A/N *cracks fingers* "Finally, time to write the next chapter!" *clicks on Mod Organizer**plays Skyrim* "ooooh Odahviing you're my sweet sweet baby" *looks at clock: 4 am* "crap"

This is pretty much what happened for the last few months. Sorry...

(Un-betaed)


It was late, closer to sunrise than twilight, but the party still thrived in the ballroom.

Robin roamed the empty hallways -save for the maids and servants that scurried away at the sight of him- lost in thoughts. The ghostly feeling he sensed from the plegian streets lingered, itching him with the wishful desire of leaving the palace, even if it was for a single night. The sea of sensations that shimmered outside the castle's walls was terribly enticing. A foreign world to his hermit life.

And Grima's heart pleaded for freedom.

Fingers cramped around the dragonstone, he resigned himself to head for his quarters. He wasn't ready to fulfill his urge: he had no way to slip through the guards surrounding the palace and his luxurious choice of wardrobe would attract unwanted attention. Nor could request his maids to get dingier robes for him without looking suspicious, nor could he really trust that his request remained a secret from his father's ears...

A flash of light akin to a thunder strike illuminated the corner of his vision accompanied by the sizzling of magic.

His gaze landed on the other side of the arched windows, down to a dark courtyard. The very same where he used to train with his father, except it wasn't Validar exercising his magic down there, but a familiar silver-haired woman. Rage was oozing from her svelte silhouette, making Grima's heart shudder in delight and he headed for the training yard.

He could hear her mutters of curses as she flipped angrily through the pages of her tome, her eyes scanning for a specific spell across the parchment.

The training dummy split in a half as a streak of magic hit it a ferocity unparallel to what Robin had ever seen and he knew from which dark abyss this anger stemmed from: the resentment of being ignored.

The woman was furious against his father and the king, against their decision of choosing someone else as a general, Robin guessed and had to agree with her, they missed a huge opportunity on the battlefield.

The way she pulverized that mannequin was proof of that.

She could be an untameable fury.

Robin circled the training yard, hidden among the shadows of the archways.

She raged on and on until dawn was inching over the horizon and her shoulders finally sagged. Just as her tome slipped from her fingers, Robin spoke up.

"Feel better?"

She spun towards him, eyes alight, her face fell when she saw him. The smirk that appeared just after was far from convincing.

"Oi big brother! Why aren't you partying with the others. I betted you'd look for anything that breaks your routine." she laughed uneasily when he walked to her, he threw a short glance at all the shreds of dummies that littered the ground. Their linen cloth were still smoking in some places.

"You can spare me the fake enchantment. I know you could rampage through Ylisse right now and win."

Aversa's gaze turned dark again.

"I agree with you on my father and Gangrel's decision."

Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. The silence between them was heavy he could feel her hesitation. Validar's warning was still on her mind.

"I offer you a deal" -that picked up her interest- "I'll do my best to secure you a higher position in the royal army and indemnity if... you do me a favor.


The hierophant wondered if his satiated curiosity would outweighed this indecency he put himself in as he flustered over this incredibly itchy cloak and gloves, making sure it covered every inch of his disguise: servant's robes, in case he got spotted trying to sneak back in the palace through one of the old palace's escape route. Thankfully, the guards never saw his face so they wouldn't look twice at a "lowly servant" like him. And hopefully, they were still suffering the aftermath of alcohol from the party the night before, as Aversa told him. Soldier wouldn't pass by an opportunity sneak alcohol to improve their boring rounds.

This was ridiculous...

And he felt ridiculous.

But no matter the embarrassment that made his face flare, he couldn't stop marvelling at the peculiar atmosphere that hung around the plegian slums. It clung to its sandstone walls like a strong perfume. The scent of dust and dung was overwhelming. He had never noticed it when he breezed through the street in the safety of his carriage. That carriage had shielded him not only from the scents he noticed as a strange and unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability that crept in the back of his mind as he wandered through the dark streets.

As he neared a more crowded avenue, that feeling almost overtook the intoxicating high from the stone in his pouch and he had to fight the urge of simply walking away.

The bittersweet aroma that lured him out of the palace's walls was strong here, its scent mingling with the pungent smell of alcohol.

The Prancing Mares.

Tiny, squeezed between two shops, just as tiny, with a small filthy window. Through the ajar door slipped an inviting rhythmic music and some drunk men who were trying to reach the comfort of their homes. It was a pathetic display. Entranced by the scene he saw inside, he curiously stepped in.

It was a narrow pub, dimly lit by sparse flickering candles. Small rickety tables surrounded a stage where a lone belly dancer performed. Some men observed her hungrily from the balcony on the second floor.

No matter the delectable ambience the music and the dancer provided, the guests were there to drink away this dark aura that made Grima's heart buzz in an eerie glee.

Robin sat at the furthermost corner of the counter, where curious eyes weren't likely to find him, but not hidden for the barman's keen eyes.

"...What may I serve you?" The man was cautious when approaching Robin, his eyes trying to see the face under the hood. He guessed the owner wasn't fond of suspicious customers.

"...Mead."

The man didn't move and kept on looking at his new customer expectantly, it was then that Robin noticed his outstretched hand. Ah yes, payment...Quite an unfamiliar notion to the Fellblood.

He rummaged through the small money bag Aversa gave him 'in case he got in trouble'.

"How much for the drink?" he asked.

"The same as every other tavern. The prices haven't changed since the new 'prices law' on alcohol." the man's voice was gruff and frustration trickled into his every word.

The hierophant pursed his lips, that didn't help at all, and the coins he had in his palm looked foreign.

Before he could look even more suspicious, Robin slid a generous pile of coins across the counter, unsure of the amount. The barman raised an eyebrow and took the amount required for the mead and left to prepare the drink. Or what Robin hoped was the required amount. He didn't want to ruin Aversa's expanses. She worked hard for everything she earned. Hopefully he could repay her by tricking the system and influencing her future promotions. He still wasn't sure how he could manage it yet.

Robin sighed, rested his elbows onto the counter and his chin onto his linked hands, drinking in the ethereal maelstrom in the room: the sorrow, the rage, the hate, the suffering Plegia had stumbled with since the war against the ylissean scum. His sensitive picked up some whispers about the incoming war, but he was surprised... and shocked about what he sensed.

"Have you 'em, those prancing pricks!"

It was like his senses switched filters, he now understood the anger swirling through the air and Robin was disgusted by it:

The hate in their words, meant for Ylisse, was aimed at the Plegian royalty instead.

It was their rare chance at ending their quest once and for all, what was a little suffering through war when the salvation at the end would eclipse all the pain? Why could those commoners understand such a basic principle?

"Bunch of zealots the lot of 'em."

Robin cautiously looked over his shoulder, making sure his hood would still cover his face, and glanced at a table of men, heads bent together, eyes tired.

"And what do they want to prove with this war, uh?" exclaimed a drunk bearded man, his voice climbing up a notch from anger. "That we still have some flesh to spare? Some blood to be spilled? Or is it for that far-fetched prophecy?

"Jarl keep your voice down," warned his friend, throwing worried glances around.

"Why shouldn't I say out loud what everybody thinks silently", growled the bearded man, Jarl, tapping his finger against his temple. "Their obsession is rotting Plegia."

His friend hissed in frustration tugged Jarl back down on his seat.

"Do you want to want to find yourself hanging from the gallows? Then shut it. Our best hopes is that they fail in whatever they're planning-"

"And you think they'll stop at a failure? They're convinced they have Grima's incarnate."

"That's because they do."

Surprised eyes landed on Robin who blanched, shockingly realized his affront at their conversation made him think out loud. After an anxious moment of silence, "Jarl" barked an incredulous laughter.

"Oh really? And what would the mysterious cloaked guy know about this?" The man's expression soured and his stare became hard as stone. "You're one of their dogs?"

The dragonstone's influence was eclipsed by the fear that washed over him. One slip up and the measly distance that protected him from that man would be null. Robin gripped his mug of mead as a life-line, he didn't wish this to escalate into one of those infamous drunken-fist-fights he heard about, even though he was quite confident of his fighting skills.

"...no."

"Oh, that was quite convincing, mind explaining more? Oh forget that! I can spot a spy when I see one."

Heads had turned towards Robin and the silence that swallowed the pub was colder than a desert night.

"U-uh?" Robin inched back when the man stood up and threateningly approached him... as threateningly a drunk man could. He vaguely hear the barman shout a warning, but Jarl didn't hear any word of it.

"Are you scared of touching filth?," he seethed. "Blue-Blood?"

Before Robin could voice his confusion or jerk out of the way, a rough hand grabbed his wrist in a vicious grip and his heart jumped into his throat as fresh air met his skin. He slapped his clad hand over his bare one. Even though it wasn't the hand bearing Grima's mark, the sentiment of vulnerability wasn't lost on him.

"...Just as I thought, you-"

"I'm not a spy," Robin hissed after swallowing back his fear. He looked up at the man with challenge in his eyes, he snatched his glove back. "...I simply know a lot about Grima."

The man was immobile, with an astounded look on his face until a sarcastic smirk split his expression.

"Oh I see..."

"Jarl... drop it..." whispered one of the man's friend, urging him back to their table. Jarl looked back at Robin. "Do come back", he challenged. "And explain what is so great about Grima. I'm quite sure people here are thirsty for... enlightenment."

He left on those words and Robin couldn't fight back the urge of leave the place, ignoring his untouched mug of mead.

He stumbled out of the pub, his legs almost giving up under his shaky steps as his heart pounded in his head. He clawed obsessively at his glove, certain it would disappear at any moment. He could still feel the man's fingers ripping off the garment.

Down a few streets, he collapsed against a wall, laughter bubbling in throat as realization dawned upon him. He just picked a fight with a commoner, a commoner that succeeded in scaring him. A feat only held by Validar before that night.

With a smile on his lips, he made his way back home.