A/N I ramble. A lot. I take time to get things halfway to where I want it to be. Too much. Thanks for waiting. I don't own Fire Emblem or any of its parallel timeline versions.
The transition from dragon to man had not been clean. Despite Grima's best efforts, there had been a flaw in the ritual, a hidden chink in the perfect plan. Funny. Grima's plan had hinged on the Avatar being susceptible enough to his own emotions, but the Fell Dragon hadn't accounted for those emotions' continuation in the end. He didn't think that he would have to deal with the petty fly's influence decades down the line.
There were symptoms.
He couldn't transform into his true dragon form. Every time he tried, a mental barricade barred the total release of power. It was akin to ramming one's head into a brick wall, with similar results-a splitting headache and no progress whatsoever. Without his dragon form, the destruction of his enemies became that much harder. Cities couldn't be smashed within seconds. Entire armies couldn't be incinerated with one exhale. This left Grima frustrated and infuriated to the point where he murdered several hundred Grimleal cultists. He had then ordered the appropriately-terrified rest to prepare for the inevitably lengthy war ahead of them.
The second side effect was that his actions were at times not his own. At war councils, the Fell Dragon found himself giving tactics and strategies to his commanders, maneuvers that, while seemingly foolproof, became obviously suicidal under careful scrutiny. Many of the Grimleal lost their lives to the half-crazed, possessed tactician whose body Grima occupied. The dilemma of momentary losses of control he kept close to his chest and shared with only those he trusted. In this case, "those" meant unlucky eavesdroppers that would oh-so-unfortunately die in the near future, and the tactician's daughter, Morgan. The young woman he kept alive for her unwavering loyalty and ability to override the Avatar's influence in war councils. As soon as he placed her in a seat of power beside him, she had been a great asset to the cause. He could not keep track of how many times heavy losses were averted due to the blue-haired tactician.
Sometimes, he dreamt. The dreams were always memories it seemed, but as the subconscious streams took up increasingly countless nights, it became obvious that they were not his. The people, the ideas in these dreams… it was disgusting, the reverence that his avatar attached to them. Now-dead characters on a stage long gone, characters that had tossed the avatar aside when he was at his most vulnerable. Ideas of caring, affection, love… revolting. Grima ignored those as best as he could. He focused all of his energy on the small seeds of resentment and hatred for the others' abandonment. He had done so in the hopes that perhaps the Avatar would see it his way, that Grima could triumph this battle as well.
And yet somehow, somewhere along the line, the possessed tactician had won. Grima would never admit it publicly, but privately he wasn't stupid. He knew that a tiny sliver of emotion had wormed its way from the tactician's mind to his. He suspected that Morgan knew as well, or even guessed at it. The evidence was plain as day in Lucina's, Adriane's existence.
"Adriane" was someone who shouldn't, couldn't be alive. Of all the world, Lucina, or at least her alternate counterpart, was the most precious being in the Avatar's eyes. Nothing else mattered so much to the Avatar. The world could burn as long as Lucina was alive. Grima saw that and took advantage of it, sparing the princess' life and taking her in. The implications of this act of mercy was clear for the Avatar: cooperate and she lives. Act out of line and she suffers.
But yes, the emotions. After sharing a mind for so long, it became difficult to discern the owner of each fear, each desire, each feeling. Grima found himself craving bear meat specifically on more than one occasion, and every now and then he was struck with a sudden impulse to read books about pegasi. These were trifle matters.
More serious were the attentions he paid to the young girl. When she was an infant, or nothing more than a child, it was not too terrible. The Avatar insured that any dangerous thoughts directed at his Lucina were instantly diffused and Grima was unable to do anything about it-not that he particularly wanted to. His vessel was so fixated on the young one's safety that he staved off from the war against Naga, something Grima supported. There was also the added benefit that Adriane had the potential to be a powerful tool in his army, hence the rigorous training under Morgan. Waste not, want not.
Then she became a walking, living, beautiful time bomb. Grima had not anticipated this, but the possessed Avatar did. Oh, yes he did, and Grima felt the anticipation within him rise before every scheduled meeting. Lustrous navy locks grew to the appropropriate length—almost to the middle of her back. Legs elongated and lifted her to just the right height. Cheekbones rose and baby softness was shed. Adriane looked more like her with each passing hour. At the same time however, she was completely the opposite.
The eyes, the dull grey that the Avatar despised with a passion, inversely brought the Fell Dragon a cruel sense of satisfaction. Her stance. When Lucina was alive she carried herself like the daughter of kings, dragon slayers, and heroes. There was an air of pride and vitality to the young woman, one that continued on through the Avatar's dreams. Adriane was different. Around him, her steps were declarations of subservience and utter worship. She carried herself like the daughter of nobodies, one that would never have been able to have a future alone. When she talked she talked not of saving people (hah!), but making them pay. Adriane was not Lucina. She had become more. His.
He felt sick. He felt joy. He felt disgusted. He felt relieved. He was confused. Who was he? The Avatar or the Dragon? The Dragon could no longer tell when it came to her. The Avatar was unhinged and knew what was happening and was powerless to stop it and did not care.
The world could burn as long as Adriane was okay. As long as she was his.
She would leave tomorrow to murder Ylisseans in the name of Grima. Oh, the sweet irony. A swell of pride appeared in Grima's chest at the thought. The Avatar said nothing inside his head.