It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm on spring vacation so I have time to publish this and hopefully get through the next two ones as well! I've been feeling pretty inspired lately :)
Many thanks to the wonderful Iturbide (whose special friend makes a cameo here) and newsmrsdewinter for their invaluable editing and feedback and chat conversations; I hope you can listen to me shilling for them and go check them out! A big shout-out to FreelancerSeal for his consistent reviewing here-I still have to review more of your work too man!
Despite having been gathered in the same place but a few days ago, Robin felt as though ages had passed since the last meeting. And yet, the scene was identical to the last: Chrom in his deep blue livery at the head of the table; his ministers forming a u-shape around him in their seats, followed by Robin and the Feroxi on the right side of the table; the Rosannois on the left, and the Valmese completing the ring on the opposing end of the table.
The tension was also the same. The Valmese and Rosannois squared off, glaring, and the Feroxi also had their eyes on the former. Meanwhile, the Ylisseans were doing a poor job of pretending to mind their own business, glancing at each other warily, with some barely even disguising the burning looks sent Robin's way.
She fought the urge to shrink into her seat. It was an excellent reminder of how she was quite literally the only Plegian in the entire castle.
Chrom, looking tired and exasperated due to the early hour and the grossly obvious misbehaviour of the present company, did not even bother to put on a polite mask and dragged a hand down his haggard face. "As the moderator, I'm going to speak plainly: I'm going to put the first issue to a vote—" he rapped his gavel sharply when voices rose in protest, "whether you all like it or not. Now then," Chrom pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. "Redevelopment of cropland, general reconstruction, compensation, and the application of law are all on the table...as is the issue of budgeting. Which one are we going to discuss first?"
Robin thought hard. Valentine was nowhere near subtle in his intentions towards pushing for harsh, swift criminal punishment—preferably with a few men swaying in the gallows before the week ended. Falstaff seemed unlikely to be as obviously bloodthirsty, but she was counting on him to hide his cards and bide his time until the right moment presented itself; he wore the face of a nobleman, but to Robin, the glittering red eyes of the pit vipers she had encountered in the Plegian deserts sprang to mind.
She was not opposed to the application of justice, but certainly not in the sweeping, generalised fashion her opponents thirsted for. Her only option was to stall until she could formulate a plan that would keep the innocent from the noose's reach. That, and the whole point of the peace summit was to keep the interests of their nations at the forefront; many were certainly baying for her blood as they spoke, but Robin knew that personal vendettas and national anger would not be able to feed and clothe the needy.
She raised her hand slowly, very conscious of everyone's eyes on her. "I would like to vote for the first point of discussion to focus on the reconstruction of cropland and the distribution of foodstuffs."
The rustle of shuffled parchment filled the room. Valentine, always eager for a fight, immediately jumped into the fray. "Might I inquire as to the reasoning behind it?"
"People are starving. Therefore, food must be provided to them."
"We are aware of that," Valentine smiled. "But I must say that it is rather...presumptuous to assume that the crown has not undertaken any measures. Perhaps our time would be better used to discuss the other topics on the, ah, 'to-do list.'"
Robin raised an eyebrow and steepled her hands. "No one objected to it in the previous meetings, and Chrom himself asked if there were any. Therefor, I must conclude that it is seen as a discussion to be had. Aside from that, the…things I saw on my journey towards Ylisstol were horrendous…I cannot pretend that they were mere figments of my imagination. If the crown has indeed taken steps as you say, then I can only conclude that they are far from adequate. Inefficient, even."
The comment cast a pensive pall over the gathering; a few Ylisseans ranged from looking worried to offended at her comment. The shrivelled prune she remembered as Ó Fearghial coughed roughly and spat out an enormous glob of phlegm to the side before resuming the conversation. "I do not understand. We have seen to the distribution of grain earlier in the year. Is that not enough?"
"He might have a point," the bearlike minister of Lands and Waters—Fabian Trengrouse, Robin reminded herself—admitted grudgingly. "The people did take the grain, but they needed to after they blew through their winter stores. And now that spring's here, the fields either lie torched or fallow," Robin tried to ignore the few accusing stares, "and most of the farming equipment that was available before was used up by the farmer conscripts. While the weather is fairer, it's not of much comfort when we have to scramble to prepare for this year's harvest."
"Or when so many peasants have died." Valentine glanced at Chrom slyly.
"We don't have much luck in the food department either," Basilio added. "What with snow nine months of the year, and that's in the areas closest to the border with Ylisse. The few warmer places under our control aren't in the, ah, best of shape."
Valentine propped his chin up with a slow smile. "But do tell us of your proposal, Your Highness. Surely you have some brilliant idea up your sleeves to save our starving people?"
Apparently, his tone was a little too obviously mocking, for his words earned him a sharp look from Chrom along with a loud rap from the gavel. The apologetic bow of his head belied the obvious delight he took from his prodding.
"Well…aside from the monetary compensation that is expected…then surely we can send food convoys—"
"With all due respect, Your Highness," Falstaff's interrupted smoothly, almost as if cautiously. "Unless your mage corps are skilled enough to cast the largest warp circle in all history, then I doubt that any sort of convoy will be able to arrive in a timely manner with enough foodstuffs to supply everyone in need. That is not even considering having to travel over entire mountains to aid Regna Ferox."
Robin swallowed. Valentine smirked. And the scratching of quills continued, unabated.
They were right, though. The affected regions housed most of Ylisse's populace as well as some of its most fertile areas; transporting entire bales of straw and fruit, not to mention driving thousands of heads of cattle east, would be time consuming and intensive, and there was no reliable guarantee of the precious cargo arriving on time and without spoiling when starving people needed it now. And yes, what of Regna Ferox? The mountains were in a near-constant state of harsh snow, and the crossing extremely treacherous. Was there truly no solution to be found?
"Hmmmm," the large, burly man with a red shock of a beard and hair—Urquhart—hum-growled loudly. "If I remember correctly, I think Miriel was—"
"Don't bring that crackpot's nonsense into this," Valentine snapped.
Chrom brought the gavel down with a sharp bang. "She is most certainly not a crackpot. I put her in your workshop for a reason." The prince's expression was thunderous and his voice just as loud. "I'm warning you, Daveth. If I have to remind you to behave again, then you can be sure that I'll take the necessary steps to discipline you."
Valentine slumped sullenly in his seat, his bluster and bravado suddenly gone. "I apologise," he muttered.
"Do you understand?" Chrom pressed, his tone hard and unyielding.
"Yes," Valentine glowered right back at him. The tension between them crackled visibly, a thin string drawn taut, ready to snap at any moment.
Robin watched the scene play out before her with undisguised discomfort; Chrom had every right to reestablish his authority over his minister, but there was something more personal to their confrontation…clear offence taken over the crackpot jibe. Who was Chrom defending? A friend? A Shepherd? Both?
Robin was not the only one to have noticed the implications behind their fighting words, clearly, but most seemed to have taken most note of Valentine's moodiness—conduct unbecoming a man of his rank, and a minister, no less. Alpine was whispering, shocked, to his older brother. Pheros narrowed his eyes in disapproval. Even Falstaff, clearly not a man given to overt displays of public emotion, gave a little side glance in Valentine's direction that spelled nothing short of disappointment.
Cervantes cleared his throat in an attempt to get the conversation back on track. "Rosanne boasts of its green fields constantly—surely it won't be much to ask the same favour of them?"
Du Berry scoffed incredulously. "While we appreciate the kindness of Walhart and his dynast allies for deciding against torching them because they were so useful to their cause, you forget there is still an ocean separating our continents, sir."
"If you're so keen on asking Rosanne about food, why not give it to us yourself?" Basilio added. "You guys don't look like you're starving…I daresay you look more well-fed than most of us here!" The khan laughed boisterously, and Cervantes' belly jiggled, outraged, as he spluttered and tried to fire back a retort.
Pheros, ignoring the petty banter around him, addressed Chrom directly, quill at the ready. "If I may ask your Minister of War, who is this Miriel he spoke of?"
Valentine coughed obnoxiously in reply. Chrom scowled, nostrils flaring dangerously, fingers at the gavel's handle. Urquhart shared the sentiment and glared at Valentine in warning before returning Pheros' address. "A mage under Valentine's employ. An eccentric, for sure, but she's got quite the brain. She mutters about all sorts of things and tinkers with anything and everything, so perhaps she might be the one we need to ask about the logistics of warp spells and such."
"If I may interrupt," Valentine asked carefully.
Chrom's stony stare fixed upon him and waited for a few silent seconds before responding. "What do you wish to say?"
The minister ran his fingers through his wavy pink hair, mulled over his next words, and glanced back warily, if still churlishly, at the prince. "With all due respect, I have her occupied with other projects to attend to, and I have several other more highly-ranked mages at our disposal instead of having to rely on one woman who does not have the years of experience they do."
A Feroxi delegate named Miloah spoke up. "But sir, the general vouched for her skill, perhaps she can solve the issue of time—"
"Time that can be put to better use thinking up of a solution we need instead of wasting it on spells and casting techniques that may take even the most learned of men years to develop." Valentine's smile was tight and brooked no further discussion. The mood, now thoroughly soured, filled up every corner of the boardroom as the men broke off into smaller groups to murmur to one another before Chrom sighed resignedly and called a recess.
This so called Miriel certainly sounded like a genius for those men to refer to her when thinking of magical solutions…but why would Valentine oppose a referral to her? He called her a crackpot, but in spite of that, his stubbornness over the issue seemed to transcend any personal pettiness felt towards her—and Chrom. What could possibly be the reason to block any discussion of using warping magic to transport desperately needed foodstuffs across the border? What other alternatives could he have to it?
Why, none of course, a little voice in Robin's head said.
Well, why not? Did he not care about his countrymen dying of hunger?
Think about it, Robin. In the short time that you've known him, what has been made abundantly clear about him?
That he hated her and spent a great deal of his breath trying to insult her and hamper her—Plegia's—progress.
What has he been shown to want so far?
A couple thousand, if not most, Plegians executed for war crimes. To make them suffer.
Short of killing Plegians and feeding them to hungry Ylisseans, what exactly do you think he is trying to accomplish here? What do you think he will demand so that it will hurt you and your people?
Of course.
Valentine was stalling against mentions of teleportation magic as without it, it would mean a long, arduous journey: not only would the convoys have to cross perilous terrain and face nature's wrath, but they would have to be defended against bandits and hungry Plegians, angered and desperate at the sight of food not meant for them. More people would starve to death waiting for food that would arrive anywhere from 70 to 80 days at best. And if more people died, then it would certainly be easier to weaponise the fury of outraged Ylisseans and demand more in compensation. If Plegia failed to deliver, then it certainly would not seem disagreeable to demand cold, hard bullion to pay for the expenses incurred from it.
Yes, Valentine thirsted for the sight of bodies on a pyre and the gallows, but it seemed that he was also more than open to squeezing every last coin from Plegia's coffers.
Robin made a beeline straight to a familiar head of blue hair. "Chrom! Chrom!" she called out and waved frantically.
He was almost out the door, surrounded by his cabinet, and with the ever-present Frederick hovering protectively close by. Chrom bid them to step aside to make room. "What is it, Daraen?" Though transparently hungry and tired, his genuine concern never failed to feel rather touching—and touching he did, placing his heavy hand on her shoulder. "You're looking a bit worried here. Everything well?"
Robin looked him square in the eyes and wasted no breath. "Where can I find Miriel?"
With naught but a roll of bread to assuage the hunger gnawing a pit into her stomach, Robin set off towards the mages' workshop as fast as her legs could carry her;it was imperative that she find Miriel immediately and bring her back to the councilroom, roll call be damned. From the way they spoke of her, it was very likely that she was not only the solution Robin needed, but the only solution Robin could find, especially on such short notice. For smaller, but less altruistic reasons, Robin was also intensely curious about this so-called Miriel; Robin and Daraen were recognised as prodigies and innovators in the field of magic, but not for practical, everyday applications. Perhaps there was something to be learned from her brand of knowledge.
And besides: the look on Valentine's face once he saw what Robin had done would be an immensely satisfying sight to behold.
Now if only she could find that workshop…
Robin turned the corner too quickly and, after nearly crashing into one of the colonnade's stone pillars, righted herself and continued down the hall with a stream of muttering. So focused was she that a passing servant girl had to jump out of the way lest she be mowed down by all 160 centimetres of disguised princess.
Wait, Chrom had said it was close to the kitchens, did he not? Or was it the library? No, he had mentioned the kitchens…or had he?
She groaned and dragged her hand down her face. She was lost, then. And she hadn't much time before dinner ended and her presence was required back at the boardroom. What to do, what to do—
"Ah!" Robin spied a pair of guards keeping watch over the library door and hailed them. "Excuse me!"
Both were relatively young. Their eyes widened in surprised recognition before they remembered their manners and bowed in appropriate deference. "Your Highness! How can we be of service?"
"I need to find the mages' workshop immediately—please."
The tallest of the pair stifled a snort. His shorter companion harrumphed in warning, and raised his arm to point to his right. "Turn the corner here and then go straight down. You'll come across a cloister with a red door at the end. It's…hard to miss."
The poor boy had scarcely finished his sentence before Robin took off with a small gust of wind, rattling the windows in their casements, and pushing back the astonished guards slightly. "Thank youuu!" her exclamation, carried by the wind, echoed loudly within the confines of the cloister.
"…You're…welcome?" The short guard readjusted his uniform, perplexed. He certainly was odd for a prince…
There it was! The red door door, just as promised! The cloister housing it was rather plain, with nary a window in sight, nor was there a patch of grass at its centre like she had seen in the other parts of the castle. The door, strangely enough, had no knobs or knockers to indicate where it opened or announce someone's presence. Perhaps a magic spell was needed? Was there a bell to be rung? Should she knock?
She did, then. Silence greeted her, and Robin tried again, rapping on the wood three times in quick succession.
More silence.
"Come on," she growled in frustration. "I don't have much time!"
"You don't have much time for what?"
Robin blinked as some of the wooden panels in the door slid away with a rhythmic clack-clack and a skinny beanpole of a cat stepped out. Its fur was short, pitch black, and silky smooth. Its only discernible facial features were its enormous, fiery lantern eyes, blinking slowly back at her as it sat down and curled its tail neatly around its feet.
"Er…" Robin began. She cleared her throat somewhat self-consciously. "Hello. Were you the one that spoke?"
It blinked in response.
She looked around in increasing desperation. Goodness, she could already feel the sand in the hourglass start to run out, she could just see the smug smirk perpetually stuck to Valentine's face should she return, empty-handed, to explain her absence.
"I-I'm looking for Miriel," she explained and gulped nervously. "I was told I could find her here?"
The cat, of course, stayed silent and perfectly still.
If the cat was evidently not much of a talker, then who was the one that spoke to her? Was it from inside the workshop? Was Robin supposed to provide some sort of password to gain access?
Well, Robin most certainly did not have any sort of password on her person, nor did she have more options at hand and she was beginning to feel more than a little queasy.
Robin got on her knee and looked very deeply into the cat's eyes. "Look," she said, extremely seriously. She refrained from touching the cat on the off chance it took offence to the gesture. "I don't have a lot of time. I've only heard about Miriel today but what I did hear has me convinced that she's my only shot at fixing something very big and it could go very, very badly for thousands of people if I don't. If you know where she is, or you can take me to her, I would appreciate it very much." She paused and breathed in deeply. "Please?"
"Alright," the voice spoke again, though not from the cat. It stood up and scratched lightly at the door until the whole thing retracted up into the ceiling, as though it were designed like the one back at the bridge. Sparing only the briefest of glances back at Robin, it disapeared under the awning and she took it as her cue to follow.
The workshop's interior displayed an interesting, if disjointed, dichotomy upon presentation. The space was neatly segregated into two halves: one was tidy, well swept, and its mostly middle-aged mages almost claustrophobically confined to their workbenches as they pored over massive tomes and scribbled away a dizzying array of complicated formulae in tight-handed lettering. A large globe of ominously glowing runes revolved slowly on a lone bench. All of it was done in silence. It seemed as though one would be escorted out before they even got the opportunity to sneeze over their snowy white parchment.
The other half, on the other hand…
Robin felt the corners of her lips twitching up into a smile even as her eyes burned from the sheer amount of colour invading the space. To her, it resembled an artist's studio more than it did a workshop of magic. The floor looked as though countless buckets of paint had been spilled on it, creating a richly patterned mosaic almost as chaotic as the activity swarming it, with people of all shapes and sizes rushing to and fro between several projects at once. Whimsically shaped glassware snaked its way around many benches as the mages manning the chemical stations poured potions down the tubes and jotted down their results. An old woman whizzed by, trying to chase down an errant teapot that had somehow been magicked to start flying about. The fun kept going in the back as Robin spied a man teaching a gaggle of children of all ages the finer points of transfiguring a rat to the size of a small pony.
"I've never seen anything like this," Robin breathed in amazement.
"Mother says it's a very unique sort of situation," the voice from before piped up. It belonged to a young boy, tall for his age, with short, fastidiously combed blonde hair and the dark gray and black uniform of the mages in the shop. "What is it you seek her for?" he queried as he stooped to pick the cat up.
"What's your name?" Robin returned the question.
"Laurent. And you're the prince of Plegia. We've all heard about you here. Lord Valentine doesn't like you very much."
"So I've seen…" Robin rolled her eyes, exasperated.
"You seek mother for what purpose?" Laurent went straight back to the point.
"Well, I heard from Minister Urquhart and from Ch—Prince Chrom that she might possibly know of a way to devise a special sort of warp portal that could very useful to our interests."
"What kind of interests?"
"Helping to feed people and keep them alive."
The gravity of the situation fully impressed upon him, Laurent nodded and turned, beckoning Robin to follow. "Mother says knowledge for knowledge's sake is necessary. But she also says that knowledge for the sake of the common good is a prime directive of any self-respecting researcher."
"Your mother sounds like a very wise person, Laurent."
"She is," he nodded sagely.
The woman in question occupied a bench directly underneath a massive apparatus that hung from the ceiling, looking as though someone had hammered two hilariously floppy canoe oars to a hollowed out gourd with a doorway and a window carved out of it. Her bench was overflowing with hills upon mountains of books and paperwork, with a pointed hat rather like the one her son and Ricken wore perched precariously on the highest stack. A small puzzle-box floated before her, constantly rearranging itself as she recorded her findings into a slim hornbook.
"Greetings, Your Highness," Miriel said before she had even finished writing and only turned to face Robin when she was done. "It is quite the honour to witness your arrival to the workshop." She stuck a finely shaped hand out to her.
Robin blinked in expectant confusion.
"You are supposed to shake it," Laurent admonished gently, as though he were talking to a small and slow-witted child.
"It is quite alright, Laurent," Miriel said, unfazed. "I forget that Plegian greeting customs must certainly differ from our own, though I do recall Lord Valentine becoming cross at such a gesture anyways, as he claims it is beneath nobility and unbecoming of castle staff. I must enquire as to the proper protocol then, for I seem to be grounded in a constant fugue state over such matters."
"…It's alright," Robin assured the pair. She tentatively took Miriel's hand from the wrist and shook it rather weakly, unsure of how to perform it properly. "The pleasure is mine. I've not heard much about you, but what I have heard was enough to convince me to seek you out."
"Might I inquire as to the reason?"
"Prince Chrom and Urquhart say they have heard of your research into warping," Laurent replied precociously in Robin's stead. The cat wriggled out of his grasp and settled onto a stack of papers, seemingly uncaring as it teetered dangerously under its weight.
"I see." Miriel set down her hornbook and adjusted her wireless spectacles. Her gaze was piercing and calculating as she studied Robin from over their rims. "Your Highness believes there is merit to my research, then, as you have come here to seek me out."
Robin assented. "We share the belief that your findings can be of great benefit to the people of Ylisse."
"And can assist the proceedings of this summit."
"Yes."
Whatever else Miriel was about to say went unspoken as a great banging and clamour from a side door—another red one—interrupted the workshop's atmosphere of concentration, replacing it with the sweat and musk of tired, shouting warriors flooding inside, evidently having finished up their afternoon drills. One of the largest of the herd was a tall, dark-skinned man hefting a mangled mass of metal and wood underneath his left arm. His stride was confident, he was laughing and joking with his fellows. "Honey!" he bellowed. "Where's my super arm?"
"Your what?" Miriel said, appearing only slightly baffled.
"My super arm, woman!" he guffawed and perched himself right onto her workstation, uncaring of the stacks of pages and journals that his weight threatened to unseat from their already precarious position. The cat allowed him to scratch its ear and blinked placidly.
"I see your activities have resulted in the destruction of yet another prosthetic."
"Aw, I didn't mean to, hon," he gave her a puppy-eyed look in apology. Her husband—for the man was undoubtedly her husband, given the way he spoke to Miriel, and especially judging by the fact that Laurent possessed the same blonde hair—reached out to take her hand in his, and Robin was struck by the sheer difference in size between them. "But you know how training gets. All that blood and fightin' spirit just goes rushin' up to my head, yeah?"
"Yes, I have borne witness to your many feats of strength and the total state of disinhibition that incites them." The mage took the wreckage from him and began to assemble it as neatly as she could over her own mess, with Laurent producing screwdrivers and picks from his tool belt to assist her. "But fear not. The constant stressors applied to my creations serve their own purpose: they allow me to build upon my previous designs and correct what have proven to be miscalculations, be they through my own lapses in judgement or even common flukes."
"I still don't understand a lotta those big words, but gods do I love hearin' ya talk."
Miriel's labour was quick, diligent, and precise. The warriors' raucous banter died down after most had dispersed to the benches in Miriel's half of the shop; Robin saw that a great deal of them were missing limbs, or even chunks of their bodies, and were being attended to by the mages who inspected their prosthetics for damage and provided regular maintenance.
Miriel's husband had no right arm—a scarred, veiny stump was all that remained. This man had clearly fought on the front lines. The sight of the war injury brought back the images of the dead piled on pyres in the countryside. Of thin, hungry children staring with empty-eyed longing. Worse still were the brief flashes of the battlefields, and Robin had to suck in a hard breath through her teeth and force her knees to keep from buckling.
Her struggle did not go unnoticed.
"Kiddo!" Miriel's husband said lightly. "Take Seeley out, wouldya? I don't want him tryin' to play with my loose nuts and bolts again and bothering your mother while she's working."
"Yes father," Laurent replied dutifully. The boy unstrapped his tool belt from his smock and stored it in a wicker basket hidden under the bench, then stood on the tips of his toes to pull the cat down from his perch. Seeley meowed in plaintive protest, but resigned himself to the interruption of his sitting time and was carried out of the side door. Presumably both could enjoy the fresh air and some much needed play-time.
And it left Robin with a sudden feeling of being too exposed.
"The name's Vaike," the muscular blonde said after a long silence. There was little friendliness in his address. He did not extend his hand out in greeting like Miriel. "You probably don't give much thought to smaller folk like me, but I'm a survivor of the Fall."
The Fall? Where on earth could that have possibly taken—
Oh.
The lump Robin tried to swallow was hard, painfully so, and felt worse under Vaike's unflinchingly direct gaze. She had just come to fetch Miriel in the hopes that the mage could pledge her assistance towards a feasible food aid clause in the peace treaty…and yet here she was, being confronted with—no, by—the results of her wartime tactics.
You have no business being surprised, the awful little voice in her head whispered. What's more…you deserve it. Take a good hard look at him and ask yourself why you aren't feeling sorrier.
"His Highness had come seeking me out," Miriel thankfully interjected. She had finished piecing together a phalange and had moved on to shaping the knuckle attached to it. They were wonderfully designed and articulated, Robin thought. "He says he is interested in my research into warping magic and believes it could be of great benefit to the summit's progress."
"Well good! My Miriel's got the best brain around these parts, so of course she'd know!" Vaike squeezed her hand again. His eyes never once left Robin's, tingeing the display with overprotectiveness more than it did with praise. Excessive? Yes. But, unfortunately, understandable.
"I must admit that being approached by a man of his rank, and in his unique position to influence the outcome of such a historic peace treaty no less, is flattering. That word of my research has reached the ears of noblemen outside the confines of the Ylissean court portends an auspicious new chapter for my future as a woman of science," Miriel said calmly. "Beyond its implications for science, however, are also the practical applications that can be employed for a variety of purposes beyond the bellicose. I feel that this is an opportunity to be taken."
Vaike expelled a forceful breath through his nose, torn; it was clear he loved his wife and wished to support her various endeavours, but extending that support to the (wo)man who was less than indirectly responsible for his terrible war injury? Or even the deaths of comrades?
Could they place their trust in a chief architect of war?
"I am not requesting your authorisation," Miriel stated, resolute.
"I know," he sighed. He swallowed thickly and took her hand, more likely for his own comfort than hers, and brushed circles over her knuckles with his thumb. Vaike's gaze was still set upon Robin. "And I'll leave ya to it. Better not get in the way of your work and all that."
"Thank you, dear." Miriel squeezed his hand back and set about tidying up what she could, placing the appropriate wires and screws in a labelled compartment box, and carefully draped a canvas sheet over the rest of the prosthetic's remains before returning to Robin. "I shall not take long, and I promise to be back before supper."
"Don't worry about me," Vaike grunted, stepping down from the table's edge. "I'm done for the day so I'm just gonna spend it with Laurent." He kissed his wife and started back towards the side entrance. "I hope that guy takes advantage of your smarts and doesn't use 'em to murder more people, hon!" he called back before the door slid open for him and engulfed him a square of brilliant afternoon sunlight before sliding back shut.
With Vaike gone, the workshop's atmosphere reverted to a somewhat hushed mood, even on Miriel's half, if not for the sounds of mages working; there was, however, an uncomfortable sensation following Vaike's outburst, coupled with the staring…either surreptitiously, from the corner of eyes pretending to look elsewhere, or brazenly head-on.
Amazing how you've not yet gotten used to it, the little voice seemed to roll its own eyes. Suck it up.
"Ready when Your Highness is," Miriel announced when she had finished gathering up the relevant journals and a quill, and donned her pointed hat. Robin merely nodded wordlessly and followed her to the entrance, waiting for the red door to slide open as she mulled over Vaike's words.
The walk started out in silence. It felt comfortable enough, but even so, Robin was suddenly struck by a bout of loneliness. Chrom was very kind to her, as were Lissa, Ricken, Maribelle and her husband Donnel—but those were very few compared to the rest who were (rightfully) angry and resentful towards her and Plegia as a whole.
She was directly responsible not just for the loss of limb, but for the loss of life and love, too.
"I notice that my husband's words have disturbed you," Miriel interjected. "I apologise in his stead."
"It's alright…it's not as though he doesn't…have a reason to feel that way."
"Of course. It is folly to attempt to merely forget the dead. And your actions have come with an insurmountably high cost."
The cool bluntness stung. Robin, biting her lip, turned her head so Miriel would not see the tears pricking her eyes and feigned interest in a pegasus fountain they were passing by.
"However—" the unexpected, almost hesitant weight of Miriel's hand on Robin's shoulder startled her; when she whirled around to face her, she was not even aware of the small tear that escaped. "My initial skepticism when Lord Chrom spoke so highly of you, in light of recent events…seems to have been erroneous. Capitulation, humility, remorse…these are all rare qualities in the highborn, especially within those who have commanded battlefields. And the fact remains that it is you who sought me out rather than the reverse. You are a perfect stranger to me…though perhaps Chrom's words have a greater weight to them than I had expected. I look forward to working with you, Your Highness."
Robin said nothing. There was nothing to be said, really—the impact of those words spoke well enough. She wiped the tear and allowed herself the tiniest smile as they resumed their walk, silently, with a newfound sense of camaraderie.
Valentine's face, previously alight as he tore into Robin for her tardiness, fell, delightfully so, as the heavy oaken doors opened for the pair and Miriel's presence was made apparent. The subsequent chaos, and Chrom's subsequent gavel pounding and shouts of allowing Miriel there to at least speak her piece and that was final, made a little thrilling frisson run up Robin's neck as she realised she secured a major victory.
She intended to score many more after it.
And as the day ended, and the assembly prepared to vacate the premises to soothe their rumbling stomachs, Robin whispered to Miriel out of the corner of her mouth, "Call me Daraen, please."
I'll reveal the agenda for the next two chapters just so that readers won't get too antsy: the next chapter reveals our favourite pegasus knight swinging by, and the one after that presents Kellam! The chapters are quite different in tone, however…and I'm not quite ready to reveal those parts just yet!