For the first time in what he could remember of his life, Robin looked out on his supposed homeland and saw beauty.
Daylight faded early this close to the mountains, replaced by a twilight that lingered long after the sun had sunken behind snow-capped peaks. This was when he first spied the lights.
They appeared in ones and twos; faint motes of green and purple scattered across the darkening dunes. At a distance they were mere pinpricks of color. But as more began to twinkle into existence closer to his position; perched high atop the wall of a fort who's name his tongue couldn't pronounce, Robin could clearly make out the shapes of people.
They were all dressed in nearly identical garb: a knee length back coat with gold patterned accents along the hem and cuffs. With hoods pulled low over the face, and a line of secured brass buttons down the front, the only other visible pieces of clothing were thin cloth gloves -also black, and sturdy leather boots. Not an inch of bare skin could be seen.
The light -and only visual distinction between the nomads, came from a swirling design; unique in color and shape, sewn along the back and running down the arms of each coat. The strange patterns themselves seeming to shimmer and ripple, as if each figure were aflame. It took Robin some time to realize that two of these desert-dwellers, a parent and child judging by their heights, were standing directly below him, hoods tilted upward, shoulders tense.
He couldn't help but smile as he unfurled his own coat -a mirror image to those worn out on the sands, from where he had draped it on the battlements next to him. He shrugged into it, then reached up and ran his hand along the right shoulder, as if brushing dust from it. The simple gesture set his own pattern alight with a dark violet glow. He waited for a response from the strangers.
In all of his travels, the design that coiled across his back had been met with emotions ranging from cautious curiosity to outright hostility. Most knew the symbol of Grima, and hated it. The silhouette of a six-eyed dragon skull spread large across the shoulder blades, two long horns twisted down the sleeves where they were each adorned with three more haunting eyes; like beads on a necklace. The mark of a dark god, but one Robin could never bring himself to alter or erase. So his smile broke into a laugh of surprise as the smaller of the two figures let out a cheerful burst of the local dialect and began dancing and waving at him.
Robin raised his hand in kind, hoping that they could see the wave backlit by the light from his coat. The taller man; for his deep voice marked him as a man, called up to him. His inflection made it sound as if he were asking a question.
"No Plegian," Robin called back.
The man muttered something to the child before pulling a canteen from within the folds of his outfit. He mimed tossing it up to Robin.
A gift of water in the desert, to a stranger who can't even speak their language, he thought.
From the sheer kindness of it, Robin wanted to except the offer. But, aware of the value of so much as a mouthful of clean water out here, he knew he had to refuse. Making a show of patting his pockets, he produced the small medical pouch he always carried. Hoping that, in the low light, it looked like a waterskin, he put it to his lips and tilted it back, pretending to take a sip. He looked back down at the man and wiped his mouth on a sleeve.
The nomad was still for a moment. Then, with a small bow of his head, he stowed the canteen, turned, and began trekking away across the dunes. The child remained, dancing and singing out incomprehensibly. When they finally realized that their parent had left, they let out a surprised shout and scrambled away after them, waving farewell up to Robin. They left a trail of quickly fading green light in the air as they ran.
As twilight was slowly overtaken by true night, the desert grew brighter. By the time the waning moon had risen completely and the stars had broken through the thin clouds, the sands were alive with activity. Thousands, tens of thousands of individual lights stretched out endlessly below, reflected by twinkling constellations above, as if the sky and ground were two combatants; each trying to outdo the other.
Then, Robin blinked.
He lost all sense of the horizon and all became one. An unbroken ocean of stars filled his vision. Each glittering speck more vibrant here than anywhere else he had seen. The forever blowing sand seemed to polish even the heavens. And Robin was alone with the universe. It all felt so hauntingly familiar.
After an unknown span of time, he was pulled from his reverie by familiar, stomping footsteps coming from further down the wall, in the direction of the half-destroyed wooden stairs he had navigated to reach his vantage point. Robin braced himself as a man materialized out of the darkness.
"I thought you were afraid of heights," Chrom grumbled. In one fluid movement, he hopped up onto the battlement neighboring Robin's own and sat with his legs dangling over the edge.
"I am. This is different," Robin said, throwing his arms wide in a gesture that encompassed all of Plegia.
Chrom gazed out at the desert, then shrugged. "The Halidom is prettier."
"You know, I came up here -somewhere you wouldn't think to look for me, because I wanted to be left alone."
"I was thinking the same thing," Chrom said, a smile evident in his voice. "And I even would have left you to brood. But, Robin, you're glowing like a brazier up here. If I didn't come, it would be Frederick standing just there, scolding you about light discipline. I'm much more friendly."
Robin rolled his eyes. "Yes, but Frederick would have appreciated the view, at least."
A moment of silence held between the two of them before they both broke into laughter.
"So, do you believe her?" Chrom asked once the quiet had returned.
"Does it matter what I believe? She's your god."
Chrom turned and hopped back down onto the wall top. He began pacing back and forth. In all their time together, he hadn't changed much. He always need to be moving; always pushing forward. It was what made him such a good leader, and a bad person to have around when you needed a quiet moment.
His appearance hadn't changed much either. Robin had served with the Shepherds long enough to hear every single one of them complain about getting older. He could never understand it. Chrom stood as tall and strong as ever, still favoring a sleeveless blue tunic and loose trousers held fast by tall riding boots. Over his shoulders hung a weathered white cape, fluttering gently with his movement.
He suddenly stopped and ran a hand through his messy, dark blue hair.
"Of course it matters. Robin, doomsday and divinities be damned, it's your life! What you believe is the only thing that matters."
"That's not true and you know it," Robin shot back. Of all the times for Chrom to restrain his unyielding morality, he couldn't have picked a worse moment. Robin needed to hear that nobility; needed to have it be demanded of himself. Without it…
Chrom returned to his previous seat. This time, keeping his feet firmly planted on the wall.
"Your choice," he said stubbornly. "Naga insisted on it, actually."
It was Robin's turn to push himself up and begin pacing.
"And you still won't tell me exactly what she said to you two?"
"Well… Once me and Lucina figure out what even half of it meant, you'll be the first to know."
He spoke as if it were of no consequence. Robin felt his own frustration boiling to the surface.
"And what of Lucina? What of your daughters, Chrom? What of all the future Shepherds who have been fight for this exact choice? Are you telling me to turn a blind eye their sacrifices? You know as well as I do what Lucina and the others have to live through, have to survive, if I don't make the right decision. I-"
"Except that future has already been changed," Chrom interrupted. "The only way my girls will suffer that fate again is if we all choose to do nothing. And I can promise you, regardless of what you decide, I won't do nothing."
Chrom stood and drew Falchion. In all the years they had traveled and fought together, the legendary blade had never left his side. The hand-and-a-half sword seemed to shimmer with its own light, a deep cerulean emanated from the center of the weapon's oddly circular guard. The glow from the sword mixed in the air with that of Robin's coat, and appeared to push the fell illumination back.
"If I kill Grima," Chrom continued. "He might come back. If you do it, he still might come back. It'll just take a little longer and you'll be dead. Either way, the future all those kids escaped is gone."
"You're leaving out some important details," Robin replied dryly. "The Fell Dragon will come back regardless of what we do. The time until his next resurrection is what matters. If Falchion slays the dragon -maybe not your children, but their children will have to go through all of this again. And they might not be able to stop another apocalypse. If I do it, then Grima won't be able to return on a time scale that even someone like Lady Tiki couldn't comprehend."
"And you'll be dead."
Robin groaned in frustration.
"Millions of years, Chrom! My death buys everyone millions of years of peace."
"Millions of years without Grima," Chrom corrected. "We've dealt with a lot of evil in our time. Only a small amount of that had to do with Grima. Don't act as if your death will catapult the rest of us into some kind of paradise. We-"
"That's not what I meant," Robin grumbled sullenly.
"We," Chrom continued, ignoring him. "Still have a long road ahead of us. And I'd prefer to have my tactician around when it inevitably gets tricky."
Robin turned away. How could he make Chrom understand?
"You're a ruler," he said quietly. "How can you so easily pass on this threat to whoever sits the throne after you?"
Chrom, damn him, was prepared.
"Don't you see? I am making this our burden to bear. Say we have two generations before the Fell Dragon returns. That gives us two generations to prepare. Two generations to build a world that Grima can't hope to gain a foothold in." Robin looked back as Chrom hefted Falchion, his smile taking on a predatory glint in the sword's light. "We have two blades that can kill that monster. And, if Sumia has her way, there will be more than enough royals running around who can wield them.
"We were caught off guard this time, but whoever comes next will have everything they need to make quick work of a god. And then they'll train the next generation for his arrival; and they the generation after. Every time that overgrown salamander comes back, he'll be greeted by Falchion; buried right between all those eyes."
"And these supposed descendants will only have to do that, unbroken, a few million times in order to make it all worth it. One slip up, one lapse in vigilance, could mean the end. This is a curse for anyone who comes after us. Nothing we do, nothing we build, will last even a fraction of that time."
Robin heard a metallic shink from behind him as Chrom sheathed Falchion. He was nearly knocked off his feet as his friend walked over and clapped him on the back.
"And tell me, oh wise master tactician, you are in the unique position to ask that future generation -from a time when we did fail, how they might feel about your noble sacrifice. Have you even spoken to Lucina, or any of the other, about this yet?"
"She gave everything for this chance," Robin replied weakly. All his previous rage had fled. "Her mission, since the day she came back, was to stop Grima at any cost."
Chrom delivered the last blow.
"And do you, of all people, not think that her mission has changed; just a bit, since she got here?"
Robin sat down hard on the sandstone parapet, burying his head in his hands. He stayed that way for a long time, desperately hoping that Chrom would simply give up. Praying to any god that would listen to simply make the decision for him. Wishing that anyone else could say the words for him as tears filled his eyes.
"I don't want to die, Chrom," he finally whispered into his palms.
And Chrom, Exalt and ruler of the Halidom of Ylisse, crouched down in the sand and grit next to him and threw his arm around Robin's shoulder. The violet light surrounding the tactician was suddenly blocked out by Chrom's cape. They were both plunged into darkness.
Starlight was the only thing left.
"And that's why I didn't leave you alone up here. Your life, Robin, your choice. Now, get up and go talk to your wife. And, if you survive that conversation, come find me. We need to make a plan. One that'll last roughly a million years."