A/N: PLEASE READ THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE!

Thank you. I thought I just ought to warn anyone who is picking this story up for the first time: this chapter was written to celebrate 100 reviews and is kind of a gift to the readers who have stuck with me. It is important to note that you will not really appreciate this chapter if you haven't read all of the previous chapters and haven't met all the versions of Robin.

This is probably the most self-indulgent thing I've written. I'm simultaneously proud of it and horrified at the same time. I'd really, really appreciate feedback. I wrote half of this a good six months ago, and another half just now, so I have no idea if the style shifts abruptly or if the writing/idea is even good at all. But I'm really tired and I'm uploading this because it's done.

That being said, thank you to everyone who's read this story (that means you!), and a special thank you to everyone who's stuck with this story from the beginning!


Chrom's smile faded as soon as he stepped away from the balcony and into the privacy of the castle, away from the rejoicing crowds. He slipped his cloak off his shoulders and peeled off his gloves with shaking hands. His eyes felt sore and bloodshot, his shoulder sagging with weariness. The numbness that had crept over him after Grima's defeat was slowly ebbing away, leaving a desperate sense of loss in its wake.

Robin…Chrom clenched his fists until his nails dug red crescent-moon marks into the palm of his hand. Robin was gone. His best friend, his partner, his other half, was gone.

"Robin," he murmured, shaking slightly, alone in the dim light of the darkened room. "You…"

He lied to me.

He staggered over to his bed, collapsing into the soft blankets and mattress. He didn't want to move, he didn't want to think anymore—he wanted to sleep and fade into oblivion. Anything to stop the storm of grief whirling inside him. Anything to stop his thoughts from wandering towards the image seared into his memory: Robin, smiling through tears and fading into nothingness.

A muffled shout rose in his throat and he buried his head in his pillow. The final battle against Grima had been a victory. But it had also been a crushing defeat.

After what seemed like hours, his exhausted body won out over his mind, and he slept.


Chrom dreams.

He dreams that he is walking through the silent halls of his castle. His footsteps echo on the stone floors. Ancient Exalts, long gone, stare at him with dead eyes from their painted frames. He is alone.

"Chrom! You listening to me?"

Not alone. Chrom is startled and turns, an apology already half-formed on his lips, then stops as a jolt of shock surges through him.

It's Robin.

But it's not Robin. Because Robin didn't have yellow hair and he definitely didn't keep it up in a ponytail, nor was he quite so tall. The voice is off and the face is off and the purple-lined, dark coat is the only objective sign that this is Robin in any way. But Chrom realizes that it is Robin somehow, in a strange, almost disturbing way that he can't quite explain.

"What?" he manages to get out, deeply disturbed and thoroughly bewildered.

Robin snorts and elbows him in the ribs. Chrom leans away. "I was TALKING, you idiot blueberry," he says. Chrom frowns at the nickname—it feels odd, like it simultaneously was and was not meant for him. "Are you not getting enough sleep or something? Do I need to tie you to the bed?"

"Wh—no, you do not need to tie me to the bed!" Chrom protests almost automatically. He should be more suspicious or at least a bit uncomfortable with this strange dream, where he is talking to someone who is Robin and not-Robin at the same time. But this yellow-haired, scowling Robin's banter distracts him, throws him off, and he ignores how easily it comes to him.

"If I got Sully to do it you might not complain," Robin says, waggling his eyebrows meaningfully.

Caught off guard again, Chrom chokes on his breath. "What? No!"

"Why? Do you not go for the redheads?" Robin tsks. "Who would expect the famous Prince Chrom to be so shallow? And should you of all people really be criticizing people's hair color?"

"You are just—you are just awful," Chrom retorts lamely, lost for words.

"And you're a blueberry."

"Don't call me a blueberry!"

"Gaius calls you 'Blue', I don't see what the difference is—"

"I don't even like blueberries!" Chrom says childishly, throwing up his arms in frustration.

Robin tips his head back and laughs raucously, and Chrom feels elated and sad at the same time. Why do I feel sad? he he remembers: Robin is dead, he'd sacrificed himself to slay Grima, and now Chrom is dreaming of him—dreaming of a person who is both foreign and familiar, and yet is undeniably Robin, in a different shell.

"Who are you?" he says suddenly.

Robin frowns. "Huh?"

"Who are you?" Chrom repeats, suddenly uncertain and desperate. "You're—you're Robin but you're not Robin, how—"

"You okay?" Robin says slowly. "How hard did you hit your head when we got into that fight in the food tent?"

"I'M okay! You're the one who's DEAD!" Chrom shouts, and Robin's eyes grow wide and the halls spin around them, Chrom's feet buckle beneath him and he's falling—


"Chrom? Chrom!"

"Wh—nngk—what?" Chrom muttered, rising through the fog of sleep clouding his thoughts. He opened his eyes blearily and Lissa's concerned face swam into view.

"It's morning, and—and we were worried because you still hadn't come out of your room. I came in and you were thrashing around in your sleep so I woke you up—"

"I was dreaming," Chrom said suddenly, sitting up. "Robin was there."

Lissa shut her mouth and stared at him.

"Robin was there—but he wasn't Robin?" Chrom continued, frowning. "He was different but he was still Robin, if that makes sense—never mind, it doesn't. What was going on?"

Lissa carefully reached over and touched him on the arm.

"Chrom," she said quietly, "are you feeling okay?"

"Yes," Chrom said automatically, then flinched as he saw the look on Lissa's face, a look that was sad and knowing and too old for his little sister to wear.

"No, I'm not," he mumbled.

How could he be? How could any of them be?


The day passed in a blur. The post-war period, apparently, was going to be even more complicated and busy than the war itself. Homeless citizens to relocate, treaties to sign, meetings to attend…

Robin would have made sense of it all, Chrom thought, tuning out a particularly boorish census taker. He liked this sort of thing. We could have done it together.

By the time Chrom returned to his room, the moon was high in the sky and his mind was a misty mess of weariness and grief. He kicked off his boots and fell into bed.

He'd almost forgotten about the dream from the previous night.


Chrom dreams.

Again?

In his dream, Robin is a woman. Her (and isn't that strange, Chrom thought) hair is dark brown and cropped neatly at her shoulder. But she wears the same purple-lined coat and the same confidence shines in her eyes. And she is talking. Loudly. Chrom is about to lean back and groan in bewilderment until he catches the first few words of her rant.

"And so then that Duchess—Wister-something-or-the-other—told me I didn't know what I was talking about, so I just told her to stuff it," she says with a vindictive glee. "You should've seen the look on her face!"

The satisfaction in her voice and the strangeness of the situation (Robin, a woman?) sets Chrom off. He laughs.

"Democracy has its merits, I'm telling you," Robin says, picking at the railing of the balcony the two of them are leaning on. "Although maybe not. I don't want my vote or your vote to have the same weight as someone like Duchess Wister—Wieser—what's her name again?"

"Wisteria," Chrom replies. This is even stranger than last night's dream. The Robin he knows is most definitely not a woman, but this Robin wears the tactician's coat like a second skin and her eyes shine with the same lively light, and somehow this feels familiar, like he is performing the steps to a dance he'd danced long ago.

"That's it!" Robin snaps her fingers. "But yes, she was angry, all right. She puffed up. Like a bullfrog. Look, sort of like this—" and Robin frowns, puffing out her cheeks with an intense look of stuffy agitation on her face.

Chrom breaks. He leans against the balcony and laughs, trying to muffle his laughter with one hand but failing terribly. "Stop it," he pleads, turning away from her. "Naga, my stomach hurts."

Robin holds her expression for a few seconds more, seemingly just to spite him, then relaxes.

Chrom exhales shakily, trying to stifle his amusement. "It's been a while I laughed like that," he confesses. "It's been a while since I last laughed." He remembers the way Robin, his Robin, had faded into nothingness and saddens instantly. A chill runs through him. Why is he dreaming about this? Have the gods deemed the grief he has to deal with in his waking hours insufficient, and decided to torment him at night, too? He groans, lowering his head. He was so stupid, he should have reached out and pulled Robin away before he'd fired the spell, should have done something

"Okay, wait, you're actually upset." Robin says. Her eyes narrow. "Are you okay? Do you need me to yell at someone for you? Or did I say something? It wasn't me, right?"

"It wasn't you," Chrom says, running a hand through his hair and sighing. "It was you but it wasn't—Naga, Robin, why did you have to leave?"

Robin frowns. "What?"

"No, sorry, I shouldn't ask you, it wasn't really you," Chrom apologizes. He feels his hands begin to shake. "This is so strange—are you Robin or not? You shouldn't be, you can't be, but you are—what is going on!? Why am I here!?" he shouts, clenching his hands into fists.

"Are you drunk or something?" Robin says in disbelief. "Look, while I am not against alcohol consumption, I am in favor of healthy lifestyle choices—"

"Who ARE you!?" Chrom roars. He's fed up with this illusion, with this woman who is Robin but is not Robin, who is a total stranger and yet can make him laugh until his sides ache. There's a nagging feeling of of familiarity, a feeling that he should know her, but he doesn't—how could he possibly know her?

"What are you talking about? I'm Robin!" she says loudly.

"No, you're NOT!" Chrom snarls in denial and shakes his head furiously, the world spinning around him—

BAM.


Chrom jolted awake, not on his bed but on the floor, tangled in the bedsheets. He had fallen out of bed in his sleep. His head was pressed up against the floor and his shoulder hurt from where it had impacted the hard ground.

"Damn!" he muttered, wiggling one leg out of the constricting sheets and hopping clumsily as he tried to free his arms. "Damn it, damn, damn!"

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair was mussed and stuck out in all different directions, his eyes bloodshot and tired. He didn't look like a king. He didn't feel like one, either.

I had a dream about Robin, he thought dazedly as he managed to unravel the sheets from around him. Except Robin was a woman. So it wasn't Robin. But it was?

"Am I going crazy?" he asked his mirror. The mirror didn't reply.

If this is Naga's idea of compensation, he reflected bitterly as he stepped towards his dresser to pull on his cloak, it's very poor compensation indeed.


Weeks passed. No more dreams about Robin, blonde, female, or otherwise, came. Chrom was simultaneously relieved and disturbed, as if there was something missing that he couldn't name.

Exactly two months after Grima fell and Robin died, Chrom stumbled across Gaius in the castle kitchens. The orange-haired thief sat slumped in a chair with his feet propped up on a table, dumping glasses of sweet, golden mead with a strange, single-minded determination.

"Gaius," Chrom greeted.

"Blue," Gaius said through a mouthful of mead.

"I'm not a blueberry," Chrom said automatically, then wondered where that had come from.

Gaius stared at him, opened his mouth, closed it again, and turned away. "Uhh, never said you were," he mumbled. Then he took another gulp of mead.

Chrom sighed and pulled out a chair. "What are you doing?"

"Getting—I'm getting drunk," Gaius replied absently.

Chrom stared at him as he sat down. A lot of the Shepherds had left after Grima had been slain. Lon'qu had returned to Regna Ferox. Libra and Maribelle had departed Ylisstol to open their orphanage. Henry had…disappeared. But others had remained. Like Donnel, who occasionally tagged along during Chrom's searches in hopes of finding the tactician he so admired, or Tharja, who lingered gloomily over the castle like a sinister storm cloud, and Gaius, who for all his self-serving thievery, still couldn't seem to get over the loss of his close friend. The tactician and the thief had an odd but strong friendship. Chrom remembered a period of time when Gaius would tail Robin around the barracks, offering him sweets and trinkets. When Chrom had asked, Robin had rolled his eyes and muttered something quickly but not quickly enough, because Chrom managed to catch "mumble-mumble-stupid thief the bath tent has an 'occupied' sign for a reason".

Chrom had laughed at Robin for walking in on Gaius. Ironically, a week later he no longer had the right to do so, after a certain incident that involved Robin throwing a bar of soap at him and calling him a slack-jawed village idiot. Although in his defense there had been a lot of steam, and the tactician's reaction had been—damn it, he was thinking about Robin again.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and reached for the bottle. "Count me in."

"Thatsh—" Gaius took another swig and watched Chrom pour himself a glassful of the golden drink. "Urm, you're th'exalt. 's not a good idea."

"No, it's not," Chrom said tiredly. He knocked back the glass. "Naga, this tastes sweet."

"I know," Gaius said. "That's the point."

"This is a terrible idea," Chrom agreed, and refilled his glass.

The rest of the night was a haze. Chrom vaguely remembered a few other Shepherds joining them. He remembered Sully mumbling out a story about seaweed, Virion drunkenly mapping out chess formations with spoons and pepper shakers, and Vaike yelling something like: "That blasted horse! It was grinning! Like a rabid crocodile!"

He finally, finally, fell asleep listening to a sniffling Donnel's description of the fish he caught with the fish-hook Robin had made, wondering somewhat guiltily if sealing Grima for a thousand years was really such a terrible option.


Chrom dreams.

He dreams he is walking through a strange, roaring city. The buildings are tall and shine in the light as if they are made of glass, the ground at his feet is not paved with rough, uneven cobblestone but an oddly smooth and gray material. Metallic, four-wheeled carriages whizz past him on the road, roaring and racing at speeds faster than should be possible. People in all sorts of strange, stiff-looking garments hurry past him. The chaotic, foreign surroundings manage to stun Chrom in a way none of the other dreams have stunned him before. His heart pounds in his ears and he stumbles. Someone is ahead of him, tugging him by the hand and talking amiably.

"Okay, so I guess it wasn't the usual place for a date but it's better than IKEA at least—"

Chrom catches a glimpse of a dark coat lined with purple. "—Robin!?" he sputters. "Where—what—"

But that's all he manages to get out, because the alien surroundings and clamor make Chrom's stomach lurch and head spin, and he falls to his knees as the world tumbles down around him—


Chrom jerked awake, head pounding and ears ringing. His mouth was dry and his eyes fuzzy. He tried to sit up, but his body failed him and he slowly slumped back down into his pillow. He had clearly drunk too much the last night, if the splitting headache he had was any indication. He tried to sit up again. He got dizzy.

"Sorry, lady-Robin," he muttered, slumping back onto his pillow. "I don't think this counts as a responsible life choice."

Then the reality of the situation hit him: he was sprawled on his bed, hung-over, and apologizing to some female version of Robin he had met in a dream.

A few minutes later, Frederick walked in the room. Most mornings Chrom had to drag himself out of bed by imagining Robin's voice telling him that he was the Exalt and had to be functional, yes, even if he missed him. It worked more often than not, but when it didn't, Frederick took it upon himself to step in. This morning, the knight was quite surprised to see Chrom lying on his back and giggling up at the ceiling.

"Milord," he said. It was a voice that contained a reprimand, an expression of disbelief, and a hint of concern all at once.

"Sorry," Chrom gasped, managing to sit up. "What is an ai-kee-yuh anyways?"

Frederick stared at him. And decided not to comment.


Years passed. Ylisse began to recover, slowly but surely. The knights flourished under Frederick's leadership. Stahl and Cordelia were married on a cloudless sunny day, and Cordelia had looked Chrom in the eye for the first time and smiled when he stepped forward to congratulate them. One day, Lissa walked into Chrom's office, stared straight at him, and said she wanted to travel the world. And Chrom had looked at his sister, determined and confident and grown-up—and approved, although he wasn't stupid enough to think that his opinion would have stopped Lissa from traveling all the way to Chon'sin if she really wanted to.

And the world slowly moved forward, and Chrom was doing well, told himself that he was doing well, until—


Chrom dreams.

He dreams of a breezy summer day and a bustling market; of himself, ducking through the crowds incognito in a plain cloak and tunic. He barely has enough time to think: 'Oh, Naga, this again?' before Robin springs up at his side out of nowhere, beaming at him.

"Finally! You're here!" Robin exclaims. "Come on, come on. I gotta show you something."

"What?" Chrom blinks dumbly.

"I've got an idea," Robin says in excitement. Chrom is suddenly assaulted by a vague feeling of dread. "It's a great idea. And it's a real idea this time. Are you ready?" The small, white-haired tactician is practically bouncing up and down.

"No," Chrom says automatically.

"Great, let's go," Robin says cheerily, tugging at his arm. "Come on. Don't make me sing the banana song."

The foreign feeling of dread washes upon him him again. It's a strange sensation, like his mind is telling him that this is what he should be feeling, but Chrom can't imagine why. He feels a vague flicker of annoyance. This isn't his Robin, this isn't his life—why should he have to feel anything? Where is it all coming from?

So he squashes down the feelings that aren't his own and asks, "why, what's the banana song?"

Robin looks at him strangely for a second, then grins an impossibly wide grin. "Remember? It goes like this—"

A minute later, Chrom is dragging Robin along by the arm, saying hurriedly: "Oh yes, I remember now, come on, let's go, show me your great idea."

And thankfully Robin complies, whistling the rest of the tune absentmindedly and leading the two of them down the crowded market streets. They walk quietly for a while, bumping into the other market-goers occasionally. Chrom mutters quick apologies. Robin cheerfully does the same until a grumpy-looking woman with a basket full of apples tells the white-haired tactician to "watch where you're going". Then Robin trips her, and Chrom has more apologizing to do.

"There is an ancient Plegian proverb," Robin says wisely, staring off into the distance as soon as the woman is out of earshot. "So a man sows, so shall he reap."

"Mmm-hmm," Chrom grumbles, carefully shepherding Robin away from the crowds before any more metaphorical sowing and reaping can happen.

"Also known as 'talk shit, get hit.'"

"You made that up," Chrom says.

"You believed it," Robin counters. "Just for a bit. But you did. Hey, this is nice, y'know." Seeing Chrom's questioning glance, Robin moves to clarify: "It beats sitting cooped up in the castle and filing papers."

"It is nice," Chrom agrees. "It's been a while since I've been so relaxed." With a sudden pang, he realizes that it's true. There's been so much for him to do, and he's had to do it all alone. And Chrom still wants, still needs Robin—his Robin—with him.

"What is going on?" Chrom murmurs out loud.

And then he remembers that he's still in this dream, and the Robin next to him—white-haired, small, and bright-eyed—turns and stares at him. "What'd you say?"

Chrom groans and shoves his head in his hands. "I think I'm going mad. Just slightly."

"Whoa. Uh…" Robin sounds slightly panicked. "Is this my fault? I can stop singing, I swear—"

Chrom glances up. The tactician looks like an apologetic puppy and he immediately feels guilty. "It wasn't you," he says quickly. "I don't even know how many Robins it's been at this point, but none of them are really you, do you see?...I'm not making sense, aren't I." he finishes lamely.

Robin stares at him with a dumbfounded, vaguely fearful expression. The dream is slowing down, growing fuzzy, just as it had done the times before when Chrom had forced himself to an awakening. He's going to wake up soon, in his bedroom in Ylisstol, and go about his day, sitting in meetings and filing papers while cooped up in the castle—

And suddenly he's annoyed with himself. He doesn't have to stop now. It probably counts as the worst form of escapism out there, but Chrom has been through wars and conquest and stared a fell dragon right in the eyes, and he thinks that somewhere along the line he's earned the right to indulge himself in a dream if he wants to.

"Sorry," he says hastily, determined not to rock the boat. He's going to see this till the end. It's interesting, if nothing else. "I'm fine. I was just…rambling." Robin still doesn't look convinced, so he hastily adds: "You were going to show me your idea?"

Robin starts. "Oh, right! Wow, I keep forgetting." The brightness of the tactician's smile seems to spur the dream back into life. "Okay, so you know how wyverns—"


"What are you humming?" Sully shouted suddenly. "That is the most annoying crap I have ever heard in my life!"

Chrom blinked, startled. "Uh, nothing much," he said apologetically. "Sorry, I was just thinking about a dream I had."

Sully scoffed but calmed slightly. "Good dream?" she asked gruffly.

"Yes," Chrom replied cheerfully, remembering how he'd laughed so hard he'd woken up. He smiled slightly, and Sully glanced at him in surprise. "You could say that."

And maybe Naga or his subconscious or whatever is sending him these dreams takes that as a good sign, because a few nights later—


Chrom dreams.

He dreams of a medical tent, the air thick with the smell of ointment. He dreams of another Robin, long hair draped about his face and shoulders, lying prone on one of the cots, and moaning loudly in apparent agony.

"Robin," he gasps, and steps forward. Then he falters.

Despite the fact that he had (as Robin once put it) the social acuity of a box of rocks, Chrom is not, in fact, a stupid person. Given the right information, he can make connections as well as the next person. And despite the apparent randomness of his dreams, he has managed to come to a few conclusions. One of them is that, most of the time, what his subconscious tells him he should be feeling is usually the right way to feel. And right now, his gut is telling him that he doesn't have to be concerned. In fact, he should probably be annoyed.

"…what is it?" he asks eventually.

Robin raises his head up to stare blearily at Chrom. "I'm languishing," he moans, flopping back onto his pillow after an apparent loss of strength. "This is the end, I fear. There'll be no more soldiering for me."

The tent flap opens and Libra walks in, smiling when he sees Chrom. "Ah, sire!" he says.

"Libra," Chrom greets, interested. He hasn't dreamed of another person besides Robin before "What's wrong with Robin?"

"I'm suffering," Robin repeats, draping his arm over his face.

"You have a cold," Libra says.

"I feel an icy chill upon me," Robin continues. "My eyes. My nose. They burn."

"If you had not insisted on staying in the rain—" Libra begins testily, then closes his eyes briefly and stops himself. "My apologies, sire," he says after catching Chrom's surprised glance at him. He continues to watch Libra as he moves towards a table and begin to mix medicine. He doesn't think he's ever seen the serene, unflappable monk so obviously annoyed before.

"My throat feels as if it is being raked with knives," Robin rasps, ignoring him. "I can barely speak."

Chrom did a double-take as he heard Libra say faintly, but distinctly, "Thank Naga."

"If I don't make it, Chrom," Robin says quietly, peering at him, "tell my wife I love her."

Chrom's subconscious prods at him again.

"You don't have a wife," he says automatically. Then he wonders how he knows.

"I know," Robin groans. "It's a shame."

"Or one of Naga's small mercies," Libra comments innocuously as he heads their way. "Drink this." he hands Robin a cup of murky liquid.

Robin sits up, takes a sip, and nearly chokes. "This is vile!" he exclaims, staring wide-eyed at Libra. "You're poisoning me!"

"Drink it, Robin," Chrom says, taking pity on Libra.

"I—"

"That's an order," Chrom says, using the firmest commander voice he can muster. Robin opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs as he brings the cup to his mouth again.

"Betrayed by my closest friend," he mumbles, glaring up at Chrom.

"Sorry," Chrom says, even though he doesn't feel very sorry.

"This is tyranny," Robin says, then tips the contents of the cup down his throat. "Blech! Gagh!" He thrusts the empty cup at Libra, who takes it with a sigh and leaves the room.

Chrom sighed and slumped into a chair by the side of the bed. This Robin's face is different, slightly younger and softer than the Robin that Chrom knows. His hair isn't silver, but black and long. It falls into his eyes in soft waves. He is reasonably handsome, but the effect is slightly offset by the dramatic moans he is making.

"I'm going to die, Chrom," Robin says. Chrom jumps in his seat. Robin, oblivious, continues on. "The cruel hand of Fate has conspired against me to end my life here. Tell everyone I loved them."

"That's not funny," Chrom says suddenly. Robin blinks and turns towards him, the facade of agony disappearing from his face.

"…sorry?" he says eventually, looking slightly wary. "Is something the matter?"

Chrom exhales and leans back in his chair. The dream is a realistic one—even the texture of the tent canvas is as he remembers. Outside, he can hear the Shepherds milling about—training, cooking, laughing and talking. It's a life he can't ever have again. He closes his eyes, recalling the freedom he had when he was only the leader of the Shepherds and not the Exalt. "No, I'm sorry for snapping. What you said…about fate, and death…it upset me." Even without opening his eyes, he knows that Robin is staring at him.

"I don't really believe that, you know," Robin says quietly. Chrom blinks open his eyes and lifts his head. This black-haired, melodramatic version of Robin, appears to be serious (for once).

"Then what do you believe?" Chrom asks.

Robin hums, tapping his fingers as he thinks. His pale eyes stare into the distance. "I don't believe in destiny," he says eventually. "We're not pawns of some scripted fate. I believe we're more. Much more. There's something between us all. Something that keeps us together. Like...invisible…" he trails off, brow furrowed in thought.

Chrom's eyes widen as he leans forward. This dream is giving him something that he desperately wants to hear. Is this a message? From Naga? From Robin?

"Invisible what?" he says.

Robin turns to him again and opens his mouth to respond. But Chrom doesn't get to hear the end, because—


"Milord? Milord?"

Chrom jerked back into consciousness. He was in his bed again. Frederick was standing over him, shaking his shoulder urgently.

"You have a meeting with the council, milord," he said by way of explanation, although there was a hint of apology in his voice. "I believe you should have risen more than ten minutes ago—" he was cut off by Chrom, who groaned and buried his head in his pillow.

"Just a few more seconds!" he said despairingly. "Frederick, why—why couldn't you have waited a few more seconds?"

Of course, the end result is that Chrom spent the entirety of the council meeting thinking about what an alternate version of Robin, from a dream of all things, had said to him. Even though he was supposed to be listening to a debate about tariffs on imports from Chon'sin.

Something that keeps us together? he mulled the thought over. Robin—his Robin—had said something similar once, although he hadn't explained his idea nearly so dramatically.

Are the gods trying to tell me that Robin is somehow still alive?

But Chrom had seen Robin die, seen him disintegrate into small specks that blew away in the wind as Grima perished with a final roar.

This, he thought as he rested his head on his hands and watched some lord waffle away about the importance of fixing some minor fault in the city walls, is definitely the strangest situation I've been in. Even stranger than the time we fought Risen in a hot spring. Or the time we fought Einherjar and one of them insisted that she recognized Robin. Or the time we traveled to the future.

I've been in many strange situations, he conceded. But at least Robin had been with him for all of them.

In any case, if Robin—and by this he meant the melodramatic Robin from his dream—was right, then maybe they would be united again. Was that why he was receiving these dreams in the first place? Was it an omen? Or just a fool's hope?

Chrom nodded vaguely at a question one of his retainers asked him, not paying nearly as much attention as he was pretending to.

Even if it was a fool's hope, it was all he had.


Chrom dreams.

He is standing in front of a giant painted mural. His clothes are strange: a jacket and shirt with too-neat stitches and pants made out of a blue, tight material. To distract himself from the strange fabric, he glances up at the enormous painting in front of him and nearly chokes with shock. His own face stares back at him from the canvas. The mural depicts the last stand of the Shepherds against the Fell Dragon. Whoever had painted it had done a very good job, almost perfectly captured what he'd felt at the moment before the Shepherds clashed with Grima—fear and hope and determination. And beside the version of Chrom in the painting stands Robin, with a hood over his face and lightning crackling around his hands. The artist had drawn, under the tactician's hood, a very faint trace of a smile. Chrom stands there for quite a long time, staring at the painting, remembering the horrible screeches of the dragon and the endless clash of blades and steel.

"The history books never said what happened after this battle," someone says. Chrom turns to see yet another Robin—silver-haired and female, dressed in clothes as foreign as his own—standing next to him. Despite the strangeness of her attire, one thing is similar: the black coat she wears, although it is shorter and made of a softer-looking fabric, has the same purple markings, gold edges, and soft hood that are so familiar to him.

"Didn't they?" Chrom says, crossing his arms and turning toward the painting again. This doesn't feel like the Ylisse he knows. History books, she had said? About the battle with Grima? Is he dreaming of a different time then, one long after his own? Has he gone forward in time, just as Lucina had gone back? That would explain how weird his surroundings are. The bright light that fills the windowless room seems too steady, too white to come from torches and he glances about for a light source.

Robin speaks again, bringing his attention back to her. "I did some research. Historians couldn't find much about what happened to the High Deliverer after the battle. It's like they just…disappeared." she scoffs. "That's what the historians think, anyways."

"You don't agree?" Chrom asks absently. He is still examining the painting.

"No," Robin says so resolutely that he stares at her. "I don't think they would have left their friends."

"That's what I thought too," Chrom mutters.

"But," she continues, and now she turns towards him, a strange light in her eyes as she grins. "Even if the Exalt and the High Deliverer were separated, I think they would find a way back to each other."

Chrom feels his heart skip a beat. He's waking up now—he must have spent more time staring at the mural than he thought. "I hope so," he says just as everything flutters into pieces. "Naga, I hope so."


Chrom's vague nod at the council meeting turned out to be more trouble than he'd expected.

"What do you mean I agreed to a potential marriage?" he hissed. Frederick shook his head in exasperation.

"I tried to warn you of the council's plan, milord," the knight stated. "You ignored every one of my attempts."

Groaning, Chrom buries his head in his hands. He'd known that his distraction would have consequences eventually, although he'd never anticipated this.

"Milord," Frederick said, in a tired voice. "The council is demanding that you choose a partner to rule Ylisse with. They want you to produce an heir."

"I already have a partner," Chrom said stubbornly.

"I know that," Frederick said.

"Then why are you—"

"I'm not the one who wants this for you," Frederick reminded him with a slight sternness.

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry."

Head in his hands, Chrom missed Frederick's look of pity. "Milord," he said. "If you do not wed, the council will likely demand that Lissa return from her travels to wed and produce an heir."

"What? No!" said Chrom. Not Lissa—she was so happy away from the stifling customs and duties that Ylisstol demanded. Her letters to him were filled with cheerful retellings of strange sights, rollicking adventures, and new friendships. If she was to return—

"I won't do that to her," he said.

"I thought as much. Then the council awaits your prompt response, milord," said Frederick.

"Stall them," Chrom demanded, heart racing. "Stall them—I can't and I won't—"

"I'll try, lord." Frederick turned to leave the room, but hesitated and stopped at the doorway. "I'm sorry," he said, in a soft voice.

The door shut. Chrom made a quiet, despairing sound.

Dreaming had helped him forget, but this was how things actually were. Robin was still dead, Chrom was still alone, and now he was going to be wed to a near-stranger that the council picked out for him. Suddenly taken by a fit of anger, he stood up and began to pace about the room. Robin! Why did he leave? Why did he have to sacrifice himself, to be so selfless—

Chrom stopped dead in his tracks. Selfless. If Robin was selfless, enough to forsake his own life for the sake of the world a thousand years later, and Chrom couldn't even bear to remarry…

Did that make him selfish?

"Damn it," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.


Chrom dreams.

He dreams of a wedding on a sunny spring day. He is dressed in stiff ceremonial clothing and it feels awkward to move, but his heart lifts when he notices an auburn-haired woman beside him that he instinctively knows is Robin. He lifts his hand automatically to wave at the cheering crowd from the balcony they stand on.

"I can't believe this," she whispers to him. She looks slightly uncomfortable in her extravagant dress, but she's grinning widely all the same. "I—we just got married, I—wow. This is…"

Chrom laughs fondly despite himself. An unexpected surge of happiness rises in his chest.

"Gods, I forgot to thank Panne," Robin muttered. "And Lissa, and Miriel and Maribelle…"

"What have they got to do with this?" he asked curiously.

"Nothing!" Robin squeaks, turning a lovely shade of pink. Chrom turns his head to gaze back down at the cheering crowd and the dream shifts and changes…

He is standing on the same balcony, but this time it's night. There is no moon. Robin is standing beside him, but there is a noticeable distance between them. This time, Robin is white-haired and wears her distinctive hooded coat, but she looks even more uncomfortable than the previous Robin had been in the over-extravagant dress.

"…and I've already arranged the meeting with Khan Flavia," she's saying, and he notices the dark circles under her eyes. "I had to move the council's debate to a later date, but in all honesty there's probably no harm done there." she exhaled slightly. "Oh, and I annotated and left the report on the Plegian insurgents on your desk, so don't panic if you can't find it."

"Thank you," Chrom says, surprised. "But—ah, you look tired." Robin's shoulders stiffen. Although this Robin is different than his own, he knows the tactician well enough to recognize the signs of stress, and he continues gently: "get some rest."

Robin lowers her head and kneads at her temples with one hand. "I'll be fine, milord," she says.

"What?" Chrom frowns, taken completely by surprise.

"What is what?"

"Why did you call me that?"

Robin turns away from him. He can't see her expression. "Milord," she says in a strained voice. "I thought we agreed that it would be best to keep the proper amount of distance between us." she speaks in a formal, slightly awkward way, as if she's not used to speaking to him like this—and why should she be? Of all the things Chrom has ever asked Robin to do for him, deference was not one of them.

"Robin, what's wrong?" Chrom asks, concerned. He reaches out to grasp her arm, but she pulls away.

"You should retire," she says, gritting her teeth. "Your wife will worry."

Ah. He lets his arm fall, silently cursing the Chrom of this world for letting Robin go.

Robin turns to leave, but glances back at him. "Congratulations," she says in a soft voice, "on the birth of your heir, milord."

She leaves through the doorway, and he watches her go.


"Your answer?"

"No," Chrom said. "I won't do it."

This, of course, ended up raising all kinds of havoc. Chrom, rather selfishly, thought it was worth it. But it wasn't as satisfying as he thought it would be.

He was so tired of everything.


Chrom dreams.

He is standing in an empty, shadowy void. He looks up, then down, then to the side. There is nothing surrounding him but darkness and silence.

"Chrom?"

Oh. He had forgotten to look behind him. He whirls around. Kneeled in the shadows and staring up at him is another strange-yet-familiar Robin. This Robin is tall and slender, with short but beautiful azure hair, and he's staring at Chrom with such a bewildered and heartbroken expression on his face that Chrom's heart clenches a little and he reaches out a hand in pity.

"Yes?" he replies. The blue-haired tactician suddenly stumbles upright, tripping over his own feet in a hasty attempt to reach him. He throws his arms around Chrom and clings to him desperately, his entire body shaking with emotion. Chrom reaches up to rest a hand on his back, but Robin suddenly pulls away, frowning slightly.

"Chrom?" he says. Then he shakes his head, dullness creeping over his pale eyes. "No. You are Chrom. But you are not the Chrom I know." he lets go of Chrom quickly, like he's been burned.

"I'm not," Chrom admits. Robin exhales with a long, mournful sigh, body folding up until he slumps to the ground again, kneeling with his head bowed. And even though Chrom has known him for all of a minute, it pains him to see Robin in such grief and he sits down beside the tactician, pulling him into an embrace. But Robin jerks and shudders, glancing at him with a strange expression on his face.

"I—I don't want to be touched now," Robin says slowly, cautiously.

"Oh," Chrom says, slightly confused. He moves away. "Uh. Alright. Sorry." He tries not to let his bewilderment and disappointment show, but he apparently doesn't do a very good job because Robin looks at him intently, with a piercing gaze.

"You are Chrom," he murmurs sadly. "But you really are not him."

Chrom coughs awkwardly. "Er. Um." he looks around them for a hint of their surroundings, but the shadows stretch out endlessly around them. And yet he can see Robin perfectly clearly. "Where are we?" he asks.

Robin lifts his head and stares at a spot somewhere over Chrom's shoulder, into the void. "Where souls go after they die," he says with no trace of humor.

Chrom stares at him. "You mean I'm dead!?" he sputters.

"No!" Robin exclaims suddenly, his entire body stiffening. "Not you. Never you. You must be alive. I can't—" his voice breaks off and he shakes his head in agitation. "It is extremely unlikely that you would die after the Fell Dragon was slain. Perhaps—" he laughs, a strained, bitter sound. "Perhaps this is some torment the Fell Dragon has devised for me in the last moments before his death—or perhaps I'm going insane. I have been here for a very long time." he buries his head in his hands.

"I'm not some phantom sent to haunt you," Chrom says placatingly, guessing at the true reason why Robin is trapped in this void. It seems, he thinks bitterly, that this Robin also shares the tendency for self-sacrifice. He reaches out a hand to rest it on Robin's shoulder, then remembers and pulls it away. "I—" he pauses. "I'm dreaming. Not dead."

Robin sits up, staring at Chrom quizzically. "A dream?"

Chrom sighs and rests his head on one hand. "I'm not your Chrom," he says slowly. "And you're not my Robin." he stares into the shadows, searching for a hint of light. But there is none. "He also sacrificed himself to kill Grima. I told him—I made him promise not to. But he lied. And he did."

Robin is silent. Chrom takes that as a positive sign, or at least a willingness to listen, and continues. "I go out searching for him as often as I can. I'm sure the other me…Naga, that's a strange thought. But I haven't found him." Chrom closes his eyes. "And these dreams—these dreams keep on coming, and I've met so many versions of you by now, Robin—but it's never him, and it's not enough. I don't want this any more," he pleads, suddenly grief-stricken. "I want him back with me."

Robin is staring at him in confusion. Chrom grins weakly. "Was that too weird?" he says, in a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood.

"You are fading," Robin states.

Startled, Chrom looks down at his hands. They look vague and slightly blurry. He hadn't been able to notice before with the pitch-black surroundings, but he is disappearing, the dream is ending. He looks anxiously at Robin and is startled by the disappointed, terribly lonely look in his pale blue eyes.

"Robin!" he shouts urgently, a impulsive flash of inspiration hitting him. "If I had to search for you somewhere, where would it be?"

Robin looks at him like he's being particularly stupid. "Where it began," he says, as if the answer was obvious.

Part of Chrom is inside the dream, and part of him is lying on his bed. He can feel the pillow under his head, even as he stares at Robin and the world around him begins to fade. Robin turns away rather than look at him disappear.

"Thank you," Chrom says. Robin bows his head again, waiting alone in the darkness, and Chrom's last thought before the dream fades entirely is that he really, really hopes that this version of Robin finds happiness. But the last thing he hears is something quite different, and the shock jolts him awake:


I'll see you soon—


Chrom awoke. He lay in bed for a while, almost afraid to move, listening to the sound of the birds singing outside. He clenched the blanket tightly in one fist. Something felt different today, and his heart beat quickly with anticipation, churning within him like the air before a storm.

"Frederick!" he shouted, bolting upwards and leaping out of bed. "Frederick!" he shouts, and the knight entered the room to see Chrom hastily stripping off his clothes and buckling the straps of his armor.

"Milord?" he said dubiously.

"I'm going out searching," Chrom panted, slipping on his cloak. "Right now."

"Now?" Frederick balked. "Milord—"

"Yes! Now, it has to be now!" Chrom said. He could feel himself smiling almost involuntarily; no wonder Frederick looked worried. "Bring Lissa! And yourself! And hurry!"

Frederick, bless his heart, decided not to question his lord any further. Less than half an hour later, Lissa had been dragged out of bed and three horses were saddled and waiting. And less than a minute after that, the three of them were riding urgently out of Ylisstol's gates.

Chrom didn't know how long they rode for, and steered his horse almost automatically. The sound of hoofbeats and his heartbeat pounded in his ears; his breath came in short bursts. There was something different about the air today. There was something that felt like a promise.

They arrived at a very familiar field, close to a small village named Southtown. At first the field looked empty, and Chrom faltered momentarily, until his eye caught sight of something out of place: a person, lying down on the grass, in a very familiar dark coat.

Frederick gasped. Lissa shrieked in shock. Chrom made no sound but hurled himself off his horse, racing toward the unconscious figure. His feet felt clumsy and he tripped several times in his eagerness, but he managed to stumble to a stop. He stood, breathless but not from exertion, staring down at a face he knew and had missed for so long. There was nothing strange or foreign about this face, nothing dream-like or unfamiliar.

Robin stirred. He opened his eyes blearily and stared vaguely up at Chrom, then awareness crept into his gaze and his eyes widened in shock.

"Chrom—" he said, his voice raspy from disuse.

Chrom had so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to say something fitting and appropriately meaningful, he wanted to shout and scream in joy, he wanted to cry and say how much he had missed him, he wanted to tell him about the multitude of Robins from his dreams that had led him to this moment.

But Chrom was a pretty terrible speechmaker, so instead he said: "There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know," with tears pricking at the corner of his eyes and a smile on his face. He extended his arm in welcome. "Give me your hand."

Shakily, as if he couldn't believe his luck, Robin reached out to join hands with him. There was nothing on the back of his right hand but a pure swath of pale skin. Chrom pulled him upright, allowing the silver-haired tactician to lean against his chest.

"How—" Robin gasped, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "I'm—I didn't—"

"Welcome back," Chrom said, pulling him into a fierce hug. And the many versions of Robin he had met had been amusing, comforting, helpful, and each wonderful in their own right, but nothing compared to this moment.


"It's over now."


A/N:...And the Academy Award for "Most Agonizing Chapter to Write" goes to the 100 review special. You have no idea how hard it was to work every single damn version of Robin into this behemoth. And this idea seemed a lot cooler and a lot less...self-indulgent when I first thought of it. If you got this far, please tell me what you think!

In order of their appearance in this chapter: Chapter 8's Robin, Chapter 5's Robin, Chapter 4's Robin, Chapter 1/11's Robin, Chapter 2/6's Robin, Chapter 9/11's Robin, Chapter 7's Robin and Chapter 10's Robin, Chapter 3's Robin.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to bury myself twelve feet underground.