with extreme prejudice.
Just as planned.
Magic comes to him much easier now, and since Goon #1 has made himself such an easy target, who's to deny him the fireball he so rightly craves?
Flame licks at Robin's fingertips and Goon #1 pauses, his little worm brain finally realising exactly what he's dealing with. His knees lower to jump aside and it's such a familiarly desperate gesture, like the myriad of little ant-like soldiers scattering as he approached, their fragile minds too overwhelmed to actually think about the uselessness of trying to outrun a colossal dragon in a straight-line.
A sharp, forceful pain at his back has him thrown face-first to the floor. With Robin's focus wavering, the flames are extinguished.
Cursing this little delay, Robin reaches for his back and comes across a broken handle, steel underneath it. He grabs it, uncaring as the metal digs into his palm, and rips it out.
The bloody knife clatters to the cobblestone next to him as Robin props himself up by the elbow. With a snarl he looks back to see a pale-faced Hierarch toddle backwards, dragged by a cursing Goon #2.
Robin tries to get up, and though his legs move, they jerk and shake as if he's a toddler learning to walk. The pain has dulled, but the strange numbing sensation remains.
Before he can think, a boot collides with his face and sends him tumbling by the rack's base. His breath is knocked out of him as his mind fogs, and next thing he knows someone is dragging him up that damned contraption.
Robin trashes with what limbs he can move. He frees a hand and claws at, he's not sure what, his vision is a blur of muted colours. Something lands on his face, tries to manoeuvre it, but Robin wretches it so the assaulting object lands dangerously close to his mouth. Seeing his chance, Robin bites down — he recognises knobbly flesh, a finger most likely — and wretches his head again in the opposite direction, ripping his prey off what it should be attached to.
The cries of pain and blood running down his mouth are a familiar sensation, and Robin pauses moments before gulping down his prize. That's not… He should have a sword, a tome, not…
A sharp sting from his wrist breaks him out of his reverie. He barely registers he's been tied back before the rack groans and pulls him taut.
Robin lets out a strangled cry, choking on the torn finger lodged between his teeth. The new pain throws everything into a stark clarity, and he sees Libra a short distance away, sitting down and clutching his injuries as Goon #2 has drawn an arrow pointed at his head. The cleric's pale face has grown even paler, a thin trail of blood running down his disoriented face.
"More!" Thorpe's voice echoes in the room. "Make sure it cannot escape again!"
Goon #1 grunts and that's all the warning Robin gets before the ropes pull further, stretching his limbs to lengths he thought impossible. He only feels a dull throb from his legs, but his shoulders, elbows and wrists are alight with a new type of pain, one he has been fortunate enough not to experience until now. He throws his head back and forth, hitting it against the wood with too much force and giving himself a new source of headaches.
The rack turns again and again and again, each time Robin thinking he's hit his limit, and each time his human body surprising him by not tearing in two. Robin bites down on the finger still in his mouth, but eventually, the knuckle gives away and he's left with fragments of bone and flesh gnashing against teeth.
'GRIMLEAL!' Robin roars into the shared connection of all those foolish enough to offer their blood to the Fell Dragon, ignoring the wave of pinpricks of surprise that echo back at him. 'BLOOD!' he demands, uncaring where they get it from.
The rack turns again, and his pain reaches a tipping point. A fleshy pop echoes through his body, followed by a limited relief at some of the stretch being undone, then by a new, more terrible wave of pain at his shoulder.
The rack turns again, and it hurts in the way human bodies do to force their owner not to move.
The rack turns again, and the wrist of his other hand goes through the same 'pain-pop-relief-pain' cycle.
The rack turns again, and Robin's head falls to his side.
The rack turns again, and something gives way in Robin's body again as the rope slacks, but there's no new source of pain from his arms. His numb legs must have given out.
The rack turns again, dragging his numb limbs even further apart from his torso and—
And the rack pauses.
"He shouldn't be able to move now."
Through a half-lidded vision, Goon #1 steps back as Thorpe attends to a trembling Hierarch.
"Your Eminence, your finger…"
"A-A small sacrifice. I-If the… the Fell Dragon has swayed Saint of Naga and the Exalt, then we can't…" the man's voice breaks. "We cannot — we must not lose another Exalt!" His chin trembles, but after a few seconds the man takes a deep breath and tightens it. He's probably mentally praising himself for 'making a hard decision', and once Robin is free, he will personally tear off every single of his fingers before crushing him into a fine paste.
"But can we do?" another worm says from the opposite side. They're not important enough to warrant more than a simple disembowelment that'll have them choking on his blood for the next few hours of his meaningless existence.
"… We must do what we can to limit the Fell Dragon's power over this vessel." Thorpe would be left for last, if only because the arrogant noble witnessing his plans crumble with such totality will break his mind much more thoroughly than any physical pain could. "Our Lady's power manifests her bloodline through her blood and Brand, and the Feel Dragon has copied her in a mocking imitation. Darius, are you sure he's immobilised?"
Goon #1, the one he will tear from limb to limb, grunts affirmatively. "The — His Eminence's attack immobilised his legs, and his arms are dislocated." The man spares Robin a glance, but he merely stares back. "I think he fainted."
"I do not care what you think. Make sure he's pinned thoroughly this time."
With another grunt, Darius moves to the rack's pulley, but does not turn it. Yet.
Thorpe hovers above him, a pale Hierarch by his side. "What would you suggest, your Eminence?"
Before the old man can respond, Robin coughs to gain their attention, even if the mere movement makes his joins explode with pain.
Thorpe's frown turns into a glare. "Darius! He's very much conscious!"
"Wait," Robin croaks. "I have…" He mouths the rest, a random jumble of words meant to be nonsense. A trickle of power runs through him from the Dragon's table and he shivers. Ah, so it's starting.
Unconsciously, the two men lean closer.
Robin spits out the Hierarch's blood at his face. The man recoils in blinded horror, and Robin laughs, his stretched lips bloody. He manoeuvres the largest remaining piece of the fingers and displays it through his teeth.
Thorpe gasps as the Hierarch mouth hands agape. "That's my—!"
Robin crushes what little flesh is left and visibly swallows.
… Ah, so that's how this little gaggle of worms looks when properly terrified. Even Grunt #1 has gone a bit pale. He wonders how they'll react once they realise exactly what they're facing.
The Hierarch extends a trembling hand to Goon #1. "Give me your blade, my son."
"Your Eminence…" Thorpe falters as Goon #1 does as instructed, and the Hierarch starts muttering a silent prayer.
When the old man opens his eyes, his gaze has a newfound hardness to it. Robin smiles. The little worm has finally grown a spine, and he will delight in tearing it out.
"It is as you said, milord. We must not allow the Fell Dragon's influence to spread through this poor soul." He looks at Robin with a strange, almost sorrowful expression that gives him pause. "I had my doubts, but I am convinced this wretched creature is of the Fell Dragon. Despite our limited interactions and his ancestry, the late Sir Robin would never be this monstrous."
Robin opens his mouth in unconscious protest as the Hierarch plunges the knife into his eye.
He screams. He screams that they're wrong, but the words catch in his mouth, choked by a bone stuck in his oesophagus. The knife digs deeper and deeper as blood, tears and jell-like humours run down his cheeks. It digs until its tip scrapes the bone and pulls out with a squelch.
Hands hold his face in place, and the knife descends again, but with less force. Instead, the dastard, the worm, has the gall to pretend he's being gentle as the tip of the knife descends into the corner of an uninjured eye. He has the gall to mutter silent prayers as his eye is dug out. He has the gall to repeat this twice, even as he screams and bile rises to his throat and…
And he stops and steps back.
No. No, they can't be finished. He still has two eyes left. The topmost row, his human eyes.
The knife rises to his Branded hand and Robin realises exactly what they're doing.
As the blade sinks into his skin, Robin struggles in what he hopes is suitably desperate. Rage overtakes all his other emotions, dulling the pain from the knife into a mere sting. Old memories resurface, and the pain now is nothing to the burning sensation of the Falchion slashing through his throat, of acid running down his juvenile scales.
More of his old power returns to him as the Dragon Table bleeds, the tattered remains of Falchion's seal swatted aside like cobwebs, further dulling his pain.
Robin cranes his head back, unsure if he's laughing or crying. Faraway, Libra is yelling too, but he chooses to ignore his words. No use of them now.
As the knife leaves his hand along with a patch of skin, Robin slumps into the rack, seemingly unconscious. If there is one thing he learned through his long existence, it's how to bide his time.
There are hands on his sides. The knife lands there too, tries going under him, but stops. It tries to reach into the base of its wings, but the rack has him pressed taut against the wooden base, and the blade merely scratches them.
It's fine, Robin tells himself. Any disadvantage can be overcome with the right tactics. The greatest mistakes happen when one lets themselves think they've won. It's how he fell, and these worms would follow suit. And after he kills them he will raise hell, and when he does…!
… In the end, it will be the same old story.
"Your Eminence," comes a voice. He does not care for its owner. "He's lost a lot of blood. Surely…" it trembles, unsure.
Ah, one of the little worms is starting to realise how deep into the woods it's got.
"We can't rest until any trace of the Fell Dragon is removed! But I can't reach…" A curse, so much unlike the pious men they pretend to be.
"He's not moving." Something pokes at his side and he lets himself sway despite jostling his decimated joints. Patience. "Do you think he's…"
"If we're this fortunate, then we need to prepare a pyre and inform the Exalt once this is done. I will take full responsibility for our actions tonight."
Oh, how he wants to voice his disagreement. They will all burn tonight.
"… Undo his hands so I can reach his back. Ready your weapons if he moves—"
"If you do not care for his life, then there is one thing left to do."
He holds back a laugh as his heart is run through. They think this can kill him. Injure him, even.
The blade then swipes at his throat and the blood runs warm down his collarbone and chest, leaving him cold. Patience…
"Host him on his back."
The blade is withdrawn. His arms jostle as the hands move to the ropes, a gesture that stretches to an eternity until…
Slack, and rough rope sliding free from raw flesh. His magic crawling like an army of insects under his skin.
There.
Before, he limited his magic because of his frail human vessel. The slivers of his power flowing back with his memories already tore at its seams, manifesting parts of what should be there, what he was missing. Any more would have pulled it apart completely, like cheap wallpaper.
But he does not care about such things now. He can't bring himself to think, not when his power buzzes under his skin, shocking the little worms who thought they ever had the upper hand. In his mind's eye, the Dragon's Table floods with red as the remaining seals are undone thread by thread until the last stopgap of his power crumbles to dust.
Old, hardened scales rip through fragile skin as his bones break and reform, flesh sliding over flesh, organs rearranged and discarded. Useless arms and legs wither and fall off, desiccated remnants of what he thought he could be. His teeth, pathetic as they are but still stained with the blood of his enemies, rattle and fall as his old incisors break through his gums, thirsting for their predecessor's last meal. He grows, bigger than what their pathetic little hands can grasp, bigger than their cruel contraptions, than the dingy room they sought to uncover a truth they were unprepared for.
An arrow thunks off his scales. His senses are remade, so he cannot see or hear the little worms scuttling below him yet, but he can sense their thoughts. Desperation and fear and shock and indignation and the calmness of facing one's inevitable death—
No, he can't have that.
He lazily swats his tail and feels a pressure, just as that same tranquillity is replaced with pain and even more fear. Much more adequate. His new body is a burning mass of long-forgotten sensations, of repressed emotions, of the last vestiges of his remaining memories.
What's left of his vision returns, but it flickers between terrified worms and a lone figure in a lab, backing away from its rearing creation after realising his most recent folly would be his last.
The same old story, always the same old story…
Robin would not relent, would hold steadfast, faithful that his companions would come in the nick of time, that all his decisions were his alone and that means he can somehow shape reality itself.
But Grima is tired of this song and dance and wants to skip to its inevitable end.
\*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*/
… I may have overdone it with the gore… But this *is* Grima, supposed Destroyer of Worlds, so,,,,,
Anyways, look forward to Chrom showing up next chapter for a much needed reunion next week!
Reviews are appreciated.