She was standing in front of him.
Her robes burnt and tattered and callused hands gripping an ancient tome with one hand. The sky was red as blood and the wind battered them with crackling magic and the scent of blood. The battle around them raged on, but the war cries and the clash of metal and claws remained muted from where they were standing. There was a blur of blue behind the tactician, but their eyes remained fixated at each other.
He mirrored her, like a reflection on still water, yet different at the same time. She is him and he is her, but they are still different persons…different beings. Their beliefs and morals opposed each other's – Grima never had a need for such trivial, human things. He could have torn her into pieces in a blink of an eye, but there was a force keeping him glued on the spot - a force he thought he has stamped out in the future past.
Then, she raised a hand. Magic, as ancient as he, crackling on her fingertips. Her mouth moved, but the words were silent – Is that how it is? There was a ringing in his ears and before he could react, her magic…their magic has pierced his heart.
His eyes fluttered open and he jolted to a sitting position. His hand fumbled to his chest, to where his beating heart is supposed to be. There was no wound, no blood, nor bolt of magic that pierced this flesh. He is alive. He stared at his hand where strands of white hair fell between his fingers. For a moment, he felt ridiculous…and revolted. When did you ever fear death? You are a god. You are Death. You are Grima.
He gritted his teeth. "That damned vessel…"
The door creaked open and the same old woman yesterday stepped inside. His anger slowly dissipating to wariness as he turned to her. Lillian, was it? She closed the door and hobbled to his bedside with one hand gripping tightly on her cane and the another precariously holding a plate.
"So, you're finally awake. Again." There was an accusing tone in her voice as she pulled out the stool next to the bed. "You collapsed and slept for two days. I told you to rest, didn't I? You, youngsters, never listen to your elders."
She let out a pained grunt as she sat down. Her wizened hands fumbling with her cane as she passed him the plate. "Eat." She told him. "The men in town returned from hunting last night. They barely caught enough to feed a small town of one hundred, but it is better than nothing."
He looked suspiciously at the plate on his hands. There are a few slices of bread and a small piece of meat the size of his fist. There are vegetables as well, but he has no idea what they are. He never has a need to feed on what these humans call food, nor his vessel when he finally possessed what was made for him. But this vessel, this body, or whatever this is, seemed to share that need when his stomach grumbled. He cautiously picked up a slice of bread and dangled it in front of him. His eyes narrowing as he inspected the food.
Is this poisoned? A small portion of the outer layer was burnt and the bread was a bit soggy. It smelled fine, but he does not trust this old woman. A few leaves of the vegetable were nibbled and the meat is half-burnt. He wondered how these humans call this food at all. He has seen more pleasant-looking food served in the Shepherds' camp compared to these.
"I told that child not to disturb you."
He placed the bread back on the plate. The memory of the five-year old child diverting his attention from the unsavory meal. That child…Robin. There was no mistaking that white hair prominent among those with Plegian blood; even the offsprings of his wretched vessel failed to inherit the color of her hair.
"She's staying with my granddaughter and has not caused any trouble, if you are worried." Lillian said - her eyes studying him for a moment. "Now that I have a proper look of you, you and that child are alike. Is she yours?"
What? His confusion must have been written all over his face when Lillian explained. "I meant if she is your child. You are too alike to be not kin. Perhaps, you don't remember as well…."
Something about the sullen look in the old woman's face that made him uncomfortable and it baffled him as to why. He never felt such…emotion before. Not when he destroyed his creator. Not when he extinguished so many lives that a human's pitiful lifespan could count. It never mattered to him, never felt such…nuisances before. He is the perfect being and has no need for imperfect emotions.
"I will prepare a warm bath for you." Lillian gripped the edge of the table as she shakily stood up. "I will see if my son-in-law has some clothes your size. This time, make sure to rest."
There was a sharpness in her tone that made him flinch; his head involuntarily bobbing once to appease the old woman. It was ridiculous notion - him, a god, fearing a mere mortal nearing the doors of death – but a new emotion…this human emotion has made disgustingly vulnerable. She looked at him like he was a child caught stealing more than his share of food in the middle of night before shaking her head.
She padded to the door, pausing only to look back at him. "If that child looks for you, I will bring her here. She's quite the curious little thing, that child." He did not say anything, but simply watched as the door closed behind her back.
The bath was a little consolation to his new ire. He has experienced the better kind – his vessel rightfully pampered as the queen of Ylisse with luxuries of jasmine, rose petals, and scented candles that peasants could only dream about. Though Robin might not be one to indulge into such frivolous extravagance, she lets herself once in a while with the insistence of her husband. However, he is not in the Ylissean palace nor does he anymore reside in his vessel, he has his own body, his own flesh, and he cannot really complain about it to commoners like that old woman.
He submerged down the tub, letting the warm water rise to his chin. The long strands of his white hair floating on the water like lily pads on a stagnant lake. The warmth soothed his aching body that has been bedridden for days. He felt clean, calm, and…relaxed.
He closed his eyes. Relaxation…what a strange word. He never had a need to…relax. He has always thirst for the end of mankind and the burning of the world thereafter. But that was before, back when he was still capable to achieve his true form, when he still has his powers to raze everything to the ground. Now, he has nothing. He was stripped of what he had, imprisoned in this body of weak flesh, and stuck with a younger version of his former vessel. All of it, without a doubt in his mind, his archnemesis' doing.
He has to discover what Naga is planning and retrieve the powers the Divine Dragon King has stolen from him. His spirit might be residing in the body of a manakete, but he could not sense any trace of draconic energy that all manaketes have. Even if a part of it was stored in a dragonstone, he would still feel it. He has find to a way to return to his true form. Only then, he will exact his revenge – this time, he will secure his victory the second time – and destroy everything and everyone including that daughter of hers Naga loved so much. There will be no second Naga nor any divine dragons. He will slay them all and use them to fuel his might even further – stronger that even that accursed Exalted bloodline cannot hold a candle against him. Yes, he will see to it to turn the tables right before their eyes, but for now…he let out a quiet sigh as he sank further down the warm water. Relaxation.
Villains need to relax sometimes.