"Grr. Grr."

"Mhm."

"Grr. Chomp. Stab. Kill."

"Indeed. And where do you think these intense feelings of murder and mayhem originate from?" Robin asked, looking up from his desk and tapping his quill idly.

In front of him sat the Fell Dragon, Grima. The Wings of Despair, as he was so eager to announce at every opportunity granted. The God of Destruction looked disturbingly like himself; a shock of white hair, bronze, almost golden eyes, and of course, the completely conspicuous Grimleal coat with the six eyes and all. Robin liked his better, of course. Besides, the 'Fell Dragon' decided to go the extra mile and tattoo the damn eyes to his own pale face. Now that, that was just tacky, in his opinion.

The only real difference beyond that was the ungodly aura created by the damned souls Grima had consumed. Which, in Robin's personal opinion, made it seem like the Fell Dragon was compensating for something.

The dragon abomination in human form twiddled his thumbs, avoiding the gaze of the tactician. The crackling in the fireplace nearby almost drowned out what he said next.

"…Well, my father and I never really saw eye to eye," The Fell Dragon replied meekly. "My first memory of him was him staring at me through glass. I could barely form thought back then, you know. I guess I just latched onto him. Imprint, as some would say. I think that only made everything worse."

Robin's quell clacked to his desk as his brows furrowed. "Oh? How so?"

"It eventually led to him trying to kill me!" The Fell Dragon cried. "I tried to smile at him, you know, put him at ease. That's what humans do, right!? But no! He tried to take a scalpel and carve me like I was a lobster! So I decided to eat him. He tasted awful. Like if you let steak cook for just long enough that all the tasty juicy bits all get burned out."

"I see," Robin laced his fingers together. "And how did that make you feel?'

"It made me feel attacked," Grima bawled into his gloved hands. "Here I was, basically a newborn and my own father tries to put an end to my existence! Then-Then, you want to know what happened next!?"

"You realized the value of life and dedicated your existence to preserving it?" Robin suggested.

"Ha! That's a funny joke. A real knee-slapper. No, then these two effeminate royals come charging into my house and they succeed at it! They had this whole Falchion, too. Completely different from the one Marth or Chrom owned. It's just…!" Grima sighed, burying his ghost-like face into his hands. "It's just a lot for a newborn to process, you know?"

"I completely understand, Mr. Fell Dragon," Robin nodded, smiling. "You are a lost soul, trying to find your place in a world that has rejected you."

"Is that your diagnosis as a licensed therapist?" Grima asked, hopeful.

"What? Oh, no. I'm not a licensed therapist." Robin replied nonchalantly.

Grima's looked up, the vertebrae in his neck creaking with every slight motion. "You're… not?"

Robin shook his head. "I'm the Shepherd's tactician. My mind is more dedicated to devising strategies to keep my people alive rather than this whole interaction business. Lock me up in library tower any day."

Grima's eye twitched. "I wish you told me that before I paid you for twenty whole sessions."

"That's more on you for not confirming," Robin chided. "What else am I supposed to say when a deity comes knocking on my door crying and sniffling like an infant, and he's got a bunch of gold in his hands? Usually I'd just take the gold but since you're a deity…"

"So… that's it, then? Grima looked up to the ceiling, despair coloring his tone. "I've wasted my time?"

"Now, I wouldn't say that," Robin rebutted.

Grima stared at him strangely. "How do you mean?"

"I've come to a conclusion is what I mean," Robin continued. "You are misunderstood, Grima. Misunderstood and beaten and downtrodden. Now, does that excuse all the terrible atrocities you have committed like a bay who throws his toy across the pram? No, absolutely not. But… I do believe there is hope, Grima, that we can understand each other. That maybe, one day, you will not be a Fell Dragon. You could be so much more. So, so much more."

Grima sniffled. "Y-You really think so?"

"I know so," Robin replied vehemently. "You just need someone to believe in you. Although, remember, I am not a licensed therapist, so take my words with a grain of salt, but… perhaps one day, you may join the light and atone for what you have done."

Grima wiped at his nose, a small smile escaping his lips. "T-Thank you, Mr. Robin. I-I think I needed that." Grima looked up again, his smile growing larger. "It almost makes me feel bad for killing your entire family!"

Robin's own smile disappeared within an instant, crumpling like a piece of parchment. "W-What did you say?"

Grima stood up. "You remember them, right Robin? Remember as we both, hand in hand, bled her dry? Watched as the lovely sanguine fluid flowed down your home's steps like a river? I remember that. That was fun. The look some of the old Shepherds gave you were fun, too. And now, we'll go get the rest of them, right?"

"S-Stay away from me!" Robin screamed, standing up. His chair falling to the floor sounded like a dozen trees snapping in half. The fireplace grew hotter and hotter until it engulfed the room, like dragon fire, burning everything within its path and turning it to grey, cold ash. The same ash that blanketed the world, that blotted out the sun.

And in that final, blazing moment, Robin realized that he was talking to no one but himself.

It was all a game. A farce. And the robed entity was done playing.

Deep within the halls of Ylisstol's castle, within the old tactician's room, the robed figure stood at the precipice to the world's end. Above soared Grima's real body. A fanged mouth with thousands of teeth, feathered wings that stretched across mountains, and the six eyes that saw everything. Even the children trying to escape their doom. Trying to escape their death.

The body of Robin blazed, black aura surrounding it as the draconic body roared in fury, the sound booming across the barren hellscape that had once been Ylisse.

"The time for games has passed, children," The robed man and dragon spoke as one, voices congealing into a unholy cacophony. "It is time to show what idle hope grants you."

This has nothing to do with my own fic, Aberration. This is just a fever dream idea I had tonight. Consider this a big, giant shitpost lol.

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