Prologue
The Verge of History
Scanning the ocean's expanse, it would be near impossible for one not to settle on this quaint little mass of land, where rolling knolls and flower-laced planes merge into rich farmlands and quiet hamlets, which again seem to merge seamlessly into the hustle and bustle of the capital city.
Cobblestone roads curve over the contours of the land, dipping down into shallow valleys and stretching up mountains, flanked by old-style architecture. Winding avenues spiral into Roman plazas, where fountains portray forsaken war heroes in the midst of clear-watered reservoirs, the bottoms of which are gilded with the glimmer of wishes.
In the centre, tradition gives way to soaring skyscrapers, shimmering office complexes, and garden courtyards sanctioned by Flora herself.
Men and women scurry to and fro, clutching briefcases and leaning their heads to fasten mobile phones to their shoulders. Restaurants open for the day, wafting the scent of freshly baked bread and the heat of word-famous cuisine.
This is the city-state of Ylisse, where we lay our scene.
A blue BMW careens down a hollow street lined with sandstone terraces, creaking as it rocks from side to side, its wheels snaking across the stones so violently that they scream.
The driver stifles a cough at the base of his throat. Cold sweat glistens on his forehead. His eyes are set only on the road ahead, intently, forcefully.
The tall man in the passenger's seat bites his lip. His eyes, in stark contrast, tear away from the windscreen sporadically to throw looks of concern at the driver.
"Sir, if you'd like me to drive-"
"Not now, Frederick, I'm trying to concentrate," says the driver, clearing his throat. His shoulders are hunched and his white-knuckled hands grip the steering wheel in a deadly grasp. He wears a creased blue suit with white-trim collar and lapels, a beige waistcoat, and a white, collared shirt with a navy tie. What might look classy or chic on a more confident man he makes awkward and untidy in his current position as he swerves across the road and feels around nervously for the clutch.
In the back seat, his blonde-haired, bright-eyed younger sister prepares her last will and testimony- or she may as well be, given the sheer look of terror on her face.
She leans over slightly. "H-he has to learn sometime, right, Frederick?"
Frederick, who fiddles with the visor of his light blue uniform cap, nods after a moment's hesitation.
"I suppose your sister did want you to learn to get around on your own. I only wish you'd be more careful, sir. These streets are far too narrow," Chrom brakes suddenly and Frederick braces himself on the dash board. He collects himself and clears his throat, "Perhaps we should retreat to a main road or you could practice parking somewhere around here."
"A main road? With bunches of people? Are you kidding? He'll kill someone!" Lissa howls from the backseat, slumping back in resignation. "Do you know how mad Emm would get?"
"It's true. All your actions reflect on Lady Emmeryn, whether they are poor or admirable," Frederick agrees.
"I know, Frederick. I'll exercise caution," Chrom sighs. He leans back against his seat and reaches for the gear shift. "I just want to make a good impression on the ambassador. If the situation in Plegia gets any worse, Emm'll have a heart attack. One rebellion after another, one coup d'état after the next. I'm sure she's worried about the repercussions over here."
"The pressure Lady Emmeryn must feel is immense, surely, but your sister is not only kind and benevolent, but also very competent in her own right," Frederick assures, a brief yet hearty smile contorting his otherwise downturned lips.
"I heard a group of Plegian bandits were hijacking cars on the bridge on the weekend," Lissa chimes. "They're strange over there."
"At this rate, we may have to close the bridge completely," Chrom mutters.
"At your orders, sir. My men will have it done," says Frederick.
The car screeches along at its own pace. Chrom breathes out through pursed lips and musters a smile.
"I think I'm getting the hang of it," he laughs. He turns halfway to face Lissa over his shoulder, "Emm has nothing to worry about, Lissa, I won't disappoint-"
"Chrom! The road!" Lissa yells.
Chrom's foot instinctively slams down on the breaks. The car screeches and scrapes across the stones and it jolts jaggedly to a stop, but not before the bonnet strikes the form of a man or woman, and they swing across the hood before tumbling before the vehicle onto the road.
"Oh my God," Lissa's mouth hangs open. Her hand slaps to it, trembling fingers hovering below her septum. "Did you just-"
Chrom is frozen. His face contorts with a mixture of confusion, disbelief and fear. His hands are glued to the wheel.
Frederick mentally prepares an official police statement, straight-faced yet terribly pale and clammy, his pallid lips pulled into a tight, straight line. The pedestrian jumped out at the car. It appeared as if they held a death wish. Mr. Chrom, the driver- No, I, the driver, swerved to avoid impact but-
"Everyone out of the car," Chrom orders. "Maybe they're okay."
"Yes, sir," Frederick snaps out of his fantasy, nods firmly once, and opens his door.
Lissa is leaning forward over the centre console, resting her elbows on it as her hands clasp the bottom half of her face. "Chrom…"
Chrom opens his door, then looks at her sternly. "Lissa, out."
Hesitantly and mechanically, she nods and slides out the side door.
The hood of the car is dented in the middle. One might call it a people-shaped imprint.
At the base of the front wheels lies a human body, slumped on its side. Beneath it, a shallow and already-drying pool of blood. The sun beats down on the pedestrian, their black and maroon-trim coat splayed out on the ground. A hood obscures their downturned face.
Chrom rushes around and kneels down beside them.
Frederick stands with his hands clasped behind his back, tapping his foot on the cobblestones tentatively. "Sir, would you permit me to take a look?"
"I don't know if that's a good idea, Frederick. Call an ambulance, quickly."
"I-I don't have a mobile phone, sir. Nor do I have my radio on me."
Lissa groans at the base of her throat, digs her hand into the pocket of her summer dress and throws him a rectangular smartphone. "Quickly, Frederick!" she urges. He fumbles with the keypad and hurriedly makes an emergency call. "What kind of police chief doesn't own a phone?" she huffs, though her annoyance is short-lived as she spots the body of the pedestrian.
Lissa comes to kneel beside Chrom. She looks at him with a furrowed brow. "We have to do something," she insists forcefully.
"What do you propose we do? What if they're-"
"I don't know, but…"
The huddled, faceless body lets out a pained groan and stirs.
Chrom lets out a sigh of pent-up relief and wipes the sweat off his brow.
"Hey there, can you hear me? You're going to be okay. Lissa, can you turn them over?"
Lissa offers soothing words and hushes as she slowly takes the pedestrian by the back and turns them over. Their hood slips down their face, revealing that of a young, fair woman. Her cheek is smattered with blood and grit, her brows knit in pain and her glossy lips curled into a subtle snarl.
"I-I," the mystery woman begins to choke out, but Lissa hushes her quickly.
"Don't speak," she says. "An ambulance is on its way. You're going to be fine."
Chrom cautiously placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. "You'll be fine," he repeats. "Don't fret, friend."
Ylisse State Memorial Hospital.
The hallways reek of disinfectant, yet hold that distinct flavour of illness that permeates the building. Soap and hand sanitiser dispensers line either side of the wall, unused yet insistent. Chrom, and Lissa sit in silence on a string of chairs opposite a door, the blinds on the window next to which are drawn closed. Guilt pervades the immediate area.
A little way down the hallway, in front of the waiting room and secretary's desk, Frederick is speaking with a pair of officers.
His hands, as always, are intertwined at the base of his spine. He stands tall and confident, with a constant air of a no-nonsense, no-backing-down attitude.
After about fifteen minutes, a doctor and a third, plainclothes officer step out of the opposite door and leave it open.
Chrom stands at their arrival, but Lissa is still slumped in her seat.
"Detective, doctor" he says firmly and stretches out his hand to welcome gentlemanly handshakes from both men. "How is she?"
"Physically, she'll be fine," says the doctor. "A pretty bashed up broken arm, a few stitches and two cracked ribs. But she's coping well. She should be ready to be discharged soon."
"She won't be pressing charges," the detective interrupts.
Chrom nods, thankful, and he allows a smile to form on his face.
Lissa heaves a very audible sigh.
"Thank you, detective, I'm grateful-"
"But there is another issue," the doctor interrupts. His voice is deep and gravelly and grave in its tone. "It seems that the girl, Robin, knows nothing but her name…and yours, Mr. Chrom."
"Mine? Well, I suppose she would. She's seen my face from when I went to help her, and I suppose I am something of a public figure," Chrom says, though his humility betrays him and he stumbles over the last two words.
The doctor shakes his head. "She remembers nothing from the accident, nor your face-at least that's what she's told us. It appears to us that she remembers nothing about herself nor where she came from, either. Her mind is a complete blank."
"You didn't happen to find any form of identification that might have fallen out of her pocket or something at the scene?" asks the detective.
Chrom shakes his head.
"Ah. As I suspected, she's probably a vagrant."
"She was in pretty bad shape even prior to the accident, it seems. She was near malnourished; probably hadn't eaten or slept in days. That may have been what resulted in the loss of memory."
"I've heard of that," Lissa chirps brightly. "It's called amnesia, right?"
The doctor smiles heartily and nods.
"Do you think I could speak to her?" Chrom asks the doctor. "If it's all right, I mean. I'd like to apologise. And if it's my name she remembers, perhaps it's my responsibility to set things right."
"By all means, go right ahead," the doctor steps out of the way, gesturing to the door. "But don't think you'll get much out of her. Vagrants tend to have empty heads, and even emptier wallets."
He and the detective share a brief bout of laughter.
Lissa shoots them a glare.
"You shouldn't make fun of the homeless," she grumbles under her breath, then follows Chrom into the room.
The ceiling light is off. The bright midday sun follows a gentle breeze through the open window beside the bed. The TV nailed to the wall is switched on but muted.
The woman sits up in bed. Her light hair falls just before her shoulders, sweeping across her face as the glow captures the left half of her body.
Her right arm is caught in a white cast and bandages are strewn across her cheek.
When Chrom closes the door behind Lissa, she turns to greet them.
"Hey there," Lissa grins.
"Hello," replies the woman. The whiteboard hanging on the wall above her bed simply reads, Robin. She beams softly yet brightly. "Can I help you?"
Chrom takes a seat beside her bed, and Lissa takes the one next to him.
"I think I'm the one who should be saying that, friend. My name is Chrom- I'm the one who did this awful thing to you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me," he murmurs, quietly yet sincerely.
Robin looks at him with an air of bewilderment. She shakes her head rapidly, eyes set on him.
"No, it's quite all right. I suppose it was my fault for wandering around that way, even if I can't quite remember it…Chrom…" she staggers over his name. "It's strange…that name feels so familiar."
"Don't force yourself, now. I've heard you have some sort of amnesia," he hushes.
"Mm. Still…Oh, I haven't even introduced myself. My name is…Robin…I-I'm terribly sorry, Chrom and…"
"Oh, right!" Chrom turns to Lissa. "This delicate one here is my little sister, Lissa."
Lissa huffs and punches her brother in the arm.
He laughs without recoiling.
"I am not delicate!" She reaches over him to shake Robin's good hand. "Nice to meet you, Robin."
Robin smiles. "You, too."
"So, you don't remember anything, then? You don't have a home or somewhere you could go back to once you're discharged?" Chrom brings them from their tangent.
She shakes her head, eyes flicking downwards to trace the gentle creases of the bedsheets.
"The police say they've found no ID, no documents, no personal items of any sort. It's like I've only just been born, or I've spontaneously manifested here out of thin air. It's strange," she rubs her eyes with her good hand.
"I see," Chrom breathes. "Listen, I still feel terrible about this whole affair. And if you've nowhere to stay, I could offer you room and board for a little while, at least until you're all sorted."
Lissa's mouth hangs agape, but after a brief moment of thought, she nods.
"That's actually a good idea, Chrom. It's the least we could do- besides, you seem nice enough, Robin. And having no memories must be pretty tough."
"It has been, so far. Your offer is…amazing, Chrom. You don't owe me anything, I assure you," says Robin.
"I insist. I never meant to cause harm, but I did, and I have to face that. Unless you've been lying and you do have a home to go back to, in which case I'll leave you alone, I must implore you to take me up," Chrom leans forwards slightly. His eyes are set on hers, unwavering, with a sort of conviction that even some champions of war lacked.
Robin heaves a sigh.
Slowly, though, her lips form a wry smile. "Thank you, Chrom. If only for a little while."
Satisfied with himself, Chrom exits the room. He buttons up the middle of his blazer and strides confidently out into the middle of the hallway.
The detective from before and Frederick, still clad in his light blue formal police uniform, are speaking. When they spot the young man, they both halt and turn to face him.
"Sir, how did it go?" Frederick asks.
Chrom smiles. Lissa trails behind him, kicking at the ground with each bouncy step.
"Excellent, I would say. We've gotten to know each other, and I've invited her to stay with us at the complex until she's well enough to find her way home," he speaks as if it is the most obvious reply in the world, and a look of confusion washes over him when Frederick's reaction is less than expected.
"You've invited her? Did I not hear her spoken of as a vagrant?"
"She has no memories, Frederick. We can't leave her out on her own," Lissa groans.
"She's right. I feel obliged to take her in. If we left her, alone and confused- and beaten up by my own vehicle, might I remind you- what sort of Shepherds would we be for Ylisse?" Chrom is usually not a man of rhetoric, yet the sheer passion in his voice is apparent.
"We would be cautious ones, sir. We don't know if she's lying about her amnesia. She could be a thief sent to spy on the complex. The fact that she knows your name only proves that."
"Calm down, Fretty Frederick-"
"I'm not fretty, I'm cautious and I'm wary of strangers."
"Well, I've made up my mind, and I'm going to help her. If you'd like to reprimand me, Frederick, file a formal complaint at my office. I won't sit idly by and watch a young woman suffer because of me. It's not what Emmeryn would do, I'm sure of it."
Frederick remains silent.
He heaves a great sigh, stands up tall, and nods. "Very well, sir. I'll support your decision."