*Cries in thesis* Hey everyone! From now until summer of next year, my schedule will be really wonky and weird, considering I'm already in the production phase for my senior short. So I can guarantee even odder updates. Thankfully, I had some time to bang out this chapter with the help of the lovely pinksaphira11! She was an absolute godsend and I'm so relieved to have her on board.

Replies are in order:

FallenRaindrops: Once alll of this—the meetings, the slow burn, the awkwardness—is all said and done, Robin and Chrom will look back on this and laugh. But for now, they just have to deal with it!

And I do so anticipate writing a nice little spar between them, hopefully soon ;)

TheFreelancerSeal: And on my end, it's always nice to see a review of yours! They're such a treat to read! Robin is certainly between a rock and a hard place, and things are definitely not going to get easier from here on out. Both Robin and Chrom need to keep a close eye on everyone…

Freddybear is a nice balance to Sumia's sweetness. I'll admit I'm biased towards him/Sumia, but I'm just thankful that all of her romantic supports are rather decent, considering the dumpster fires that were Tharja's and Cordelia's. As an aside, I'll be sure to sneak in a little dose of Chrom/Sumia in here just for you! But in the meantime, we have to see our two dorks scratch their heads over each other and then feel very dumb indeed once their storylines tie up—and together!

As for now…we're back to seeing what's going on with a certain twin brother…

Daraen stared, bemused, at the chipped cup of seafood broth in his hands. It smelled good. It warmed his skin well enough through his bandages. When he took a cautious sip, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself liking its strong, salty taste.

The dimly lit shack he was in was incredibly cramped. Wedged tightly between large boulders and tide pools in such a way that it was kept hidden from the shoreline, the tiny place was also filled to the brim with carved wooden knick-knacks, strings of seaweed and sponges hung up to dry, rescued driftwood and boxes helping to keep the whole precarious structure from falling apart, and other assorted bric-a-brac. The bed he was resting in was really more of a nest of blankets and a large misshapen pillow to prop his tired body up.

As for the man who rescued him…

"You…you want more soup?" a voice interrupted Daraen's thoughts.

He swallowed as he looked up at his unexpected benefactor's towering figure. Daraen felt rather sorry for him, with the way he had to squeeze himself just to get around, and the uncomfortable squatting position he took up in front of the makeshift hearth as he stirred a pot full of fish heads and mussels.

"Ah…" Daraen blinked. It was the first time he had spoken in a few days; his throat still felt a bit sore and scratchy, especially after all his screaming the night of the storm, and then regaining consciousness just to vomit and moan pathetically on the beach. "Y-yes, please."

The man's head brushed the ceiling as he barely stood, turtle-like, and reached for Daraen's cup. His hands were huge, but, like the rest of his body, had a soft, doughy look to them. It was a detail that felt oddly reassuring. He gave off the impression of someone who was very strong, yet also careful and considerate. The sound of soup being poured comforted Daraen and he let out a gusty sigh.

"You let me know if you need anything else," the gentle giant said as he handed Daraen more broth.

"Thank you." Daraen blew lightly on his cup and tipped it back, the wonderful fishy saltiness sating the hunger that had been gnawing at him since waking.

Now the man settled himself with his back to the door (which was really nothing more than a flimsy tarp) to whittle away at a set of spoons. Daraen was quietly amazed at how delicately he handled the slightly sea-damp branches he was using for the task. He was content to simply sit back and watch as the giant deftly manoeuvred a carving knife around the nooks and gnarls of wood to shape it into something useful.

As the hour went on, an increasing sense of discomfort began to creep up Daraen's neck, all hot and prickly. He tried to ignore it.

That is, until a sharp, stabbing pain in Daraen's side made him gasp aloud and start to cough and choke. The cup fell to the side, forgotten.

His rescuer was instantly with him. "D–don't worry! I—I'll go get Marion right away!"

All Daraen could register was the sound of running becoming increasingly faint as a terrible burning overtook him once more, leaving him a sweaty, shivering mess as the throbbing spread to the rest of his body. He wanted to cry, he wanted to vomit, he wanted the blinding agony to stop, he just wanted a few seconds of respite from all the unrelenting awfulness that had dogged him since his ill-fated departure from Chon'sin—

And suddenly a cool washcloth on his forehead helped abate the worst of his fever. Someone was rolling him over and stripping his sweat-soaked shirt off.

"Don't move," a female voice warned firmly. "This'll hurt more if you do."

Pain burst in his side and then Daraen saw black.

When he woke up again, he felt much better, though still tired. He blearily registered that the shack was darker than usual—he was unsure of what time it was. Early morning? Midnight? Daraen wanted to go out and see for himself. Maybe some fresh air would do him good, but he was still obviously too weak to do little more than roll around and groan in his blankets.

"How're you feeling?" came the giant's soft question.

Daraen moved his head on the pillow to find the other man sitting at the foot of the bed, observing him attentively. Had he been keeping watch all this time?

"Exhausted," Daraen croaked.

The man hummed and nodded, running a large hand through his dishevelled, though still short, brown hair. "You've been through a lot…it's normal." His voice lowered an octave, and his next words were spoken quietly. Fearfully. "You were really burning up when I found you on the beach, and you were pretty beat up too. I got Marion, the village doctor, to come and treat you. The day before yesterday she cleaned your wounds and bandaged you, and you looked fine enough after that, but…"

"But?"

"…Yesterday your fever came back worse. When Marion saw you again, she had to cut you open and drain your wound because it got infected. We…we thought you were going to die."

Silence stretched between them, taught and tense, as Daraen thought long and hard. He had almost died several times in the war, be it by arrow, sword, or spell. He had almost died escaping Plegia for Chon'sin and was shipwrecked on the way back. And now, he had almost died from an infection on some desolate beach with nothing but a stroke of luck to save him.

I just can't catch a break, can I? He exhaled heavily through his nose and coughed again.

The man was instantly at his side again. For his size, he was deceptively quick. He felt Daraen's forehead with the back of his hand. "Well…you seem alright for now, but I still need to keep a close eye on you, at least until Marion gets back. You hungry? Thirsty?"

Daraen's stomach growled loudly in response.

"Okay. That's a good sign. Having your appetite back means your body feels well enough to keep food down." The man stood up and moved to the pot, kept warm by banked ashes. "You ate well enough yesterday too, but uh…then you vomited it all back up when your fever returned…"

Daraen felt very ashamed to hear that. He hoped that he at least managed to not soil the bed and his clothes. The very obviously borrowed clothes, judging by how baggy they were on him, and the bed generously surrendered for his use. "I–I'm really sorry about all that…"

"Don't be. You're hurt, after all."

The prince of Plegia gratefully accepted another cup of broth and drank it down slowly. Though he was certain that the food would be digested this time, his anxiety over his weak state remained. "So…you're saying I've been here for two days?" Daraen asked quietly.

"Yeah, but Marion gave you a sleeping draught to keep you under for a little bit. She said your injuries were bad enough that you needed the extra rest." The man checked the pot briefly to make sure its contents were still fit for use. "The big gash on your side is the one that got infected, you've got two broken toes, your ear got torn up a little, and you've also got bad bruises everywhere. Not the worst shipwreck victim I've seen, but…definitely close. You're lucky you survived."

An awkward silence unfolded as Daraen gloomily took the time to examine his bandages and bruising while his caretaker watched over the hearth and did some light sweeping, glancing frequently at his unexpected guest, and looking away in the event that his eye contact could be misconstrued as nosiness.

"I'm sorry," Daraen said. "You've been taking care of me all this time and I haven't even asked you for your name."

Soft pink washed over the man's face. Swallowing, he bowed his face in embarrassment. "I-it's, uh…K-Kellam. My name's Kellam."

"Well Kellam, it's nice to meet you. I'm Daraen."

A hint of a tiny smile stretched Kellam's mouth even though he kept his head down.

The day passed calmly enough, with Daraen watching Kellam as he puttered around the shack and performed some more household chores: cleaning, closing up many holes in the leaky walls and roof, and putting some stored seaweed up to dry over the fire. Kellam suggested taking the prince out for some fresh air, and Daraen agreed to it. The cool sea breeze was a great relief after being cooped up in semi-darkness with the stench of his illness and sweat.

Hard to believe it was so awful outside before, Daraen thought as he munched on a strip of dried seaweed.

Kellam had brought out a basket of damp clothes and some of Daraen's sheets; he graciously wrapped his guest up in one, lest he catch a chill, and had leaned him up against a sun-warmed boulder as he attended to their laundry. "Marion said she'd be over today again to bring you some more medicine and give you a look over," Kellam remarked as he pinned a couple of shirts on the clothesline strung between the shack and some rocks.

"You said she lives in a village close by, yes?" Daraen asked.

"Yeah. It's a long walk, but she usually comes here on horse, especially since she's got all her equipment with her." Kellam finished with the shirts and moved on to the few towels and linens in the basket. Shaking out a sheet, he decided against hanging it on the clothesline, seeing as how it would crowd out the other cloths, and opted to spread it out on a boulder.

"Uh…and how far is it from here to Ylisstol?"

Kellam stiffened up. Daraen, fearing he had touched a nerve (and cursing himself for being so careless with his words, considering his current circumstances), shut up and allowed tension to stew between them.

"N…not too far, really," Kellam finally said after a long time. "It's about a week on horseback, but you can get there in about three, four days if you switch rides and don't stop." He chewed his lip. His thick eyebrows screwed up over his small, dark eyes, into little knots of concern that tugged weirdly at Daraen's chest. "You…y-you need to do something t-there?"

The prince wanted to reply but was wholly unsure of how. What exactly was the best way to describe the urgency of needing to attend a summit in Ylisstol, alone against Ylisse's lawmakers and nobles and grudges? Of the chain of events that led to him being washed up on the beach? Or—and he doubly cursed as the weight of the matter finally crashed into him—the fact that his white hair was a dead giveaway to his Plegianness?

Just as Daraen opened his mouth to attempt a plausible lie, he was saved from replying by the tell-tale sound of hoofbeats pounding on the surf.

"Ah. That'd be Marion," Kellam announced as he finished weighing down the sheet with a few pebbles.

A blonde village maiden sat astride a grizzled old piebald mare loaded down with bags that no doubt carried all sorts of medical paraphernalia. She certainly looked worse for wear, with distinctly dark circles underlining her eyes, stains of dubious origin smeared across her dirty olive dress and apron, and a bruise purpling the side of her jaw.

"Oh my goodness," Marion exclaimed. She hopped off her horse and ran to Daraen's side immediately. "That Kellam! Leaving you all alone out here when you're hurt—I ought to give 'im a piece of my mind, I can't believe he's done this—"

"I'm right here Marion," Kellam sighed tiredly.

The doctor, startled by his words, whipped her head around as she finally registered his presence. "Kellam! Don't scare me like that! Skulking around behind people's backs is such a suspicious thing to do, you'd think someone your size would know that—"

"Hello to you too," he mumbled, exasperated, as he scooped Daraen up and brought him back into the shack.

What does she mean, "skulking?" Daraen puzzled. He was literally right there. There's no way you can miss someone like him.

Marion followed closely behind and waited for Kellam to adjust Daraen on the bed before examining him. "I'm glad to see you're finally conscious. How're you feelin'?" she queried as she lifted Daraen's shirt up to inspect his sutured wound.

"I've been better," Daraen replied. He winced as her finger pressed lightly on the edges of the cut, and the pain, for some reason, was echoed by a twitch in his splinted toes. "I managed to keep some food down but everything else still hurts."

"That's good though. You've been here for less than three days and you're already showin' nice progress. Most shipwreck victims aren't so lucky around these here parts—the rocks off the coast tend to make sure of that."

With a heart wrenching pang, thoughts of the crew began to flood him. They were a frustratingly rag-tag bunch, to be sure, but they were knowledgeable enough on the high seas. Gregor, the captain, was especially gregarious; Daraen would go so far as to call him fatherly. He liked him quite a lot. In spite of his heavy drinking, Gregor often made time to talk, to show Daraen the finer points of navigating and oceanic astronomy, and made for cheerful motivation as his dubiously outfitted dhow carried the prince and his sister away from Chon'sin.

Robin! Daraen suddenly felt incredibly nauseous and dizzy. Was she safe? Was she unhurt?

Was she even alive?

"You're lookin' a little green around the gills again." Marion's concerned, freckled face swam into focus. Daraen realised, startled, that he had drifted off completely from her check up and hadn't even the faintest clue what she and Kellam had been talking about. "Need a bucket?"

"N-no…no thank you. I'm fine."

Her look told him she did not quite believe him, but the doctor dutifully continued her examination without another word. She spent quite a lot of time fussing over his stitched up side and splinted toes as a rather squished Kellam watched from a corner. It was uncomfortable to know that his benefactor was keeping such a close eye as Marion looked over his barely clothed body and performed some fairly disgusting tasks: she reopened the stitches, cleaned out some purulent buildup inside, packed the wound with gauze, and applied some sort of ointment before bandaging him up.

"Everythin' looks alright so far, but I'm still coming back in a few days. You need to take this woundwort paste and smear it over that cut after you've washed with warm salt water. Do that every four hours for six days, and keep your bandages loose enough to let it breathe. Don't get any water on that bit of gauze hangin' out of you. There's also some vineberry pills that you need to take with every meal, and then, before you go to sleep, bitter windroot powder dissolved in whatever drink or soup you fancy. You can have extract of mim if the pain gets too bad. Keep your weight off that foot, and you'll be back to normal in no time."

Kellam looked positively dizzy with confusion as he struggled to keep up with Marion's list and the medicines the blonde doctor started to pile up in his arms. It was inadvertently charming. "Ah, wait, Marion—" Kellam began.

"Now that my work here's all done, I gotta get back to the village quick. Remember to take your medicine!" She turned around to leave, only to crash into Kellam's broad chest with a small shriek. "Kellam! You gotta stop scarin' me like that—"

"I need to have a word," he said, almost too quietly for Daraen to hear.

Marion did not seem to particularly care for that. "Can't stick around for long, sorry. I have to get back to the Gibbs' place, what with the new baby and all. Mrs Gibbs kicked me in the face during the birth and she felt so bad about it, she's insisting that I take some honey from them to make it up."

"Surely the honey can wait? It's about Daraen."

"Who?"

"What do you mean 'who?' You just treated him!"

"Oh, so that's his name. Funny thing it is. But look here Kellam, I've got other patients to attend to—that honey's for the Sawyer girl. She burned herself badly on the stove and I need to treat her scarring right so that she can keep use of her hand. It's sweet of you to be so worried, but other people are hurt too."

"He asked about Ylisstol."

The temperature dropped in spite of the hearth's fire. Marion, glancing surreptitiously at Daraen, pressed her lips together in a thin, grim line. Daraen overheard everything, of course. He was very good at eavesdropping. And after that short conversation, he pretended that he was just resting, but felt like burrowing into the covers to hide from Marion's gaze.

She turned to Kellam. "Outside. Now."

Daraen swore to himself as the pair left the shack and out of his earshot; he considered getting up to press his ear to the tarp, but the sharp twinge in his side as he attempted to rise on his own told him otherwise. And so he stewed, fretful and anxious, as the night betrayed no hint of Kellam and Marion's talk, or why the doctor sounded so somber over the mere mention of Ylisstol.

I hope my love of cliffhangers isn't too much of a dealbreaker here, but they just happen to be a very fun thing for me to write. And it also helps me keep chapters at a reasonable limit—why, this one's only seven pages long!

Hopefully I'll have more time for the next ones! See you all later!