To Chase a Hart - Anonymous - Fire Emblem: Kakusei (2024)

Chapter 1: A Will and a Way

Chapter Text

Robin woke to the sensation of cold salty water rushing in to fill her mouth and nose. Choking and spluttering, she lifted herself from her previously prone position in a panic, the seawater stinging her eyes and dripping down her chin.

"Daraen!"

Staggering to her feet, she hissed when her bruised knees and aching sides protested at her abrupt movements. Robin's head whipped wildly to the side, the wet hood of her coat hindering her sight greatly. She ripped it off angrily and rubbed at her irritated eyes, but was startled to see her fingers were bloody and covered in small red cuts.

"Daraen!"

Spitting out the water that sluiced down her face and into her mouth, her dark brown eyes scanned the rocky grey beach for anything,anythingthat would've indicated the presence of human life. Debris littered the rocks; chunks of gaily-painted wood, a long strip of torn canvas hanging limply over a stand of boulders, andoh Gods there were two bodies lying next to her.

Resisting the urge to retch, she breathed in heavily through her nose and counted to ten slowly. It was a simple exercise that helped to ease her in stressful situations.

Focus Robin. Focus. Check them to see if they're truly gone. If not, see what you can do to get them to respond.She expelled a trembling breath through chilled, clammy lips.Focus…

She knelt down gingerly on the board the motionless sailors rested upon, its damaged wooden surface creaking at the increase in weight. Turning the man closest to her on his back, she noted sadly that their crash-landing on the beach had dealt him a serious blow. His nose had been crushed into his face and his teeth broken, and a rusty frothy mess was all that remained of his jawline. Though she knew that the man no longer drew breath, she still pressed her rapidly numbing fingers into his neck to check for a pulse. Once finished with her macabre examination, she moved to his companion. Though his face was not as in a terrible condition as the first seaman's, Robin still registered a certain degree of harm; his iris was scratched and bleeding into the surrounding sclera and a jagged piece of lumber protruded from his sunken sternum. She had no idea if they had drowned or if the rough entry to shore was responsible for their deaths, but she prayed it wasn't the latter.

Brushing her hand over her chest, she noticed that a thick length of rope was tied snugly around her hips…as well as the men's. With a start, she allowed the memory to flow back into her mind, grimacing at the mild migraine that soon followed after.

The captain…he told us to tie ourselves to each other so we wouldn't lose one another.Another grimace.It might not have been the best idea, but –

Speaking of the captain, Robin had no clue if there were others stranded on the coast with her and her downed comrades. Worse still was that she did not know of Daraens' whereabouts and welfare. Was he injured? Did he leave to call for help? Dread gripped her heart as the questions kept piling up in the back of her mind and she realised the terrifying extent of her ignorance. Her kneecaps popped painfully as she stood to take another look around.

The beach itself was an unfamiliar, dreary territory. Instead of the warm sandy shores she knew and loved back home, cold and unforgiving rocks stretched out as far as her eyes could see. Ragged cliffs rose up ominously behind her with a smattering of great black boulders and hidden tide pools nestled at their base. A freezing tide the colour of charcoal churned sharply at her feet, and the watery grey light of early dawn added to the overall gloomy scene.

Robin decided against staying in her current position. If the rest of the crew – and Daraen – were close by, she'd do good to seek them out. At the very least, she would be able to scout around for possible supplies, a place to seek shelter should the weather worsen, and – though she loathed considering the possibility – any more bodies that would need to be towed away from the powerful currents.

Her hands and face were thoroughly numbed by the bitter gusts that blew against her. Her large coat being soaked down to its inner threads didn't do her any favours either, weighing her down terribly and proving to be a most cumbersome garment. Robin huffed weakly on her rapidly blueing palms and kept walking.

Better a wet robe than nothing at all, she thought miserably.

Trudging forward through the desolate landscape proved to be a wretched experience. No sound but the incessant beating of waves accompanied her, not even the cries of seabirds, and constant worries of maimed sailors and the missing Daraen left a sour taste in her mouth and a bad ache in her breast.

Lost in her thoughts, she had tripped several times on the treacherous rocks. One particularly well-hidden pebble had sent her sprawling face first into the ground, and it would have been really funny had she not been so absorbed in her distress and had pain not burst against her cheekbone.

Crying won't make you feel any better, pathetic girl.

She wiped her throbbing cheek and moved on.

It seemed that an eternity had passed before she thought she could make out the sound of…a human voice?

A desperate hope bloomed within her. Whirling around to find the source of the unexpected,wonderful, noise, her elation grew when she realised it was someone calling her name.

"I'm here! I'm here! Oh Gods, I'm so glad to see you're all right –"

It died just as quickly when Robin saw the man's craggy face and massive build lumbering towards where she stood. Her smile disappeared under a cloud of disappointment.

It's not him.

It's not him…

"Very pleased to see the Lady Robin is safe!" came the booming laugh. His boots pounded hard against the surf and she noticed with a dull pang that he too had some rope fitted around his sides.

"Thought perhaps lost you may have been! Beach is no good place to lose things," he panted as he clumsily slid to a stop right in front of her. His large grin faded when he noticed her crestfallen expression and his bushy brows knitted together in concern.

"Alright everything is…?"

Robin looked up right into his eyes and fought to keep her words from quavering.

"Where is my brother?"

The trek back to the bonfire the remnants of the crew had set up was spent in silence. Gregor usually wasn't one for being very chatty, or starting conversations for that matter, but he felt that the girl walking next to him would have perhaps needed a shoulder to lean on, someone to relay all her troubles to and be reassured.

She had rebuffed all his attempts without a single word, pulled her hood low over her face, and left it at that.

The terrain had smoothed out into gravel once they reached the improvised camp, the sun having started its slow climb some time before. Pale pinks, reds and oranges streaked the sky in an exquisite panoply of light, but they were too tired and worried to enjoy the sight. There was something odd about the place that kept nagging at him for some reason or another, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it.

Setting down the corpses each had lugged all the way to the roaring fire, Gregor turned his attentions to Robin, scrutinising the way her hidden visage affixed itself to the sad, broken heap that used to be their ship. Frowning, he placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Checked already. Brother is nowhere near."

Most of the morning was spent scavenging among the gutted carcass of their vessel. What was once an elegant cutter emblazoned in yellow and blue and sporting pristine white sails was now a skeletal pile of mangled wood and clumps of stringy seaweed. While Gregor knew that storms were an occupational hazard in his line of work, he couldn't help but grieve over the loss of his ship. Not only had he captained it for the past 15 years, he'd personally repaired it countless times over the years, taken it all over the world on long journeys … hell, he'd even gotten married on it.

Still, his attachment didn't cloud his judgement. It was clear as day that it was beyond salvageable. Most of the bilge had been torn off, and the mast was gone altogether. A loose plank had fallen from the ship's side and nearly gored Robin, but he'd managed to pull her towards him in the nick of time, and he kept close to her after that.

Even though it was clear she didn't want him to.

They recovered little from the wreck. They were grateful to have found coils of twine, a barrel of fresh water, and a few tattered blankets, which were distributed quickly amongst the five people around the fire.

The captain's quarters were spared somewhat from the damage, a discovery that prompted Gregor to mutter a quick thanks to Naga under his breath. They managed to save his ledgers and documents, a small coffer full of gold coins, his maps and navigational instruments, even his rather immodest set of knives and swords.

Robin wasn't as lucky as he. The few tomes and books they did rescue had been thoroughly soaked and were placed next to the dying fire to dry out. Other than that, a bronze sword and the clothes on her back, she had nothing.

Not even her brother.

By the time they were done the sun had reached its peak and blazed gloriously from its high perch. No one welcomed it though. A foul, tense mood had settled over the camp, their skins itchy from the sand and gravel that had wormed its way into their hair and clothes, their bodies injured and sore, and of low morale over the devastation the storm had caused.

Judging by the way Robin was kneading her thighs roughly, Gregor was more than sure that her migraine hadn't gone away either.

"Please don't worry, Lady Robin…"

Everyone turned to see the skinny sailor who'd spoken up, and he'd cringed at the attention now focused on him. The man who was busy repurposing one of the blankets into a sling for his fractured arm muttered quiet reassurances and tightened the cloth around his neck. The boy cleared his throat in a slight surge of confidence and continued.

"Right after we tied ourselves together…the storm got real bad. The boat sorta rolled on its side a little and the mast just done got snapped in half. You passed out at some point or another, and yer brother – I mean, Lord Daraen – lost his footing and started slidin' down th' bulwarks…you'da gone down with him had he not cut ya loose."

An uneasy hush fell over the group, interrupted sporadically by the tide loudly washing over pebbles. An anxious Gregor had noticed that Robin's breathing had slowed considerably and her fingers had gone eerily still.

Though she'd made it more that clear that she had no desire to initiate contact with any of the men (or let herself be coddled by them, for that matter), it still tugged on his heartstrings to see her wallowing in her quiet despair. Gregor wrapped a meaty arm around her slumped shoulders, his paternal side secretly satisfied by the fact that, while she tensed up, she didn't push him away either. He nodded encouragingly to the freckle-faced seaman.

"Go on."

The boy licked his cracked lips nervously. "Uhhm…I'm still a little fuzzy on the details but…I remember the captain here was busy pullin' ya to safety, and Jean here," the man who was fixing his bandages grunted in acknowledgement, "saved me from a falling crate. Would'a lost half my face if it weren't for him," he said fondly.

"Get to point, Marco. You saw what happen to Daraen or no?"

"Ah-ah, well, he drifted off a little too far for me t'see properly, but I think that he tied himself to th'mast once he hit the water."

"Perhaps he would not have even reached the water had someone bothered to, oh, I don't know, help him?" came the sour mutter from under the hood.

"Is enough for now," Gregor said hastily as he raised himself from the pile of driftwood that served as their bench. He squinted at Robin through the harsh glare of the burning sun, troubled over her spiteful tone. "Thank you for telling, Marco."

"Yes, thank you for telling us now, after all the effort expended to find a man who was never here in the first place," her voice was muffled but loud enough to perceive the venomous glaze that coated every word.

"Leave him alone!" Jean's indignant rasp cut clearly through the cacophony of a passing flock of gulls. "He's had a rough day and he's got a broken arm to deal with. He doesn't need some overbearing noblewoman breathing down his neck too."

Robin rose calmly from her seat and, hobbling ahead as best as she could on her wounded knees, planted herself firmly in front of Jean's face. Even with her expression veiled from sight, fury radiated off her very being so obviously that Jean took a step back to avoid being so close to her.

" 'Overbearing,' you say?" her intonation was dangerously soft and Gregor flinched, cursing Jean for just having to have the last word at all times. Though it was a bit heavy handed of Robin to direct her ire towards poor, skittish Marco, it was foolhardy of Jean to expect that it was fair to speak so harshly to a woman who was a lot more physically and emotionally hurt at the moment than she let on.

Even more foolish was for him to think that she would let him get away with it.

"I've had to deal with constant bellyaching fromallof you," she swept her arm in a wide arc, "after we were blown off course in thefirststorm and you all moaned about the delays and the rationings. That could have been avoided had anyone bothered to listen to the suggestion of mydearest brotherand I," there was a collective cringe, "to just head straight across the South Seas and leave us at Melilla. We could have taken the ferry back to the mainland from there, but thegeneral consensus," she spat the word out, "was to skip ahead to Plegia since it would be so much more 'convenient.' "

She placed her palm flat on her chest. " 'No worry, Lady Robin,' " she spoke in a cruel, pompous facsimile of Gregor's broken accent. " 'Is too late in season to see storms any more. Get you back home in no time at all!' " Robin growled and started pacing around the beach madly, the volume of her ravings increasing with each step.

"I don't know what was worse, between taking care of incompetent, drunken fools of a crew who preferred to eat and drink through our supplies," everyone turned to stare at Gregor, "rather than do their bloody damn jobs and navigate, or Daraen and myself having to do those bloody damn jobs for you.

"Not only that, but the money we had on board to pay you all is gone, as are several important objects such as very high level tomes that cannot be replaced – "

Unlike you helpless buffoons, she nearly blurted out. The slip went unnoticed and she continued.

"The ship is beyond saving, my brother is gone, possibly even dead, and he has to be in Ylissenow,and the best you can manage to call me is 'overbearing?' " She thundered in the terrified Jean's face.

Gregor punched his open palm with a giant fist in sudden realisation.

"Ah! Now Gregor knowing what is familiar about place!" He said with his characteristic cheerfulness.

"Already we are in Ylisse! In fact, Gregor born not three hours from here, and capital is only a few days' ride away! What luck!" he chuckled with glee.

Judging from the horror-struck expressions his comrades sent his way, and how Robin tore off her hood to shoot him the most murderously demoniacal glare he'd ever seen, it probably wasn't the best thing to have said at the time.

They had wrapped the bodies in the canvas they scrounged from the wreck and placed them on a makeshift pallet that they took turns to drag along the road. While it would have been preferable to simply cremate them or push them out to sea, their families would definitely not have appreciated that. Though it would mean going to extra lengths to preserve their corpses for the long journey home, they were honourable people and intended to keep their word to their wives and children.

They did, however, put torch to their vessel. Gregor wept openly and loudly as he'd watched his faithful companion of 15 years crumble into the wet gravel and wash out into the current, beautiful paintwork and sturdy foundations reduced to nothing but charred beams and smouldering ash.

Southtown was about an hour away from the beach on foot. A dingy, washed out inland port, its close proximity to Plegia had led to several attacks from the Plegian navy across the sound, determined to cut off Ylisse's access to the ocean, as well as from several roaming hordes of bandits that took advantage of the confusion surrounding the wartime years.

Consequently, the townsfolk were inhospitable and distrustful of strangers, and were positively apoplectic with rage once they spotted the distinctive eye shaped markings that ran down the length of Robin's baggy sleeves; the markings that revealed her to be part of the dark cult that held sway over Plegia, the much feared and reviled Grimleal. She was grateful her hood kept her face hidden.

Not that she could blame them much for it. Even with the kind of aid it was receiving, Southtown was in poor shape and struggling to make ends meet; the shops in the commercial district that once bustled with activity were now shuttered and dark, the quaint town square pockmarked from mortar blasts, and the residents scrubbing hard at the sooty doors of their once beautiful church.

That's why, with narrowed eyes and much grumbling, they didn't protest when Gregor produced the documents saved from the ship that allowed them free passage through the country as part of the Plegian mission in Ylisse…as well as a generous heap of the gold he had on himself, coupled with an easy going grin and a softplease show us to the nearest inn.

She was surprised at how fluently he spoke in the local language. Then again, he did say he was born not too far away from here.

Lost in her thoughts as she gazed out the cracked window out at the river that snaked under the stone bridges outside, she jumped in surprise when the door groaned vociferously. Gregor stepped in with an apologetic smile and small parcels wrapped in crinkly brown parchment cradled in his hands.

"You could've just spoken to me in your native tongue you know. I'm fluent, and it would have saved you a lot of trouble," Robin said.

"Nay, is not much of problem," he replied kindly. "Is needing to practice Plegian languages, as captains must know a lot of them anyways.

"Anywho, off to bath you are. Wounds need tending to very urgently and in need of relaxation you are," Gregor said as he strode over to Robin and scooped her up in his bearish arms along with the packages. He then proceeded to the bathroom door and unlatched it with a flourish.

Robin squirmed in discomfort at his sudden boldness. "Put me downnowGregor."

He answered with a chuckle. "And risk Lady Robin falling to floor? No no. I have seen you in much pain today and more of standing around will not be good. Lady Robin should let herself be treated."

Though she hated to acknowledge it, he was right. Walking for an hour on her bruised knees had left her painfully exhausted and her ribs positively ached with each breath she took. Not counting the blow she suffered to her face, without a mirror she was unsure of the extent of the damage she'd received on the beach.

"It's not decent…" she trailed off lamely.

The chuckle turned into a short bark of laughter. "Fret not! I am not lustful man with bad thoughts. Am happily married man with daughter your age!"

Pushing open the door with his hips, he padded in to the surprisingly well-furnished room and set Robin down gently next to the old claw-toed bathtub. While he busied himself with lighting the little oil lamp sitting on the mouldy table, Robin faced the grimy, full-length mirror with a quiet gasp.

The deep cut on her cheek had dried into a crusty brown scab that sat just below her eye like an accidental glob of paint on a canvas. Below it, her jaw had purpled and swelled impressively with a multitude of ugly bruises. There was a long gash across the bridge of her nose.

Panic spreading across her veins with each second, she weakly shucked off her bulky robe and saw that her arms were also painted by an expanse of reds, blues and violets. While her gloves couldn't conceal the cuts on her fingers, she was shocked to gaze upon raw skinned patches of flesh on the backs of her hands.

"Aha!" came the delighted whoop from Gregor as his fiddling with the taps successfully drew water into the chipped basin. "Not hot, but is something at least!" His jolly demeanour vanished when he took note of Robin's trembling body.

His eyes softened. "Help needed with the rest of the clothing?" he asked quietly.

"Please turn around," was her simple request. Complying, he preoccupied himself with the tub once more as she tried to remove her inner jacket and top, but found that her joints suddenly seized up and refused to obey her. When she bent down to try and give her boots a go, the same occurred with her lower back, and she straightened herself with a wince.

"I need some help, actually," Robin's whisper was tinged with shame. She dared not look as Gregor paced over to her and tugged off her clothes gently, and her ears burned when she heard his upset murmuring.

"Poor you. Is in very bad shape," he said in a hushed tone. He did quick work of her trousers and belts, and by the time he slid her boots off her feet Robin thought she would die of embarrassment.

He hissed at the sight of her crushed and bloodied toes. Hooking his biceps under her thighs, Gregor lowered her smoothly into the rust flecked water and pulled a stool under him. He reached for one of the packages lying on the table and loosened the cord wrapping it closed to reveal a bar of lye soap and the familiar blue sheen of several bottled Elixirs.

"Lucky you have not seen your back," he tried to joke as he emptied out the contents of one of the vials into the tub. The water fizzed and bubbled fiercely as the magic tonic started working to repair the broken skin and sore bones, and Robin exhaled faintly as a wonderful heat seeped into her overtaxed limbs. The small bar of lye was quickly dissolved into sudsy bubbles as Gregor washed her gritty, blood – crusted hair.

Pouring more of the insipid liquid into a washcloth and scrubbing carefully at her back, he was taken aback when he heard muted sniffles coming from Robin. Perturbed, he shifted on his perch to get a better look at her face. "Something is hurting you?" his query was placid and tender and had such a paternal quality to it that Robin couldn't help but try to stifle another sob.

"Why – why are you doing all of this for me? You spent all that money on that expensive m – medicine and this room and you're washing me and…why? I haven't been very n – nice, " she seemed to struggle with the word, "to you or the men for the weeks we've been together and yet you never seemed to take offense with me … why?" she hiccupped.

"My Lady," came his plaintive words, "is true you have not been so kind to Gregor or crew, but," a sigh passed his lips, "crew has not been of best service to you – or your Lord brother. With the drinking and the not listening to the Lady and whatnot. Gregor has not helped the Lady Robin with important mission, and Gregor must apologise. Making of upping is utmost priority now."

Robin furrowed her brow fretfully. "What about the rest of the crew? I … I have not apologised to them over today."

Another kindly smile was flashed at her. "Worry not. Understand they have. Before left for homes today, offered their forgiveness and apologies they have, and wish the Lady the best of luck with task ahead."

"B—but I haven't even paid them yet! Or you for that matter!"

He waved his sausage like fingers dismissively. "Care was taken of it, as were gold for embalmer. Though stale bread is now only dinner tonight!" Some joviality infused his voice as he spoke, but a little seriousness returned to his face when Robin's lip began to quiver furiously. With a painfully clenching heart, Gregor wrapped his arms around her naked shoulders and gently pushed her head into the cradle of his neck.

"You have suffered most grievous loss today, after all you have been through." he soothed as he stroked her soapy wet hair.

"Know that Gregor, crew, and all of Plegia are supporting you always, Princess."

After she had a good cry and finished up with her bath, Robin sat swaddled in a multitude of threadbare towels and Gregor's shirt – he'd insisted since she had nothing to wear while he washed her clothes, reasoning that though they managed to book a room at the inn for a steep price, the innkeepers would never have accepted to launder Grimleal clothing – with the papers rescued from the ship spread out across the rickety bed. She frowned at them as though they'd offended her in some manner and she muttered curses into her now healed fists.

"Gregor is hearing sighings all the way from here!" came the loud bellow from the bathroom. His spiky auburn hair peeked out from the doorframe as he sidled close to check up on her.

"More of the bad news there is?"

A deep sigh made its way up her throat. "I'm afraid so Gregor. What happened today just complicated everything else so much more, and I'm not sure how to fix it."

That certainly sounded ominous. Traipsing out of the bathroom with a handful of her sodden garments, he draped them carefully over the frame of the open window and hoped the warm night air would at least dry them a bit. He faced her with his arms akimbo and waited patiently for her explanation.

She sighed again and twiddled her thumbs anxiously. "You know Daraen was supposed to represent Plegia in the peace talks while in Ylisstol…"

"…And brother is now gone." Gregor finished for her as a most peculiar sensation of apprehension began to fill him from the toes up. He tried to dispel it with a chortle of laughter and a shrug of the shoulders.

"Why should Plegia worry when Robin is here to solve little issue, no? Just take place at meetings and all worries are over!"

"I can't do that Gregor." she was surprised at how cool and rational she sounded when her gorge rose against her throat in unabashed fear. " The diplomats from Regna Ferox and Ylisse wrote to us not too long before we set sail from Chon'sin…they said that while they appreciated our…gesture, they made it very clear that we still had a ways to go before we could gain their trust completely."

She drew her fingers through her long white hair (thanks to Gregor, it was no longer riddled with sand and blood) and shuddered. Her lips felt too dry and she forced herself to continue.

"They said that they'd allow Plegia's presence at the table to negotiate, but they hadspecificconditions, unfortunately. One of those being that my brother was to be Plegia's representative at the talks. Anyone else,anyone, and we would be turned away from the boardroom at once, marched out of Ylisse, and any future trade and interaction shut down. It doesn't help that women are barred from officially participating in politics here," she added in a savage growl.

His apprehension morphing into a hazy sense of dread, Gregor's shock manifested itself quite plainly when he took in that information. "The nerve of diplomats Robin! No honour at all! Why – why so harsh to Plegian mission when very clear you are for cooperation? Why is necessary for Daraen when you are here?"

"Well, he is the heir to the throne, after all, " she hated how she couldn't hide her bitterness from her tone, "and they mentioned how much they would value our sense ofgoodwillshould we entrust our prince to their care." Robin crumpled up one of the notes and lobbed it at the wall in a fit of rage.

Gregor spouted a litany of obscenities under his breath and pulled his hands through his hair before storming back to the bathroom. Robin was left staring after him and her body sagged in exhaustion and resignation.

"Though I can't really blame them for not trusting us…after all Plegia did."

As an uncomfortable silence enveloped the room, Robin tried to parse through the buzz of thoughts crowding out the space in her head. Such terrible things had happened in such a short span of time, and not only was it difficult to process it all at once, it was sheer terror to visualise the kind of impact it would have on the gathering, on Plegia, on everything she and Daraen had wept and bled for to make it to this point…only for their efforts to vanish like mist in the air.

She wanted to curse and spit at the Gods for daring to mock them so.

She breathed and counted to ten.

You were never one for giving up and you never will be, Robin, so don't you dare think about quitting now. You've been through situations that were just as bad, and you've prepared for worse. Don't let everything that you've learned go to waste.

Robin's mouth stretched into a grimace at the last thought.

Think. Organise the facts. Consider what obstructs your path and the best way around it.

She drummed her fingers on her knee thoughtfully as her mind relaxed into a familiar pattern of sorting and analysing. She could handle things like this.

One of the stated requirements was to arrive on time in Ylisstol; given the amount of time needed to return to the beach, gather anyone who is even remotely willing to be part of a search party headed by a Plegian, and the size of Ylisse's southern coastline, delaying the time of arrival to try to find someone who might be dead by now would be pointless.

Robin abhorred the mere thought of Daraen resting cold and alone at the bottom of the sea, his young life cut terribly short. However, it was a possibility that, no matter how hateful to consider, was one that could not be ignored in light of their current situation.

The half – formed plan was discarded reluctantly.

If we cannot take time to search…then perhaps a substitute? But we don't have anyone at hand who not only knows enough of Plegian affairs and war negotiation, but also enough of Daraen's views in order to–

Her line of thought ended there. What was she doing, deliberating over someone to take her brother's place just like that? Why was she mulling over such a thing when she had already even told Gregor that a replacement wasn't a viable option? Gods, it seemed as though grief muddled her thinking more than she thought possible; one of the few areas she felt comfortable in was now proving to be yet another obstacle. She truly was rather stupid if all her years of education and training could be undone in only a few hectic hours, if she was as foolish to let emotions cloud her judgement and trick her into seriously pondering over an impossibility –

Or is it one?

"Gregor!" she called. From the way he arrived so quickly to her bedside, it was as if he had practically flown there.

"What is milady needing? A solution has been found?"

"Gods, yes Gregor, and I can't believe it took me this long to realise it, not when the answer was sitting under our noses this whole time!"

"Truly?" Gregor's customary grin was back on his face, and he practically quivered with excitement as he gripped her pale shoulders and shook her slightly. "Pray, tell Gregor of this!"

Tentatively, Robin placed her own hands, so slim and small in comparison, over his prominent knuckles as she looked him dead in the eye. She steeled herself for a brief moment before soberly announcing,

"I will take his place at the talks."

Dead silence seemed to seep into the room through the many cracks in the ageing floorboards. He was frozen in place and had not removed his fingers from her skin, and his lips fumbled around to articulate a proper response to this shocking development. Instead, a deep, worried scowl worked its way onto his normally jovial face.

"Gregor does not understand this well," he pronounced cautiously. "Did not say that replacement was impossible?"

"But don't you see? It all makes sense!" She pushed him off her and sprang off the mattress to pace wildly around the perimeter of the room; he could almost picture Robin as a great cat stalking about in some far off jungle, impatient and hungry for the kill.

"Not only am I the one who knows him best, I know everything there needs to be known about the meetings and Plegia and the war. I know how negotiations are to be handled. I know what is to be said in a debate and everything necessary about potential enemies and allies. Gregor, I know how Daraen thinks and talks, how can I not be the one to stand in for him? How can I not be the one to best represent his point of view and Plegia's interests?"

"Is insanity," he cried, his expression taking on a desperate look as he grasped her by the shoulders again, rougher now this time, and spun her around to face him: her wide, hopeful, glassy eyes meeting his own terrified ones.

"I can pull this off Gregor –" came her angry retort, before he cut her off mid sentence.

"Not in politics women are, milady, not here! Substitute is not possible!" Gregor shook Robin as though he was hoping to rattle some sense into her, as though he could convey the depth of his fear for her with a show of strength.

"Said it yourself besides. Only brother was asked for." Her face darkened at this, and he recognised that what he thought would be persuasive phrasing only served to remind Robin of their current predicament...and how it seemed as though she would forever play a supporting role to Daraen.

As he was mentally berating himself for his unintentionally harsh choice of words, her hands curled under the collar of his shirt and pulled him closer so that they now stood nose to nose – or rather, nose to chest. Vaguely, he remembered the strength housed in her deceptively small frame and noticed the prominent musculature of her arms.

"Daraen and I are almost physically identical in every single way," she murmured, her deep brown eyes meeting his gaze evenly. "I can do this."

"More there is to being man than simply looks."

"None will be the wiser."

Gregor gave Robin a pained look. Slowly, carefully, he brought his arms to encircle her torso, the awkward embrace pushing her head into his rough, dirty tunic. She dropped her fingers from his neck in surprise yet remained silent as he tried to reason with her. He could not keep his voice from trembling.

"If caught you are – if found out – what will happen to you? Not so kind are these men that all will be forgiven."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take." Though her voice was muffled by his chest, she spoke clearly.

"They will kill you," he pleaded, and for a split second Robin wondered if he sounded as though he were on the verge of tears. His concern was touching, but did little to sway her. Not when there was so much at stake.

"I'm not so foolish as to not know how to properly disguise myself. I will do everything in my power to avoid detection and Iwillget out of this alive. If not then at least I'll die happy knowing that what I did was for the sake of peace."

"But milady–"

A firm "No buts Gregor" startled him. The ferocity of her tone and the solidity of her stance were nothing new when it came to her, and yet he was still in awe and more than a little frightened of her drive and tenacity.

"I must go through with this. Any other alternative would mean disgracing all the work we have done to get to this point, and I will not let that pass. Youmusthelp me in this...if not for Daraen's sake, then at least for Plegia's."

And mine too.

Gregor studied her with a heavy heart. For someone as young as Robin, she already carried herself like a battle hardened soldier...which she was, albeit a soldier crafted from the battered remains of a little girl forced to grow up too soon. A child forced to bear the burdens of nations and their bloody legacies.

Her country needed her, and while he was fretting over imagined scenarios of terrible consequences –that are very much possible, a horrible voice whispered in his ear – she answered the call as though she were a fully armoured knight, and not a girl stranded in a foreign country with naught but the clothes on her back and a sea captain to guide her to her destination.

She would have made a fine queen. And it was with this understanding that prompted him to kneel reverently, if a little sadly, at her feet.

"Understand, surely, why Gregor is reluctant," he said morosely. Their callused palms slid against each other as he peered up into that too solemn face, shadowed by her snowy locks. He smiled ruefully.

"And yet, all Gregor can hope is that milady try to take care, eat well and write back to not worry frail old man," he tried to joke, and felt warmth suffuse him all the way to the roots of his spiky auburn hair when, for the first time since they had met, she gave him a timid grin in reply.

"Now," he grunted as he raised himself to his full height, "how we are going to get about with grand plan to save the kingdom?"

Her eyes gleamed, resolute, as she reached for the dagger he had strapped to his waist.

"A bit of a trim would be a good start."

The heat had been stifling that day and showed no signs of subsiding as the minutes crawled by on their agonisingly slow tortoise feet. Chrom usually considered himself a (somewhat) patient man, but he had to admit that waiting under such conditions was making him irritable and snappish.

"Chrooooom! Please let's just go inside already! I'm dying of thirst here!"

Lissa's constant whining didn't help much either.

Heaving what seemed to be his hundredth exasperated sigh that day, he turned his eyes skyward and hoped to distract himself observing a hawk's progress across the dazzling swathe of bright blue. Had it been any other day, and the weather more agreeable, he'd had called it a lovely sight.

It was a shame too, considering that it was in fact incredibly beautiful out. A soft breeze that was sorely missed in their spot at the top of the stairs ruffled the plentiful white bracts of the recently flowering dogwoods planted around the bailey; puffy clouds billowed lazily against their heavenly backdrop to the tune of keening birds while the sun shone marvellously above them.

"Chrooooooooom! You're not ignoring me again, are you?!" An infantile stamp of the foot punctuated her cry.

Yes, enjoyment was a rather short – lived thing, it seemed.

Sparing her only the slightest of glances, Chrom tried his hardest to sound even – tempered and unruffled, ever the serene picture of royalty he so aspired to. "Just a little longer Lissa. I'm sure they have a perfectly reasonable explanation for being tardy."

" 'Just a little longer?' Chrom, we've been out here forsix hours. I don't want to wait 'just a little longer!' It's too hot out and I'm tired of standing here and I'm thirsty and I'mbored." She stomped her foot again and pouted for added effect, peeved that he was refusing to listen to her complaints.

Chrom felt his tolerant façade slipping away and he turned to face Lissa with an annoyed scowl. "It's myduty," he emphasised with a growl, "to make sure all representatives and their accompanying retinues reach the castle safely. If you're so fed up with waiting you can go back in by yourself. I'm staying."

She scoffed at his flippancy and determined to hit back harder. "If you stay out here any longer you'll get heatstroke and then die and then you won't be of use to anyone! Just accept that maybe, just maybe, they won't come. Why can't you just listen to me for once?"

"I'm staying here Lissa, and nothing you can do or say will change that."

"Ugh! You're just being stubborn!"

"And you're being childish!" he snapped back.

"Milord," a deep voice interjected suddenly. "If I may be so bold as to speak?"

Chrom often wondered how Frederick managed to keep his cool in the most uncomfortable of situations, both physically and mentally. He was envious and genuinely puzzled as to how he had not even managed to break the slightest of sweat in his tight leather breeches and heavy armour in the scorching heat – and quite ashamed at having him intervene in their decidedly petty squabble as though he was a parent disciplining wayward children.

Clearing his throat nonchalantly and trying to recover some semblance of calm, he motioned to the Great Knight in assent.

"That you may, Frederick."

"Milord has been standing here for six hours straight in the full sun, and while your tenacity and dedication to the task at hand is commendable, it stands to reason that it is an exercise in futility and a hazard to your health. I strongly suggest retiring to the medical ward for swift refreshment before commencing the opening ceremony – with the parties who areactuallypresent."

He had a point, one that Chrom hated to concede. They had originally allotted their visitors the span of a month to allow for an orderly arrival to Ylisstol, considering the urgency of their mission and the fact that the greater part of the continent's roads were destroyed. Most of the invited diplomats had come on schedule – the Feroxi boisterously laughing and clanging their armour the whole way, the Rossanois moaning over their dainty carriages getting stuck in the numerous potholes along the Northroad, the Valmese scaring half of Ylisse with their stoic faces and mechanical marching…

A glaring absence was noticed soon enough though. Namely, that of the representative from Plegia. Most had already assumed they wouldn't count on an appearance of his when Ylisse had announced its intention to host the proceedings, and they called Chrom a fool for mailing a summons to the surviving heirs to Plegia's throne. A reply addressed to him had proved otherwise and shocked everyone, more so in light of the events that led to the war's end.

Hope had burned fiercely in him after that. Hope that, perhaps with the presence of the world's greatest nations gathered together at the same table, they would be able to put their differences aside and work together to heal the scars of conflict.

The whispers had cropped up again after most of their visitors had been packed into the castle…with no sign of Plegian livery mingling amongst them.

How typical of them. Sending a message and getting everyone's hopes up, only to snatch it away.

Why would a Plegian care for peace anyways?

I honestly don't understand what Chrom sees in their false promises. He would do us a kindness and keep us safe by just kicking them out.

Chrom had steadfastly ignored their sniping and spite and chose to stand by his decision to welcome them with open arms, even if his people would hate him for it. He refused to believe that he was dealing with a so – called monster.

Even if he saw that sentiment reflected back at him in Frederick's very own eyes.

Lissa sensed his quiet discomfort and, forgetting the barbs they had traded only a few minutes ago, placed a small hand sadly yet reassuringly in the crook of his arm.

"Chrom…" she began tentatively, "it's the second day of the last week already. You're a good person for putting so much faith in them, but sometimes it's just better to…let go of it, you know?"

Frederick moved as if to return to the welcoming coolness of the hall behind the solid oak door, and motioned to Chrom. "It's best we listen to her, milord. I will go on ahead and inform the ladies to prepare a seat for you in the infirmary before this dreadful sun can harm you any further."

It seemed that the Gods were determined to make him swallow his words, however.

A loud clanging and shouting was heard just beyond the gatehouse and the guards stationed at the walls immediately went for their weapons. Lissa squinted at the great stone bridge that stretched out from the castle's entrance, the image hazy and bright in the torrid heat.

"What in the–?"

A pair of sweat lathered horses burst through the line the men had formed at the entrance, sending more than a few flying backwards with pained yelps. The people astride the saddles, a burly mountain of a man and a figure hidden beneath a dark hood, flailed about in a tizzy.

"I'm sorry! Oh Gods! I'm so sorry!"

They stumbled out of their stirrups and accidentally knocked down some more knights who tried to grab at the loose reins of the frantically pacing animals, ducking under reaching arms that failed to restrain them as they zoomed towards the high marble stairs where Chrom, Lissa and Frederick stood watching.

While Lissa was doubled over and making no attempt to disguise her loud cackling, Frederick's lips had thinned out into an expression of deep disgust over the ruckus the guards made as they fell over themselves attempting to stop the strange newcomers racing up the steps; he lightly fingered the heavy silver lance at his side. Chrom, on the other hand, was facing an astonishing whirl of emotion.

A very miniscule part of him was furious – furious at them for daring to be so late, for making him worry so much, for placing his reputation and the progress of the talks at stake – but it was quickly quashed by a mix of relief over their arrival, curiosity over what kind of face lay under the large hood, and utter elation that they werefinally here after all this time and were going to prove everyone wrong.

Yes, they were finally there. Bent at the waist, panting hard and surrounded by spears pointed right at their faces, Chrom felt excitement bubble up fervently within him even as his long awaited guests struggled to speak after their rather impressive entrance.

"So…sorry…lateness…this oaf," a rough voice wheezed from under the hood, "decided it'd be…good idea to…sleep in…" the aforementioned oaf standing next to the mysterious person tried to laugh in reply but his pockmarked face split into a dry cough instead.

"No…" Chrom replied softly, and his heart soared as he watched the dark cloth be pulled back to reveal choppy white hair, pale skin slick with sweat, and a pair of dark brown eyes that shone with the most sincerest of apologies; even had he tried, Chrom still couldn't help the enormous smile that broke out over his teeth and crinkled the corners of his own eyes as he extended a hand forward in welcome.

"It's quite alright. And thank you for deciding to come...?"

The young man he had addressed looked confused for a second before he realised he was being prompted. Once again, Chrom's chest felt a happy squeeze when his question yielded a small, shy smile and a gloved hand stretching out to meet his own in a tentative and warm shake.

"My name is Daraen, your Highness."

Chapter 2: Par for the course

Chapter Text

"Daraen," Chrom repeated, the pleasant, friendly smile growing on his face, "is that foreign?"

There was a beat of silence before Lissa doubled over again, her blonde pigtails and sides shaking with a peal of laughter so forceful that she was inaudible. The guardsmen who had their pikes pointed at Robin and Gregor started to chuckle before Frederick shamed them into silence and forced their backs straight with a glance. It took Chrom a bit longer to realise his mistake, and he gave a quiet titter as his ears and cheeks were tinged scarlet.

"I – that is to say –" he began before an awkward speechlessness overtook him, and the young prince waited impatiently for Lissa to finish with her mockery of him.

Robin found the scene rather jarring and not quite what she expected of the scions of Ylisse; however odd, it endeared them more to her all the same.

The soft rustling of the dogwood blossoms in the breeze broke the princess out of her fit and she quieted down before the entry was permeated with an air of expectancy. All eyes were on Chrom now, and he cleared his throat with a pointed glare at his sister before speaking.

"We are very pleased to have you here with us, your Highness," he intoned with a formal bow of the head, and Robin and Gregor reciprocated with a deeper bend of the waist in the hopes of alleviating the force of Frederick's stare. Chrom was a bit taken aback at their formality, given Robin's status, but went on.

"On behalf of the land of Ylisse and the furthest reaches of Naga's dominion, we extend our deepest thanks to you and hope that our time together results in many long years of peace and friendship to come," Chrom finished, pleased that his long hours of practice resulted in an acceptable statement, even if it was somewhat ruined by his initial blunder and Lissa poking fun at him for it.

Robin smiled, thankful for their polite reception, and tried to improvise an appropriate response.

"I – We most humbly thank you for your acceptance of our presence, and…beg you forgive our tardiness. We did not mean it so, and express our deepest shame for it. We…marvel at Ylisse's generosity, its nobility, and share your sentiments," she remarked cautiously, and was reassured by Gregor nodding along in agreement and encouragement.

"Great! So that settles it!" Lissa clapped her hands excitedly, turning to Chrom with a relieved expression. "We can go inside now, right? Let's get some rest, change into something nicer, get somewaterand then we can finally start everything!"

"Yes, let's," Chrom sighed, motioning to a pair of sentries to open the doors. As most of the guards moved back to their posts at the gate, Chrom, Robin and Lissa eagerly drank in the rush of cool air that escaped the hall and advanced toward it. Before Robin could step any further, an armoured hand was clapped over her shoulder and spun her into a sharp turn, forcing her eyes up into meeting the Great Knight's cold gaze.

"Frederick!" Lissa gasped, scandalised at his open disrespect, and while Gregor shouted and strained against the men tugging him back, Chrom seemed too shocked to form a single word.

"How did you get past the controls at the bridge?" he pressed, signalling some of the surprised soldiers to fan out towards the walls and the rest of the ward (as if we had the time to bring assassins with us,Robin thought).

"Or the city gates, for that matter?" he leaned in uncomfortably close.

"It's alright Gregor," Robin placed a hand over the seething captain's arm before facing Frederick. She reminded herself not to appear too calm lest she further arouse the man's paranoia, yet also to avoid an outright confrontation.

"We have the necessary documentation that His Highness's office provided," Robin answered carefully, as she slipped out the sheaf of papers from between her belts and overcoat and thrust them into Frederick's hand with a pointed look.

"And yet you still managed to bowl my men over rather than going over these with them."

She had to credit him at least with how hard he was trying to trip them up, Robin noted, hoping that the Arcwind tomes she had hidden in their clothes had disintegrated completely on their way up to the castle.

"Forgive me for my words, but I would have done that ten times over it if meant arriving earlier. I still find it hard to forgive myself for our tardiness."

"Be as it may, it does not change the fact that you came almost a full two weeks after every other party, and that there are protocols in place that we cannot stray from enforcing," Frederick remarked stiffly, curling his thumbs into her robe.

"Frederick, please," Lissa groaned, her eyes darting nervously between the assembly and the opened doorway. "We can take care of that inside – please, let's not humiliate him…"

Robin threw off her coat and tossed it unceremoniously to Gregor, who was barely able to catch it after having to have shrugged off the guardsmen's holds over him. A bright red sunburn marking Robin's white skin was revealed – Chrom's breath hitched at the sight. After she tugged off the pair of bronze swords sheathed to her hips and dumped them into Frederick's arms, she bent over and started working simultaneously on pulling off her bolero and boots.

"That's enough," Chrom heaved Robin up to her feet and shepherded her and Lissa into the shadow of the doorframe. "We've no need for that, not when it's keeping us from our schedules. And besides," he added, turning to his knight, "didn't you mention a visit to the infirmary? It certainly looks as though ourguestneeds it," he mentioned sternly.

"Of course," Frederick assented, and Robin sighed inwardly at how close they were to discovering her when they had barely arrived at the castle. She was to keep her guard up at all times and make sure that even the slightest possibility of detection was to remain strictly hypothetical.

It was a lonely, paranoid thought. Lonelier still was Gregor watching her from within the circle of guardsmen, and his plaintive eyes seemed to age him a decade more; when he caught her staring he grinned widely and waved, as though everything was fine and their goodbye was but an afterthought.

"He'll…he'll be alright, won't he?" Robin murmured morosely, alternating between worrying her lip and rumpled shirt.

"Oh, he will! We'll see to it that he's all set up for the evening.Right, Frederick?" Lissa prodded insistently at their attendant's armour-clad side.

"We can prepare suitable quarters for him in the gatehouse, milady," was his curt answer, and Robin was irritated at his refusal to address her too.

"That's good…I uh, need him well rested for a missive to be sent tomorrow," Robin muttered lamely, and managed a quick, sad flick of her wrist to Gregor; the image of him being led down the steps was blocked out by the creaking doors being pushed closed. Lissa pressed her hand into the small of Robin's back and steered her past the threshold and into the cool hall, with Frederick and Chrom following close behind.

Her sense of foreboding grew, and yet was somehow balanced out by what she felt was inappropriately timed excitement.

Lissa filled in the silence by cheerily pointing out certain details of their space: the pale, creamy limestone used in the castle's construction, the red carpet occupying most of the floor – apparently only used when receiving foreign dignitaries, otherwise it was blue, Lissa explained – the torch brackets designed in the appearance of wyverns spouting flames.

Robin listened politely to her spiel but watched Chrom and Frederick out of the corner of her eye. The former seemed to be lecturing the knight on something, with said man nodding along at certain intervals. She quickly faced forward as soon as they caught up and flanked them, Frederick a pace behind. Certainly impressive was the size of the passage; it seemed possible that two soldiers riding abreast could fit in comfortably.

"It must be a pretty important message if you can't keep him here with you, is it? And, um, I hope I'm not being rude by asking this, but does it have anything to do with you showing up by yourself?" Lissa questioned innocently. Chrom saved Robin from having to reply by sandwiching himself between the girls and cutting across his sister.

"We can ask him later, Lis. Right now we should focus on getting cleaned up before we head to our stations. Doesn't a great big pitcher of ice water sound nice?" he pressed, his eyes sliding towards Robin in a conspiratorial wink.

"Oh, that soundsdivine!" Lissa sighed longingly. Robin remained cautiously silent, but mouthedthank youto her host. Whatever his future intentions, he was trying awfully hard to be welcoming and ingratiating, and for that she was grateful.

As the doors opened to reveal a spacious cloister filled with the gurgle of a fountain, the princess flagged down an available page without breaking stride. The servant (no more than a boy really) gawped in open astonishment at the sight of the moon shining back at him in the sun: not the product of his mother's scolding if he refused to be put to bed at night, but in the form of an exotic, unknown visitor. Frederick's shortly worded dismissal broke the child's stare, and off he went, whizzing up a staircase waiting behind the colonnade.

If the mutters and gestures that sprouted up from the few people milling about the walkways were daunting, then the thought of hundreds of judgemental, gossiping tongues waiting for her within the castle walls was beyond nerve wracking.

Here she would not only be tested, but her very abilities and endurance would be placed into question. Years of training and pain could be undone by a single misstep –

Stop being so melodramatic, you stupid girl, Robin's inner voice snapped as they approached the keep, an additional set of guards poised to ready their entry.

You've gotten this far…you can't turn back now, so you might as well brace yourself for whatever there is to come. A fitting statement, she considered anxiously, for the very moment the mighty oaken panels were pushed forward with a deafening groan, and the trio ushered into the vestibule.

The sumptuous carpet reappeared, taking on the hue of jewelled pomegranates as the fabric and space surrounding it were drenched in sunlight. It streamed through windows that almost dominated the entirety of the left wall, with suits of armour belonging to heroes past glaring down from pedestals spaced between them. Corbels in the shape of pegasi supported a beautifully carved hammer beam ceiling, where the colours of Valm, Plegia, Regna Ferox and Ylisse fluttered and vied for space. And, at the very end, more flowing tracery was featured on a set of rosewood doors with a balcony on them; an immense bronze of the goddess Naga rested at its middle, with the window behind it creating an aureole that sent splinters and splashes of blue and green light dancing throughout.

The general effect was nothing short of awe-inspiring, and Robin was too caught up in her amazement to continue her moody train of thought. She was no stranger to grandeur herself, but it was impossible to not appreciate the majesty of such a place.

However, as all good things are wont to do, the moment came to an abrupt end as she was made aware of the silence.

Then, the whispers.

"He's scrawnier than I had imagined," an elderly nobleman pointed out to his companion.

"I thought he was much older than this," a haughty young lady dissolved into a fit of giggling with her band of lackeys.

"He looks very dirty," a little maidservant remarked disdainfully, and a footman shushed her with a nervous hiss.

Robin snuck a surreptitious sniff of her shoulder, unsurprised to find that she did indeed smell like a stable. But what could she do? She had to stuff her robes into the saddlebags to avoid being stopped on the road, and riding fast and hard had excluded any baths. Poor, sweet Gregor had failed to remember that a "few day's travel" was in fact much longer than that, and to make up for lost time they spent most of the days and nights on the move. The rag she had used to disguise her distinctive hair and protect her face from the sun was currently stuffed down her shirt to flatten her already small breasts, and it contributed to her overall sweatiness.

Chrom, previously very pleased to see Robin marvelling at his castle, frowned at the rudeness of his court; he itched to chastise them publicly, but figured it would embarrass Daraen and offend the more powerful among them, as annoying as it was to admit.

He had Frederick though, and it helped when the man turned his signature glare on the loudest of the bunch, creating temporary waves of quiet wherever he passed. Chrom made a grand show of slipping his arm over the prince's shoulder and pulling him close, offering him bits of trivia of his house:

"Did you know that it took almost a century for the builders to finish just this hall?"

"The carpet is almost entirely made out of Themian wool."

"Do you know why it's called a Katarine window?"

So on and so forth, with Lissa chiming in occasionally until they exited and a swell of sound grew right behind them.

They all continued with their idle chatter and pleasantries, with the siblings making approving remarks wherever Robin admired the scenery, until they reached a dark doorway on the second floor.

"Oh, Lis, there you are!"

A tall young man with neatly combed auburn hair and wearing the steel-blue cape and hat of an Ylissean Sage jogged to them and clasped Lissa's hands within his own. The princess laughed and pressed a kiss to his fingers before his eyes met Robin's and he looked her up and down with a wary face.

"So he's arrived huh? I'm Ricken. It's a pleasure to meet your Highness," the man bowed deeply. Robin tried to reciprocate but ended up butting heads due to their proximity, and Chrom failed to stifle a grin.

"I'm so sorry for that!" Robin patted the lad's shoulder before remembering that she didn't know him and snatched back her hand awkwardly. Ricken's expression turned from cautious to amused, and he laughed.

"No, if anything I should be apologising! I shouldn't have stood so close to your Highness," he bowed again and Lissa rolled her eyes fondly at him. Ricken elbowed her playfully and the young lady was about to retaliate before Chrom coughed pointedly.

"Oh! Right, right," Ricken muttered and he too cleared his throat, with an air of importance.

"The ladies prepared some couches for you all and I've asked Thomas to get some water. I sent Bartram to the kitchens to let them know of your Highness's arrival," another respectful nod in Robin's direction, "and Mary told me the rooms are all set."

"Thank you Ricken," Chrom murmured appreciatively and Lissa beamed proudly up at him.

At the same time the doors were thrown open rather roughly, and a fat, one-eyed crone eyed them critically from within the frame.

"About bloody time," she gathered them all into the infirmary and a younger nurse hurried to close the entry with a softer touch.

While Robin busied herself with admiring the pretty and well – lit space – she especially liked how the fanned vaults resembled dragon wings – Chrom, Lissa and Ricken sat themselves on the pale velvet green chairs, Frederick keeping a watchful eye a few steps away.

She joined them shortly after noticing the few patients in the wing were peeking at her from under their sheets. The same little servant boy from before carried a tray bearing a pitcher with ice fetched straight from the cellars, and small silver cups formed a charming little circle around it.

"Thank you Thomas," Robin gave the child a grin as she accepted her cup, and gulped down the drink with the force of a thirsty camel. Thomas's staring was interrupted by his tiny laugh, but the head nurse's glance in his direction sent him scurrying away, embarrassed, into the arms of a uniformed lady with the same ginger hair as him.

Chrom smiled fondly at the boy before inquiring, "We hope everything is to your liking so far. Is there anything that we may be able to provide for you? Hungry? Still thirsty?" The prince swept his arm as though offering the entire room.

At that moment, Robin understood the full extent of his naiveté towards the situation.

"Treating that sunburn should be the first on the list," the matron announced, setting down an assortment of ointments and elixirs as the nurses bustled around them with moistened cloths.

"Luella, you take care of his Highness," she pushed a thin, skittish girl towards Robin. The poor thing was totally silent as she wet a folded towel. Deciding that she too would be quiet – if it meant not scaring the nurse any more than she already was – Robin watched as she smeared a microscopic amount of ointment on the cloth.

Chrom and Lissa watched closely.

The tension was somewhat cut by the full absurdity of the nurse's behaviour – every time her hand came close to the Plegian's burnt arm, her frightened hum would grow louder, only for her to snatch her hand back and repeat the process again.

Lissa stifled a nervous titter and Chrom frowned.

"Oh, geton with itgirl," the old woman growled as she bodily removed the nurse and saw to Robin's burn herself. "He ain't gonna bite ye," the woman scrubbed the red skin briskly, and while her's wasn't the gentlest of treatment, it got the job done well enough: the pain receded and her normal colour began to show.

"I'm sorry –" Luella began.

"Bandage duty," her mistress replied, and the girl let out a sob as her colleagues coaxed her over to a cabinet at the far end of the room.

Before another uncomfortable hush could settle over them, Robin addressed the old woman. "Your treatment is very much appreciated. I am very glad to have been in your capable hands."

"T'ain't nothin' but my obligation." She repacked her burn kit with a flourish and walked back to the cabinet to hand it over to the ashamed Luella for storage.

"We apologise for this –" Chrom began, his voice leaking a bit of desperation.

"It's nothing!" Robin reassured. "Really. You've all been so kind to me in the little time we've known each other – and it's really no trouble at all. In…in fact…I daresay that I'd rather we drop the formalities. You can just call me R – Daraen."

Chrom brightened considerably at that; Robin was thoroughly amused when he visibly straightened up in his seat. "Really? Ah, well then, you can call me –"

"Absolutely not," Frederick scowled from his place behind Chrom. Robin wanted to laugh at how Lissa and Ricken jumped at the sound of his voice, but was too unnerved by the speed at which he'd reached the couch from the door.

"High rank or not, foreign dignitaries are to observe protocol at all times as befitting milord's house. You are to refer to him as 'Your Grace' at all times."

"Oh, that's laying it on too thick, and inyourcase that's saying something," Lissa snapped. Her big blue eyes glittered with barely restrained annoyance. "Nobody will care if we forget about the stupid protocol for a moment! And besides, Chrom's not Exalted yet anyways—"

"That'll do Lissa," the man muttered.

The sullen hush returned to the atmosphere. Robin was sorely tempted to try and say something – anything – that could at least get them talking again. Her guilt at not being in the castle for a day and already causing trouble for her hosts kept her mute and curled up within herself.

It was Ricken who saved them.

"I…uhhh…oh, would you just look at the time? It's gotten so late that I can smell food already! Everyone must already be at the throne room by now, so we should hurry up and join them, huh?" he laughed a little too loudly.

Chrom blinked dumbly, but in the short time that it took for him to process it he was lifted out of his displeasure and his seat. "Oh…yes! Right. Food. Supper." He cleared his throat importantly and turned to the staring nurses.

"Ladies! We are very grateful for your attentions, but we must take our leave. We thank you kindly and, er, hope to see you soon at the banquet."

The women barely had any time to reply to their lord before he was out the doors in a speedy walk, with Lissa, Ricken, Frederick and Robin tagging along behind. She almost missed little Thomas's wave goodbye.

Chrom's panic over the possibility of arriving late to his own feast was palpable, and Robin thought that his urgency would compel him into a run. Her guilt doubled over the lengths he had to go not only to keep her comfortable in the short time she had spent there, but also to appease his subjects and other guests to keep everything on schedule.

"Do you know what you're going to wear?" Lissa panted as they turned a corner sharply and nearly upset a servant's tray.

"You know that I've got everything picked out since the week before, why ask now?"

"It's because it's soweirdfor you to be so well organised!"

"Very funny Lissa, just keep making fun of me in front of Daraen like that."

"Does your Highness know what to wear now too?" Ricken asked as they slowed to a stop in front of a solid, slate blue door. A detachment of guards, previously idling in the contiguous hallway, ran over immediately and bowed when they caught sight of Chrom and Frederick.

"Er…about that…" Robin began.

"You didn't bring any clothes." While Chrom didn't say it maliciously, it was still shameful to hear it being said at all. Robin nodded, mortified.

"And—and – you didn't bring your people either!" Lissa sounded very concerned, and her small hands clasped over Robin's beseechingly. "What happened?"

"Surely you would not believe it due to some woe of his, milady?" Frederick's iron-hard glare latched onto Robin's face. "This smells of a trap."

"Frederick." The toughness of Chrom's voice matched Frederick's unyielding stare. "Ask Mary to fetch my summer clothes – the older ones, not the silk. And have Rood and Karel here for the night shift."

Frederick didn't argue, but his gaze remained steely. "At once milord." Before he could leave, presumably to the prince's quarter's, Chrom leaned in for the slightest of moments before he was off.We will continue this conversation laterwas its clear meaning.

Eyes darting nervously between Chrom and Frederick's rapidly receding figure, Ricken bowed. "I better be readying myself too. I'll see you in a bit Lissa. Chrom, your Highness," he bowed again and took off at a slight jog with a small wave.

Chrom pursed his lips and shook his head in exasperation, watching Ricken for a quiet moment. "I beg your forgiveness," he said, turning to Robin with a stricken look. "He's a good man…he's never quite this rude. Please, don't think ill of him."

Or us, Robin understood.

"Don't worry so much on my behalf. I've no great expectations for kindness," she raised her hand lightly when it looked like Chrom and Lissa wanted to protest, "nor will I begrudge those who would refuse it. I have no right to demand it in the first place."

"That's not true…" Lissa whimpered.

To hear her speak so sincerely provoked a wounded smile from Robin; she held the blonde's hands gently.

"Perhaps. But to hear such words, and have such kindness shown to me is all I could ask from you. Please, don't trouble yourselves over what you cannot hope to have under control."

Robin drew back and allowed the guards to open the door to her quarters for her. "I think I should probably hurry myself – can't come any later than I already have," she tried to joke, her smile dropping slightly when the siblings didn't reply.

The only indication Chrom gave to being upset was the tightening of his jaw. Gazing intently at Robin for some moments, he later bowed stiffly and turned to leave with the squeak of his boots. Lissa struggled in his grip and whined about staying longer, but then huffed and waved sulkily goodbye.

"We hope to see you soon then." His blue eyes betrayed his worry, his meddlesome desire to press the issue further…his clear intention to disregard her reassurances.

If not a prince, then every bit a chivalrous lord. Anyone else would have called him a damned fool for openly displaying such naiveté and candour, and while Robin was more than inclined to agree, it was precisely those qualities that made her decide that, so far, she liked him immensely.

Turning to enter her apartments, what she found was overall very pleasing: a handsome four poster snug within a navy blue coverlet and curtains; basic necessities like an armoire; other charming touches like a tapestry depicting a forest scene and a masterfully carved fireplace.

To her left, she glimpsed of what she assumed was a sitting room, and the door on the right was closed. There were, surprisingly, a number of Plegian details scattered about: faience from the Gwelo river region, a puzzle-box from Khoramshar lying on the desk, brass and coloured glass lamps from the capital.

Everything was, of course, in varying shades of blue, green and yellow. Lissa struck her as more of the decorating type than Chrom, and her thoughtfulness was very touching.

She suspected that the servants assigned to her were handpicked specifically for their open-mindedness, as a grandmotherly lady removed her coat with a warm smile. Though she supposed it was a tad ridiculous to assume they would run screaming at the sight of her, Robin remembered the way the people in the halls sneered.

Before she was able to enter the washroom to freshen up, strong knocking at the door drew her out of her thoughts. Opening it revealed Frederick's dour face and him holding assorted books balanced over neatly folded clothes. Mary the housekeeper stood next to him with a bemused expression.

"Milord sends these and bids you wear them for the evening," he placed them carefully in Robin's arms, "I've taken the liberty of compiling certain texts on etiquette to assist you during your stay; heavens know you need them."

"How considerate of you. If not for your efforts then I am certain I would be completely lost," Robin ground out, her servants snigg*ring at Frederick's expense.

Amazingly, her sarcasm flew right over the knight's head. He straightened up, surprised, but then gave a curt nod. "But of course. I live to serve and milord's household takes great care with hospitality." A pause. He looked at her strangely. "If there is something you require, do not hesitate to call upon me."

"Will do," Robin said drily, and allowed him to shut the door.

Her ladies clucked and fussed as they herded her into the washroom. "How much of that were his actual words, or milord Chrom's, d'you bet?" they inquired, drawing hot water into the tub.

"I can't quite tell myself, but do I hope he gets better at understanding human speech," she replied, and the maids laughed heartily.

"I'll take those milord," a younger lady stretched her hands out towards the clothes.

Robin blanched, but masked her brief alarm with politeness. "Oh. Um. I'd rather dress myself…I hope you don't mind. I'm rather accustomed to it." She scrambled for more excuses. "I had expected you would assist me with the hearth instead. Ylisse is much chillier than I had expected."

"If your Highness says so," the women said, sharing a confused look. They curtsied gracefully and shut the door with a click.

Robin surveyed the bathroom appreciatively. It was as beautifully decorated as her previous rooms and had a real tub with functioning plumbing and scented soaps, unlike the sorry excuses back in Southtown.

She sighed in exhaustion and wriggled out of her grimy, crusty clothing, scrubbing out the dirt from her body. She indulged in a brief soak while flipping through some of the books, and while she was right to expect the usual amount of idiocy, she had to admit there were several bits she was better off learning.

When she was done and smelt more closely like a proper human than a horse, she inspected the finery Chrom sent: parti-coloured hose, soft leather shoes and linen chemise, as well as a gorgeous saffron yellow doublet and jerkin that she knew would clash horribly with her pasty complexion.

Pulling the bandages she had snatched from the sick ward tightly around her chest, a sudden thought occurred to her that made her reconsider future dressing procedures:

Does this mean I should stuff?

Sprinting down the halls while trying to get a hold of her too big clothes – the only reason the hose stayed on was because she had pulled them up all the way to her chest – Robin had the distinct feeling that she was being followed.

"Sir – Sir! Your Highness!" the valets cried.

Oh. Right.

They skidded to a stop and, most indecorously so, pulled her behind a column.

"What's all this now?" Robin asked, trying to tamp down a spike of panic when the men pulled open her coat and fiddled with her shoes.

"Your Lordship left before we could make some," the blonde huffed as he stuffed some rags between her toes and heel, "much needed adjustments."

"Somelast minuteadjustments," his greying companion added as he packed more cloth into her sleeves and (carefuldon'tlethimtouchthere!)around her back.

"We shall ask the Lady Mary for additional clothes," the boy straightened up her collar. "And the seamstresses shall be sent for."

Robin squirmed away from their touch, ran back when she realised she had been rude and bowed awkwardly to them before heading into the throne room. The valets shared a confused look.

"Odd lad," the elder of the pair said.

"Throne room" was a bit of a misnomer due to its size. It seemed more appropriate to call it an audience hall, especially considering the fact that the entire court (or most of it, anyways) seemed to be present. Her attempts to enter unobtrusively were ruined by the loud fanfare that announced her arrival, and she tried not to look sheepish as she joined the other three ambassadors at the foot of the dais.

She heard whispers all through her walk down the nave, around a large brazier, and she figured she might as well start getting used to it.

Basilio was impossible to not recognise, even with the purple trim of the prætor's toga replacing his tight battle gear. The other two men she had never before seen; Robin assumed that the stunning blonde was Valmese due to his blood red garb and cold gaze, leaving the severe looking middle-aged man to be Rosannois.

"You may now rise," Chrom's surprisingly mature sounding voice rang with an echo.

Like the other three she had kept her head respectfully down, but looking up surprised her. Gone were the practical looks the siblings bore earlier, replaced with expensive fabrics and regal bearings: Lissa's hair was swept up into a snood lined with pearls, and long pearl necklaces trailed down her sunny yellow gown. Chrom provided a stark contrast, most of his clothes a cloudy black excepting his stormy blue jerkin. Silver clocking was featured on his hose and a heavy silver chain bearing the nation's crest rested over his heart. Had she not spoken to them but hours ago, she would have pictured the stern and wise rulers that storybooks favoured.

Robin thankfully caught herself staring and avoided embarrassment. She waited patiently until the other three had crossed up to the platform with the royal pair to kiss the star sapphire on Chrom's finger. Disgusted by the thought that a surely ancient relic had the saliva of hundreds (or – horrors –thousands) all over it, she opted instead to brush her lips over his hand. She didn't dare raise her eyes but the way the prince squeezed her fingers in a quiet reply was reassuring, and she rejoined the others behind him.

Now they waited until a procession of eight robed men walked to the platform from the hall's entrance. Robin wondered if the way the banners hung from the columns indicated their order of appearance: a flaming torch, a sword, a sheaf of wheat, a flowering branch; two birds, a triskelion, a quill and chisel, and a plough and fish hook.

When they too had finished salivating over their sovereign, they lined themselves next to the ambassadors. Before she could fully study them to judge who presented the biggest threat, the din stilled as Chrom motioned for silence. An air of anticipation rose to fill the void.

"Cousins," he began, "friends. Honoured guests. We thank you all for your presence this evening. For the next months you bear witness to a historic and truly magnificent event. This is the first time in more than three centuries that the leaders of our worlds' great nations stand together, in this hallowed ground. Yet the historicity of this is not what matters. Rather, that we stand to make a difference. To be a guiding light in these dark times."

He paused for effect before continuing.

"War is a scourge. War takes and never returns, no matter how hard we may pray, how far we may run, or how long we may fight. These years have been hard on us, and to deny the people respite would be to condemn them to misery and suffering. To deny the world a cease would be callous and senseless, and the only thing we would have achieved would be the same results as our fathers."

Robin noticed several in the hall and the gallery above shifting uncomfortably at that.

"The very meaning of the word 'freedom' suggests the absence of pain and want. As we are now, we have the power and the strength to achieve that freedom for everyone's sake. Our children, and their children's children need not know the horrors of fear and loss. For we have all lost, and it is with that understanding that we need to strive towards a greater good. We cannot continue to cloak ourselves within suspicion and intolerance and expect any good from it. All peace is borne from trust, leadership and the initiative to compromise.

Emmeryn understood this better than anyone," his voice lowered, conveying the depth of his mourning to his audience. "Emmeryn's entire life's work was dedicated to the good of the country. She was willing to reach above and beyond for those in need. Her compassion compelled her to sacrifice her very life out of her love for us and her love of others. It is our hope that we can continue this legacy of hers and assure that her efforts were not in vain."

Chrom bowed his head to signify a moment of silence, and there was a ready compliance from all with the exception of a baby's cry. The anticipation had sobered into something sadder.

Robin's heart panged with the empathy of loss, and the deepest of guilt.

She took the opportunity to discreetly glance around: the second oldest of the men looked incredibly sorrowful. The youngest looked bored and was picking his nails but straightened up immediately when the quiet ended.

"She did not believe that faith, charity and hope were unattainable ideals. She did not believe that freedom and peace were half-and-half affairs. She knew that nations can fall, but the bravery and determination of a few can be enough to hold up even the weakest of foundations. It will not do to only remember her and those before her as martyrs, but as inspirations to push through with our goals.Icome forth not as an Exalt, nor a sovereign, but a man like any other who understood what it is she fought for. And as a man like any other, I alone cannot hope to achieve a vision of this magnitude alone. I call on you to help me plant this seed, to spark this flame, and nurture it with care; for Naga herself looked upon the land when it was only but seedlings.

Today we stand committed to the proposition that we will not leave the table empty handed. We guarantee it to the world – weoweit to them. It is in these halls that we hope to reap what we sow and make good on our promises. Be it so that these times are not remembered by our descendants as a time of despair, but one of endless optimism for a shining future."

Subdued applause echoed throughout the cavernous chamber, yet it grew, bolstered by the strength of Chrom's conviction. It seemed to burn as brightly as the candles in the enormous chandeliers overhead.

Frederick stepped forward with a large golden torch and handed it to Chrom solemnly. The elderly man whom Robin noticed during the speech approached the prince and addressed the hall with a bow before conjuring a small blue flame in his circled hands.

"Heavenly Mother, Sun of Our Skies, Light of Our Lives. We bid You watch over us and allow us the brilliance of Your Presence. It is with Your Grace that You have bestowed Your Fire upon us to keep us warm and safe. And thus we pray that the flame shall burn forever bright, and woe befall should we dare to let it die."

He placed the blaze into the lip of the torch and bowed once more before retreating to his position. Chrom raised the torch high before striding confidently to the brazier and he deposited the flame into its pit.

The tiny spark grew monumentally in size until it towered almost to the height of the ceiling. The dragon within the flaming maelstrom threw its head back with a roar and stretched its mighty wings, drawing amazed and terrified reactions from the crowd. Almost as quickly as it started, the fire withdrew into the brazier and blue, yellow and orange light flickered warmly.

Thunderous applause broke the brief stupor. The show of approval had Chrom and Lissa grinning almost as brightly as the fire, and Basilio broke protocol to come forward and enclose them in a bone-crushing hug. Some of the robed men tutted sternly, but Robin felt rather moved at the display of affection.

There was a general sense of relief and excitement as a small army of servants herded the assembly into the passage joining the great hall with the throne room. Chrom's smile slipped a bit as the stream of people flowed past the dais, and he beckoned Frederick to him subtly. Robin watched as they exchanged a few words, the prince looking away but his expression somewhat strained. Frederick drew back, and for a second it seemed as though the knight would roll his eyes, but the annoyance was quickly smoothed over and he replied inaudibly. Lissa was more vocal in her impatience and bounded over to Robin with a loud clacking of pearls.

"You'll be sitting next to me!" she sparkled with mirth, and tugged the Plegian cheerfully (and surprisingly forcefully) along with the rest of those eager to start dining.

"Easy Lissa. Besides, you don't know if the seating plan will allow it," Chrom caught up to them with another of his effortless grins, Frederick and the robed men trailing behind.

"Uh, I checked it before, and it definitely says that Daraen is on my right. Weren't you supposed to know that already?"

"Whatever. You can be really intolerable sometimes, you know that?"

"Whenever you want, big brother."

Before Chrom could add a retort to what Robin was finding highly amusing, one of the men broke formation to shake Chrom's hands hysterically.

"Excellent speech milord! Truly one for the annals," his immensely fat girth wobbled enthusiastically. "The court seemed to find it rather touching, and I couldn't agree more!"

"Thank you Harald. Though I couldn't have done it without a lot of practice," he laughed. "And many revisions on Miriel's part," he added to himself.

"Oh, but you must admit that speech was always one of your talents! Milord is much too modest for his own good," the lord chuckled.

Robin piped up. "I distinctly remember his talks being rather popular on the battlefield. His soldiers always fought harder after being in his presence," she was pleased to see that the prince was blushing lightly under her praise.

"Oh, forgive my rudeness! I had totally forgotten that your Highness walked among us!" There was an oddly manic gleam in the man's chestnut eyes as he subjected her arms to the same vigorous pumping as Chrom's.

"It is no trouble at all, Sir…?"

"Harald, Harald Eschmann your Highness. I must say that your presence here is truly an inspiration! What an honour it is for my humble self to be in such noble company! How uplifting it is to witness the goodwill of our neighbours! I do hope you enjoy your stay here, and I assume that milord Chrom has already seen to it that you are suitably well accommodated. However, should the need arise, do not hesitate to seek me out! I shall do whatever you necessitate to, ah, facilitate your integration. And I must add that I am simply amazed, amazed I tell you, that I am able to observe the genius of your Highness in action! The stories they have told! The rumours that abound! Truly an honour! I do hope to accomplish many great things with your Lordship during the, ah, proceedings."

Robin was flabbergasted that he didn't seem the least bit winded when he finished.

Eschmann decided he wasn't and followed up by snatching her wrist and pulling back her sleeve.

"Oh my! You certainly are rather pale for your kind. Or is this a more common trait among your people?"

Ricken scurried to them from behind the jabbering masses, flustered and wrinkling his fine silk jacket from the effort. Chrom seemed to be competing in terms of redness and looped his arm over Robin, prying her away with a stream of apologies.

"Father, you can't just say something like that to others! A—a—and especially not people like the prince!"

"Come now son, I mean no harm from it! It was an honest question."

"An honest question he says! Next thing you know he'll be shopping for new linens to match that pasty skin of yours, kid!" a deep laughter boomed. Basilio marched to them with his usual bravado and smacked Robin's shoulder playfully; or at least that's what she assumed he thought he did since it felt like a bear rammed into her from behind.

"Are you sure that's even a joke? You're losing your touch Basilio," she wrinkled her nose.

"And I suppose you fancy yourself a jester to judge it, huh? That seems too unrealistic for such a serious guy like you," he smirked, and she rolled her eyes hard.

Chrom raised a questioning brow. "So you're acquainted with Basilio, Daraen?"

"We've seen each other here and there. Mostly on the field," Basilio interrupted.

"He tried to crush my head in. On multiple occasions."

"Good times, good times. But we can let bygones be bygones, and now we're all gathered here for thenoblestof intentions," he thwacked her again, and Robin was almost annoyed that Chrom and Lissa seemed torn between confusion and amusem*nt.

Lissa perked up significantly when they entered the hall. "I can smell the food already!" she squealed.

Robin identified with the princess's excitement. Ignoring the servants and Master of Ceremonies directing them to their own table on another dais, she thought of the long days spent with the meanest and dirtiest of rations – or more often, none at all. The anxiety gnawing at their bellies had sometimes helped her and Gregor to cope. But now, she would be feasting in the company of fellow royals, on whatever she liked and whatever amount.

She wished that Gregor might be in the hall, too. She was still brimming with apprehension and missed him terribly, but the only invitees she saw were nobility, staff and other assorted castle folk.

Once they reached their spots they too were divided with an easy efficiency: Chrom and Lissa sat the head, with Robin to her right and Basilio to his left. Next to Robin was the gorgeous Valmese blonde, and Basilio shared his space with the Rosannois. Following them were the eight men, and judging by the fact that they were sharing a table, Robin deduced that they were Chrom's councillors.

The spectacled elder who had blessed the torch uttered a disapproving tsk-tsk at Eschmann as he shuffled to Chrom's side again. Before everyone was to be seated, servants emerged from a screened passage parading a rainbow of dishes. The main table was served first, and Robin's mouth watered uncontrollably.

"Let us say grace," the elder pronounced, closing his eyes and raising his upturned palms.

"Heavenly Mother, Sun of Our Skies, Light of Our Lives. We bid You watch over us and allow us the brilliance of Your Presence. It is with Your Grace that You have made the earth fruitful and kept our people hearty and hale. We honour this meal –"

Robin's stomach chose that moment to groan horribly. Basilio laughed, Lissa giggled and the priest raised pleading eyes to the ceiling.

"—And plead that the future holds as much bounty as our present."

The guests murmured their assent throughout the hall and the disgruntled man walked silently to his chair.

Four lads bearing trays to the head table followed an old woman with incongruously muscular arms. The pantler offered up the bread and another a handsome set of carving tools. The Master of Ceremonies presented the table with a heavy silver saltcellar, and Chrom broke the bread and dipped several pieces into the salt. The Master tasted one and, having deemed it safe, distributed the rest among the seated.

Robin discreetly licked a bit of drool away from her lips.

Another young man brought a tray of silver goblets, Chrom and Lissa's being chased gold and glass. The last of the party bore a ewer and the Master dropped a bezoar into the container. Satisfied, he passed it to Chrom and the wine was poured into the cups.

Robin wanted nothing more than to snatch the pitcher up and chug it all down.

Finally, Chrom used the carving set to slice several cuts of bear – Robin had seen it being carried on a sturdy oak stretcher, and it looked and smelled delicious, dripping with a rich brown sauce and lined with baked onions and apples. These too were divided between the diner's plates, and as they were placed before them, Robin plunked into her chair and tore into the meat with relish, savouring her first true meal in weeks,dear gods this is amazing –!

She was painfully aware of the overwhelming silence around her. Looking up, with gravy smearing her lips and fingers, the rest of the present company stared at her. They hadn't even sat down yet. The Master and the priest looked completely horrified; the Rosannois and some of the councillors disgusted, and Basilio was grinning like a madman.

"Forgive me. I couldn't control myself," she started to ramble, scrambling for whatever excuse she could pass off as even remotely appropriate. "The sight and scent alone were enough to make me forget whatever manners I have."

"Nowthere'ssomething you don't hear every day in your career!" the elderly woman revealed a gap-toothed smile and clasped her hands delightedly: she must have been the head cook. "If only I could hear that kind of praise from you whelps," she cuffed Chrom's shoulder playfully, "and the rest of you ungrateful louts," her cackling could be heard all the way into the kitchen passage as she left, and the overwhelmed Master tried to offer an apologetic shrug before he hurried after her.

She must be quite special and talented if she's allowed to speak to her superiors like that, Robin mused as the rest took their places and began to eat.But one more slip-up like that and you can be sure that their forgiveness and your dumb luck will run out quick, you stupid girl.

"Oi, cheer up old man," Basilio reached over the Rosannois and shook the elder forcefully. "It's not the end of the world. Besides, if the food really is poisoned, then at least you know the Plegian didn't do it!"

There was weak laughter all around, and the older man looked a bit queasy himself. At the very least Chrom and Lissa still offered reassurances.

As the princess snigg*red faintly and told Robin no, the tablecloth is most certainly not for wiping your hands on, that's what the napkins are for, her tone turned for the serious and she leaned in confidentially.

"You didn't bring any servants, you don't have any clothes, you're eating like a starving person…what happened?" Robin felt a prick of annoyance for having her personal affairs being butted into, but Lissa's pout and the reminder that she had been kind to her and, well,deservedto know, tamped it down.

"It's…a bit of a long story. To keep it short, we were basically shipwrecked."

"Shipwrecked?!"

"Yes, that's the gist of it. Yeah."

"You poor thing!"

Again, the irritation. But Lissa's sad eyes looked sincere, and she was surprised to have her holding her hand in sudden sympathy. Chrom said nothing but a supportive nod was enough.

As Lissa prattled on about how well they would take care of her and how she wouldn't want for nothing during her stay, she occasionally interrupted herself, along with her brother, to point out useful tidbits on table etiquette.

She took the rest of the time to learn about the eating habits of the nobility as well as the rest of the guests sharing the table. In Plegia as well as Chon'sin the whole meal was served all at once, but here it was organised into courses. Apparently the planning had deviated from presenting types of food in a certain order to displaying national foods from guest nations, with subtleties of marchpane and spun sugar representing their seats of power for each course.

Ylisse was shown through hearty soups, the delicious bear and sweet winter preserves paired with cheeses and bread. Robin was enchanted by the spelled sugar pegasi flying around the towers and walls of Ylisstol castle. Regna Ferox had a wide variety of sharply flavoured pickles, smoked ox, and candy soldiers that battled around the Khan's Palace.

As she sampled her way through Rosanne and the Valmese Empire she quietly observed her companions and was careful to reply politely whenever prompted, but not in a way that would suggest spinelessness.

The priest who had led them in prayer was Anton Kospa of House Ænselm, second only to Chrom in terms of control over the church as head of their religion. While she perceived dislike from him during the beginning of the meal, he was appropriately deferential and even shy when they spoke. He seemed all right so far, but it would do to keep an eye on him.

Eschmann she had already met. It was clear from the get-go that he was incurably eccentric and over-excitable, and while she didn't appreciate his initial grabbiness she had a gut feeling that he was at least somewhat trustworthy. His house, Stoecklin, had risen from hard times after the death of the previous Minister of Finance; he had been promoted after his son's marriage to Lissa, he explained, and he waved enthusiastically to him a table over while the lad hid his face with a hand.

"Forgive me for my impertinence, your Highness, but I believe I speak for most when I respectfully request a change in music. Perhaps something livelier for our guests?" Tobias Falstaff spoke smoothly, and his well trimmed goatee and sharp red eyes painted a very handsome and cultivated image.

But there was a hard edge to his demeanour when Robin had faced him, and he never spoke to her unless directly addressed. She knew that not only was he certainly among the more prejudiced members of Chrom's court, but that he would be impossible to sway and would challenge her every step of the way. The question was whether it was more efficient to simply counter him or to also try to find which councillors could be played against him.

"Yeah Chrom! We've had nothing but these slow and sappy ballads. Even the tumblers look bored!" Lissa accidentally sprayed crumbs onto her trencher.

Chrom, previously in happy conversation and sporting a rather far off look in his eyes, seemed affronted by the very suggestion. "If you say so…"

He motioned to one of the servants stationed behind his chair. Instructing her quietly, the maid bowed and left, returning shortly with a green-haired man in tow.

"Lewyn, it seems that a change has been requested. You do still have the lists I've compiled?"

"I do milord. Which scores shall we be playing from?" the bard seemed highly amused by the exchange.

"The, uh, happier ones."

Lewyn bowed. "At once, milord."

Soon after, breathy notes began floating from the minstrel's gallery, reverberating throughout the hall.

I'll swim and sail on savage seas

With ne'er a fear of drowning

And gladly ride the waves of life

If you would marry me…

Lissa groaned and some of the councillors grimaced uncomfortably. "Ugh. I take it back. I'd rather listen to all of those ballads back to back if it means not hearing this song ever again!"

Chrom's face had taken on a lost, dreamy quality, eyes glazing over as a curiously soft smile played about his lips. "Oh, hush," he replied dazedly.

The rest of the meal progressed somewhat uneventfully, and Robin wondered why Chrom's inattention seemed to worsen with each passing song. They soon reached the end of the banquet, with Plegia being the last course. She could tell that few had any idea what her national cuisine was like, but was mollified by the fact that they at least tried; she nibbled on what looked like an attempt at lamb kebabs as she watched jackals and wyverns chase each other over the subtlety of her capital's walled city.

Chrom was snapped out of his stupor as the table was voided and he stood to give a toast. Several had been stated before, with many a courtier hilariously sloshed by then, but the prince had refrained until now so that it would be more meaningful.

"We thank you all for attending this feast—" he began, and was interrupted by a few raucous "hear hears!"

"—And we hope it surpassed your highest expectations. This is but the beginning of many happy nights together, and we hope that those future nights are also filled with more merrymaking and joy to come," he raised his goblet high. "To peace!"

The hall exploded into a cacophony of shouting, many variations of "to Ylisse!" and Chrom or Emmeryn. Said prince managed a tight smile: Robin noticed how he, in his nervousness, had cracked his glass, his dark sleeves hiding the rivulets of wine that dripped down his wrist and onto his golden trencher.

As he wiped himself hurriedly, the hall was cleared and the guests moved into a set of large drawing rooms to dance, gossip, gamble or any combination of the three. Attendants wove between the guests to offer mead, more wine, and cookies. Robin was sad when the spicy-sweet taste of Plegian grapes danced about her tongue as she accepted another glass.

Gods' wounds! Drunkenness is the fastest way to a loose tongue, you silly girl! Get a grip.

She felt a bit awkward standing around with the councillors and other ambassadors, but it seemed as though they were to remain together for this part of the night as well.

Chrom wasn't helping matters by constantly looking throughout the room and being distracted in the conversation.

"If I may, I would like to have the pleasure of sharing this," Ghislain du Berry, the man representing Rosanne, sniffed primly as one of his footmen retrieved an expensive looking bottle for him.

Basilio perked up instantly. "Oh, is that a '39? Great year for the grapes."

"Indeed it was," the noble smoothed his cravat as tall goblets were poured for them.

Robin snuffled uncertainly at the rim, uncomfortable with being plied with more alcohol when all she wanted to do was sleep. "I'm sorry…I'm not familiar with this."

"It's champagne," Pheros, the Valmese envoy, explained gently.

"Oh," Robin said.

She took a small sip of the pale beverage and frowned slightly.

"Yes?" du Berry pressed, somewhat anxious that she looked like only one who wasn't enjoying it.

"It's quite delicious," she muttered. "But…"

"But what?"

"It's too…bubbly."

Basilio and a flame haired councillor burst into drunken guffaws, while du Berry spluttered indignantly. All Robin could manage was a tired shrug before, thankfully, Chrom swooped in to her rescue.

"I think he's had enough for the day," his diplomatic tone smoothed over ruffled feathers as he handed her glass to Basilio. "And he's had a trying past weeks. It would be for the best if he heads back to his quarters."

"I'm not a child," Robin grumbled under her breath. She didn't protest, however, and was clearheaded enough to manage appropriatethank yousandgood eveningsto the present company before she shuffled off to her rooms.

She was almost halfway there when, to her surprise, Chrom was jogging to her side. He was slightly sweaty and flushed, but the shine to his eyes showed that he wasn't as absentminded as before, at least.

"That went well," he started, waving congenially to the men and women assigned to care for the night's torches.

She grunted noncommittally in reply and they fell into a companionable silence as they walked.

"It was enjoyable," she finally remarked, as they reached the blue door and the guards assigned to her knocked to let the servants know of her arrival. "I'm sorry I had to cut it short."

"No need for that," he gestured airily, as her ladies drew her another bath and prepared the warming pans. His gaze searched her own, slight concern betraying him. For a moment, it looked as though he wanted to add something, but he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head and settled instead for holding her hands.

"We owe a lot to your presence," his voice had gone suddenly low, "and it means a great deal to us to have you here."

"I'm surprised you'd have me at all," her reply was equally hushed, and she wondered why they were speaking as though they were exchanging secrets. It was a nice feeling though, to share a semblance of confidentiality. "I hope that me being here will at least fix some things…and mean something better for us."

"For us," the prince echoed, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips. Robin didn't know if it was the alcohol or something else, but the warmth that suffused her at the sight was pleasant and soft. At that moment, his trustworthiness had completely solidified into something tangible and strong.

He suddenly looked a bit self-conscious and drew back. Robin was a little disappointed, but kept to herself as the prince patted her clumsily.

"I do hope you get a good night's rest. We rise before dawn, and the day will be long."

"I'll keep that in mind," her legs shifted tiredly. "I hope you'll sleep well too."

He rubbed the back of his head stiffly, and they remained standing in the doorframe for a while until Chrom bid her goodbye and left. Her guards were entertained by the whole exchange, but she paid them little mind as she watched Chrom's figure disappear into the hallway.

She wanted to protest against another bath on the basis of using up too much water, but the wonderful heat loosened her aching muscles and let her relax enough to mull over the day's events. She wrapped her chest in several thin washcloths under the provided nightgown, and realised she had taken quite a while when she returned to see her attendants already asleep on their cots.

That's good. It gives me enough time to write.

Robin pulled out fresh sheets of parchment from the desk and carefully lit a small candle; even though the hearth was burning too much darkness was cast over her little nook. She wet her quill with a satisfactory amount of ink and began to scratch away:

Aversa

You must be worried sick by now, but I hope it pleases you to know that we've made it safely to Ylisse. The bad news is that by "we" I mean our sea captain and myself – Robin.

We lost part of the crew by Ylisse's southern coast, Daraen included. I beg to the gods in the hopes that he is still alive, but I'm not deluding myself into thinking that he had much of a chance. I'll be sending Gregor, the captain, to oversee a search party. He should make good time to the border. Send whomever else you see fit to him.

I need my clothes, my books, and my tools – see that enough of Daraen's things are mixed in to throw off suspicion. A foreign court may excuse the custom of loose clothing, but never using fitted trousers here is sure to raise questions. Have the caravan start moving, and explain to them that under no circ*mstance are they to discuss this development at any stop or even once they arrive. Any question is to be directed to me or amongst them.

She rubbed her eyes and watched the candle gutter with her exhale.

More to come soon enough. Please write back quickly.

Robin.

Pinching a glob of bright green wax, she melted it with the candle and used the stamp the castle provided, as well as her ring, to seal it in an envelope. She then conjured a small red spark on her fingertip and set it ablaze, knowing that the spell would see it safely in Aversa's hands. The sorceress had refused to teach her the rest of the incantation, stressing that it was to be used only as a private line between them.

Robin knew part of the reason was borne from her irritating sense of pride in casting, and she could think of many situations that could have been avoided had she known the entirety of the spell too. Nonetheless, Aversa would reply soon enough, and having a secret and impenetrable form of contact was merely an added layer of insurance.

As she settled into the warm mattress, her thoughts drifted back to Chrom, Lissa and the banquet. The food and drink rested pleasantly in her belly, and the pair had left an impression of friendliness and warmth. She could trust them.

But then the whispers, the pointing, Falstaff, her very circ*mstances, soured her thoughts. The insidious voice inside her head murmured about assassins and threats around every corner.

Never Chrom and Lissa, she protested.Not them. They were honest. They were kind.

Oh, but you can get attached, it hissed back.You will get attached and you won't be able to protect them from others who would use them against you. You can pretend that you can make friends, but they will betray you and scorn you like any other.

They can still hurt you.

Her mind now swimming in paranoia, she went to sleep feeling very lonely, uncertain and sorry for herself.

Robin missed Daraen terribly.

Elsewhere in the castle, another young maiden was in distress as well.

Her reasons were, however, a cause of annoyance for the Lady Margaret.

"I swear, I left them right there!" Luella bawled, ignoring her colleagues' attempts to soothe her. "I counted, and I checked that there were exactly three more in the box!"

"Dear, no one will mind if a few bandages are missing," the matron growled, her patience having run out a while ago. She wanted to go to sleep, but of course, there was a problem to be found and Luella in tears for it. "We can always replace them."

"B-b-but we were supposed to ration them but I'm stupid and useless and I can't do anything right and they're not there! A-a-and it's all m-my faauuuulllltttt!" the girl wailed. The few patients that were sleeping in the dormitory began to wake with howls of complaint, and little Thomas, who had been put to bed several hours ago, toddled in with his very cross-looking mother crying about the noise.

Margaret sighed harshly through her nose, her eye rolling hard. The nurse nearest to her recognised the look and fetched her a hot tot of whiskey.

"Two weeks on the job," she grumbled, downing the alcohol in one go.

Chapter 3: Sides and Heart

Chapter Text

Basilio was enjoying himself thoroughly. The food was excellent, the wine flowed freely, the present company made for excellent conversation (and was easy on the eyes too), and he had made it through the night without vomiting once.

Well, the last bit was a lie: he had done it discreetly in one of the large flower pots spaced around the room and he made sure to disguise it with a few strategically placed leaves. And besides, the only who had seen him was that batty old marchioness, and she always looked as though she was smelling something unpleasant.

Pocketing his winnings from his last match of tarocchi, he returned to the ambassador’s group with a jaunty stride, only to find that they were still talking about the young Plegian.

“He seems rather lost.” Ó Fearghail, the shrivelled old Minister of Foreign Affairs, spoke with his dry, reedy voice.

“His table manners were absolutely disgraceful,” du Berry sniffed. Apparently, he had still not gotten over the fact that his country’s best export product did not garner the usual fawning reaction.

“Are you sure he’s come of age? He looks rather..out of place.”

“If anything, his age should be the least of our troubles—there are guards posted at his door, correct?”

“That’s enough,” Chrom snapped, the alcohol and genuine anger colouring his face in a bright flush as he silenced the speakers with a glare.

“I don’t care if you don’t like him, I care that as my men you are civil enough to act like my councillors instead of—of—a bunch of baboons,” he finished lamely, downing the last of his glass. “And if this kind of behaviour continues at the summit, then you can be sure that a demotion is in the works.”

“My apologies, milord.” Valentine, the man who mentioned the guards said, not sounding sorry at all.

The group stood in a chilly silence, with the foreigners examining them with a sort of benign detachment.

Well, not Basilio, at least. He knew that Chrom was the sort of person who still had schoolyard fantasies of everyone getting along, and conflict distressed him easily.

The time spent with Daraen would test Chrom’s patience and prove who exactly among his councilmen would resist his attempts to unify them in pursuit of the common goal of peace; difficult was an understatement. Had it been a lesser lord, Basilio would have laughed in his face. Except this was Chrom being earnest as usual, and instead, he felt pity.

“It is getting a bit late for my tastes,” Duke Falstaff interjected with his usual smoothness. “And I do believe that we’ve an early rising tomorrow. Gentlemen,” he offered the assembly a polite bow. “Milord. I bid you all a pleasant sleep, and I look forward to a productive first day.”

There were a few half-hearted replies as they bade their good nights and took their leave. Valentine muttered something about it being past his daughter’s bedtime anyways, and Chrom gave them all tight, courteous smiles as he clasped their hands and saw them off.

“I’d turn in too, if I were you.” Urquhart, Chrom’s general and Minister of War, thumped Basilio on his back, his round face as red as his wild hair. “We rise before dawn, and you know how the grounds get this time of year.”

“Nonsense! I’ve done fine on a few winks, and I’d rather go back to the tables for some more fun,” Basilio grinned.

Urquhart shrugged but smiled in response. “Suit yourself! Oh, and one more thing,” he turned to face the khan, much more serious this time. “Don’t keep Sully up any later than she needs to be.”

“Never figured that the Bull actually sings like a canary,” Basilio muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. I promise to behave myself.” Basilio began to slur slightly, and the general rolled his eyes before he set off with a wave.

The khan started back to the card tables, narrowly missing a servant girl with a wine ewer before Chrom caught up with him and cleared his throat loudly, his previous inattention and irritation forgotten.

“I...hope I’m not bothering you with this…” he murmured, not quite able to meet the older man’s eyes.

Basilio, sighing now that he realised he wasn’t going to sneak in another match, mustered up all the composure he could manage in his inebriated state. “It’s not me you’d be bothering...” he paused. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather see her yourself? There’s no harm in it. And if I do say so myself, it would be more honest if you did. She prefers that.”

Chrom fidgeted under his gaze, hot and sweaty and pink, and shyly revealed the beautiful necklace he had hidden in his pocket: diamonds and rosy quartz crowded around a lovely gold chain and glimmered warmly in the torchlight.

“I—I know that—yet I have the impression that she’d rather not see me, at least not now. And—and if she wills it so, then I will keep my distance for as long as she likes.”

Another beat. Basilio was sorely tempted by the sounds of laughter and the clink of coins by the terrace.

“Chrom…”

“Look—can you just give it to her? Please?”

Basilio heaved another sigh. “You’re much too old for these schoolyard games, milord,” he drawled, his previous cheekiness returning as he pocketed the chain.

Chrom laughed and rubbed his head sheepishly, entirely unbecoming for his station. He lingered in an awkward silence before taking his leave. “I better check on Daraen...he seemed out of sorts, and I wouldn’t want him getting lost in that state.”

“You’re awfully preoccupied with him considering you’ve known him for less than a day.”

“W-well, I am his host.”

“You’re not mine too?”

“You of all people don’t need a guide. Besides, you’re a grown man!” Chrom laughed. “Not that he isn’t —you know what? I’ll just leave now. Get some rest Basilio,” he shook hands and left as unobtrusively as he could. It would not do to end the merrymaking for the rest of the castle just yet.

Except for me , Basilio thought. You can be a right old stick-in-the-mud when you put your mind to it, boy.

What looked like an inky black shadow peeled itself off a well hidden corner and skulked over to him with an air of disapproval.

He groaned aloud. “You too, Lon’qu?”

“We have a summit tomorrow, not some get together for idle chit-chat.” Lon’qu scowled severely. Basilio did not think his frown could descend any further, even with his usually sour attitude. “I am not a childminder.”

“And yet you do a fine enough job of sounding like one.”

“I am not letting you make a fool out of us when they find you asleep and wine sodden instead of filling your seat.”

“And you won’t, because,” he paused to hail a servant and pluck a fresh goblet from her tray, “I’m a grown man and I don’t need fussing over. Whatever happened to being my right hand?”

Lon’qu snatched the glass away angrily. “You promised Olivia.”

The words deflated the ambassador’s co*ckiness instantly; though he grumbled, he set the wine on the tray of another passing servant and both men started for the terrace.

“Besides,” Lon’qu said after the moment of quiet, “at this point a childminder would be better suited for this job.”

“Now you’re just being pedantic.”

Basilio admired the night scenery as they strolled away from the main keep. The sound of lutes and harps filled the air along with the merriment of courtiers bowling on a well kept lawn, and young ladies danced around flowering bushes that glowed with pretty fairy lights. Farther ahead, wilder revelers (a great deal of Feroxi among them, he noticed proudly) challenged each other to feats of strength and screeched out bawdy songs at whoever came near. The tune of the night was about alley cats and the men who chased them.

“What a dreadful strain on the ears! I had hoped that awful thing would have lost popularity by now.”

The duo looked to the source of the haughty sniff, and found him managing a light jog to reach them. Virion had never been one for rousing pub ditties, and while Basilio did not hold it against him, he also never disclosed that he enjoyed listening to them together for the sheer hilarity the duke’s running commentary provoked.

Tonight, his attire consisted of a flashy waistcoat in kingfisher blue, complemented by an enormous, snowy white ruff; a soft velvet cap trimmed in silver and topped by a glossy feather completed the birdlike impression, but then again, his long, thin nose and stilt-like legs already merited that comparison.

“The night’s yet young, friend; I’m sure there’ll be more to come! You have too high a bar for songs.”

“I would hardly call those drunken utterances songs, much less music!” Virion scoffed.

“You’ll absolutely hate staying at our quarters then: we brought our own musicians!” Basilio laughed.

True to his word, the songs grew louder and rowdier as they approached the ward housing the visitors’ apartments. The pretty gray stonework of the villa had been defaced with sashes slung over the building as though it were a maypole. Drunken Feroxi men dabbled in the fountain (one whom had his head deep inside the water and his bare arse hanging out), and the women alternated between drinking copiously and vomiting in the bushes, rinsing and repeating dutifully.

“I say!” Virion was scandalised.

The sounds from inside the apartments were not much better, as mad hooting was punctuated by the sound of expensive décor crashing and a horribly tuned lute. A familiar, rough voice was heard ordering unseen people in vain, and before Basilio even knocked, the door was flung open to reveal a shock of wild red curls and eyes even redder with anger.

“For gods’ sakes,” the woman growled. “You’ve got to stop coming in so damn late. Olivia’s been up my arse the entire night over you.”

Basilio shrugged carelessly. “Let her except, before excepted.”

“Don’t start getting all philosophical on me. You’re a guest and you should know the difference between being down for a party and being that guy who’s too damn wild for one. You’ve got to confine yourself to some damn limits for a change.”

“Confine? The only thing I’m confining myself to is the clothes I’m wearing, and they’re good enough to drink in any night I please. And if my boots aren’t, then they can hang themselves by their own laces!”

“All that drinking is gonna fry your liver, but your brain’s already long gone,” she spat. “And Olivia’ll yell at me for it.” She paused her spiel long enough for a cursory acknowledgement of Lon’qu, and her eyes stopped critically on Virion. “Who’s the new guy?”

“My dear,” Basilio bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “I present to you the noblest Duke Virion.” Said duke tipped his hat and bent low at the waist in an even more overdrawn display, and the woman’s lip furrowed, unamused. “Rightful ruler of the Duchy of Rosanne.”

“So this is the guy you’ve been telling Olivia about. Looks like a damn fop.”

“Why, he’s as tall as any Ylissean or Feroxi. He speaks at least four different languages, plays the viol-de-gamboys as good as any virtuoso, and is hands down the best archer I’ve ever seen. A prodigy born with all of nature’s best gifts,” Basilio boasted and slapped Virion on the back. In a lower voice, but still loud enough to be heard by those in the fountain, he said “and he earns 3,000 ducats a year .”

“I appreciate such kind words, Khan, but I would rather not discuss my salary—” Virion began.

“So he’s a fool and a fop, height notwithstanding,” she cut in. “A real natural born prodigal. I’ve heard about this guy. If he didn’t have the coward’s gift for running he would’ve died a long time ago.”

“Who said that? Whoever told you all that is a lying piece of garbage,” Basilio slurred and belched.

“Same people who says he takes you out drinking every night.” She did not even attempt to disguise her disapproval.

Basilio guffawed and burped again. He attempted to sling his prætor’s toga over his shoulder but ended up flinging the purple fabric uselessly into his face. “We only toast to my beautiful niece. And I’ll drink to her as long as there’s booze and good men in this world. And Duke Virion,” he hiccupped, “is a very good man.”

“Sure he is,” the woman replied drily.

“I say,” Virion finally had a turn to speak. “That, while your words cut deep as to wound, it would be foolhardy of me to not appreciate the honesty of a fair shrew.” He bowed again.

She wrinkled her nose derisively. “Sully.”

Virion looked askance to his waistcoat, and turned his questioning gaze back to her. “My wardrobe is sullied, you say?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes impatiently. “The name’s Sully, Your Grace.”

“My niece’s maid,” Basilio smirked.

“Temporary,” Sully warned with a snarl.

“Miss Sully—” Virion tried again.

“Lady.”

“Lady Sully, it is my deepest honour to make your acquaintance.” The duke made to kiss her hand but she snatched it back at the last moment. Virion gave her a look that attempted to communicate his confusion; very few women had refused him in such a manner before.

“Look, Your Grace, ” Sully drawled, unimpressed. “I usually don’t believe in judging a book by its cover or whatever dumb court gossip passes by. But a girl’s entitled to her opinions, and with what I’ve seen, your hand’s better suited for holding a beer than it is holding mine.”

“I shall have you know that I am making a sincere attempt to stay dry, milady.”

“Not as dried-up as you already are.”

“Is...that supposed to be a joke of sorts?”

“Yeah, I’ve got all sorts of jokes up my sleeve,” Sully said dismissively. “But once I close this door, it’ll be on the biggest joke of all.”

She slammed the door in their faces. The entire courtyard had gone silent listening attentively to the exchange, and the man who was bottoms-up in the fountain yelled “I’ve never seen someone put down that hard, bruv,” before popping his head back in the water. Basilio snorted drunkenly before Lon’qu elbowed him hard in the ribs, and cleared his throat apologetically.

“You alright, man? Perhaps a drink, to soothe the burn of her harsh words.”

“It is quite alright, Basilio,” Virion had a far-off look in his eyes. “I daresay that spirits shall hardly aid my tongue, not when hers is so sharp and rapier-fast. As is her wit.” He smoothed his ruff down absentmindedly. “Perhaps I should attempt to drink less. And eat less beef, if I am to attempt to keep up with her pace. Or the lady Olivia’s.”

“That’s nonsense. Rich food for a rich man makes as much sense as anything else. Sully’s always been difficult,” the khan assured him. “You just have to be quick on the draw—sharpen up on your craft if you ever hope to sheathe your sword properly,” Basilio waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“I am an archer,” Virion stated, perplexed.

“Oh, for the love of—you know what? The hour is late. I think it’s best if we all just call it a night.” The muscular man scrubbed his face with an exasperated sigh. He clapped Virion’s back. “Sleep well, friend. We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.”

“I bid you both adieu.” Virion tipped his hat to the pair and took his leave amidst the inebriated calls of the Feroxi who had resumed their merrymaking. Keeping watch until the duke disappeared from view, Lon’qu opened the door wordlessly on the chaotic scene that greeted them within. Beer and wine had been spilled and mixed onto the expensive hardwood floor of the foyer. The decorated paneling was defaced by axes in a forgotten game of darts. Portraits of Ylissean nobility long since dead hung askew on the wall, and Sully was struggling to wrestle back an enormous vase from the arms of a burly Feroxi courtier.

“I thought you hated that vase,” the khan was supremely amused at her predicament.

“It ain’t my heirloom to break,” Sully grunted. “Or hers .” As soon as she won back the ugly piece of pottery, she was dashing off again to try and establish order over the raucous partygoers. “That’s mahogany, you jackass!” they heard her yell. The woman who had been tugging with her over the vase picked it up from where Sully had placed it and resumed her game of catch with two others in tow.

Sudden movement from above drew Lon’qu’s eyes up to the ceiling. The man perched lazily in the arms of the chandelier slid down cat-like to the floor. His ginger hair and sly face, however, revealed someone far foxier in outlook.

“Evening, Gaius,” Basilio greeted casually.

“Olivia’s been waiting for you.” Gaius was short and quick to the point.

The taller of the two groaned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“She’s been crying the whole night.”

The simple seriousness of the statement silenced Basilio. It was not something he could excuse himself from.

He sighed. As draining as it was to comfort her during her frequent depressive spells, he was her uncle, after all. He could not leave her in her time of need.

“I’ll be up now.” he said tiredly.

The trio climbed the stairs to the third floor, where the ladies’ apartments were housed. Slipping on spilt liquor was a very real hazard that prompted them to keep their hands on the guardrail at all times. As they neared the top, Sully reached them in record time to scold Gaius.

“Where the hell have you been this whole night?” she hissed angrily into his ear. “It would’ve been real nice to have some help on your end.”

“I’ve been off fighting in the war,” Gaius smirked.

“Ha ha, real funny, Chuckles.”

“It’s my job to be funny, so you could say my work for the day is done.”

She punched him in the arm and he rubbed it with a laugh. “You’re gonna get yourself killed mouthing off one of these days. Maybe I’ll do it. Gods know I’d be doing everyone a favour.”

“Ah, but if you kill me,” the ginger prodded her with utmost relish, “then you won’t be able to scold me for not helping you do your job. And it’ll mean less help babysitting Feroxi drunkards.”

Sully rubbed her temple. “I don’t know why I even bother,” she griped.

Entering the hall where Olivia’s quarters were located took them farther away from the noise. The space was completely dark save for the low-burning sconces set into the wall, with only the eyes from many portraits present and judging them silently. As Basilio reached for the door to his niece’s apartments, the knob opened, with as much reproach as an inanimate object could possess, and Olivia’s steward stepped out with the light of his candelabra illuminating the entrance.

Excellus was, plainly put, a very ugly man. Most had initially attributed his unattractiveness to his being a eunuch. Upon becoming better acquainted with him, his looks were the least of their concerns, inasmuch as it was his awful personality that twisted his broad lips into a perpetual leer. He was nothing short of a Puritan: even the most harmless of pastimes prompted unending castigations on his part. The servants who worked under him lived in terror, fearfully scrubbing and wiping at every available surface lest he come their way with fire on his tongue. Sully and Gaius eagerly awaited the day when he would finally be sent packing and leave everyone to live in peace.

But his housekeeping skills were impeccable, his management of correspondence and money nothing short of a miracle of efficiency; and Basilio owed him a debt, having saved Olivia from certain death. Fantasies of booting him out the door with their own feet would have to wait.

Even so, it did not stop the pair from tormenting him ceaselessly.

“And just where,” his wet toad lips opened in accusation, “have you two been? My lady has been beside herself the entire day...one would think her lady-in-waiting and a jester should be at hand to comfort her when summoned.”

Sully scoffed. “I’ve been downstairs trying to rope in a bunch of baboons. Fat load of good it did trying to call you, so if anything’s been broken by now, I’m not cleaning it up.”

Excellus spluttered indignantly. “That may be, but this one, ” he jabbed his finger at Gaius, “has no excuse.”

“Sure I do,” the ginger grinned. “My services were required elsewhere. I wouldn’t be so rude as to deny our guests entertainment. After all,” he held his finger up to his face in a mockery of Excellus. “I am the jester.”

“B-but your ladyship’s needs override those of lesser folk.” The steward’s face was steadily darkening into a shade of puce the angrier he became.

“Nobody sent for me on her end. Ergo, I had no reason to be up here. Unless you want someone to be on call 24/7, you better just get a dog and whistle for it.”

“That’s enough. ” A soft voice floated floated plaintively to their ears from the dark recesses of their lady’s chambers. “Everyone should just go away. I’ve no want for company now.”

“But you heard Toady here, Babe,” Gaius spoke back into the room from over Excellus’ shoulder. “I should be here to wait on you hand and foot. You sound like you need some cheering up...so I’m comin’ in whether you like it or not.”

“Go away.”

A single ray of light beamed into the lonely sitting room, with not a soul in sight. Lon’qu remained outside with Excellus. Gaius followed the sound of quiet sniffling to the solitary bedroom and invited himself in, paying no mind to the mountains of discarded silks and upended jewellery boxes strewn across the floor as he made his way to the bed, Basilio and Sully close behind.

Olivia lay on her side facing the window. Her long, gorgeous pink curls fanned over her pillow, echoing her peaches and cream complexion. Her dancer’s legs were tangled carelessly within her pristine sheets, with the only acknowledgement of the newcomers being a subtle curl of her toes. Even in the throes of sadness, her loveliness was undeniable.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Gaius kneeled to her eye level and set his hand on her back. She rolled to her other side in response. “You missed the banquet.”

“How sad,” she muttered.

“It was,” Basilio asserted. “A lot of people were asking for you. And I even came back with a gift.” He retrieved the golden chain from his pocket and set it into her open palm, closing her fingers over it gently. “Pretty, isn’t it? I think it suits your colour.”

She did not even attempt to look at it. “It’s from Chrom.”

Basilio paused. “...Yes,” he admitted after an awkward silence.

“Then I don’t want it.” Olivia flung it uncaringly off her bed. Sully picked it up dutifully and arranged it on the vanity along with a couple of other things off the floor. “If he wants to bribe me, then he should stop sending sending lackeys on his behalf and come do it himself.”

“Livvy.” the khan sat at her bedside and began to rub his niece’s back in slow, soothing strokes. “The boy tries. You can’t fault him for being shy...gods know you’re not such a social butterfly yourself.”

“And we all know Chrom isn’t the problem,” Sully joined in.

“No, but he adds to it.” Olivia’s eyes squeezed out more tears that dripped silently down her face, raw from hours of weeping. “Please...leave me be. I want to suffer in peace.”

“Aw, that’s being too dramatic, even for you, Babe.” Gaius remarked.

“Oh, that’s what you call helping? You—you’re one of the worst offenders.” She sniffled loudly and her body began to tremble with sobs.

“Offending people is my job, sweetheart.” Gaius explained. “But right now I’m just pointing out that you’re being a right fool for crying at a time like this.”

“I'mthe fool? Your job is to be the fool...not barging in and making me feel worse…”

“Sure, you are a fool. Being sad at a banquet is something fools do.”

“So I’m supposed to just forget my problems for a few hours to make merry?”

Gaius nodded. “That’s what poor saps like your uncle do. He’s an expert.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes, unamused, and drew in a shuddering breath. “How clever of you.”

“Thanks, Babe.”

“You are completely missing the point.” She covered her face with a slim hand, hiding herself from view as more tears drew tracks onto her flushed cheeks. “Dressing up, drinking wine, dancing the night away...that was for the days when Sebastian was still here with me. Now...now none of that matters. Those are memories I shared with him, of him...everything just reminds me that he’s gone.”

“Look, you’re not the only one who’s lost somebody—” Sully began. Gaius help his palm up in a silent bid for him to continue. Sully glared at him but gave her permission.

“I get it. You’re still mourning. A lot of us are, too.” Sully scoffed at the words taken right out of her mouth, Gaius ignoring her. “But lemme tell ya something, Babe. Only time I’ve ever seen someone cry so bitterly was when they lost a bet or when they know someone’s been sentenced to eternal damnation.”

“Sebastian is not damned!” Olivia shot upright in bed, her curls in a wild disarray, offended at the very suggestion. “Sebastian was an honourable man. Sebastian gave his life for Regna Ferox and fought at the front lines. He was kind and noble and loved his family and friends.”

Gaius was pleased at her response. “Since he was such a shining example to us lower folk, where would you say he is now?”

Olivia was growing frustrated. “Why, in the heavens of course. The Sky Father promises eternal glory for those who die in combat, and bliss in the afterlife.”

“Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me. If you say he’s so fine up there, why’re you worrying over him? Seems like he doesn’t need it.”

There was no escaping the ginger’s simple logic. The lady’s mouth opened in a small, surprised ‘o’, unable to formulate a response. She did not usually like conceding arguments to the jester; on this rare occasion, a tiny, wobbly smile upturned her grief-stricken lips.

“You’re right,” she finally admitted. Basilio breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I...I may not be ready just yet to feel better, but...you’re right.” She bowed her head respectfully and held her clasped hands in her lap. “At the very least, I can sleep easier at night, knowing that his afterlife is a happy one.” Sully gave Gaius a thumbs up from behind Olivia.

“Atta girl.”The jester pulled the sheets snugly under her chin and patted her back. “It’s been a long day for everyone, so I think that it’s for the best if we turn in for some shuteye. Sound good?” Olivia nodded and lay back on the mattress.

Sully, Basilio, and Gaius made their way out of her bedroom. Her uncle stood behind in the doorway for a few last words. “Sleep well, princess. You’ve a whole life ahead of you...Sebastian wouldn’t want you punishing yourself over him. So if not for yourself, then try and live a little in his memory. We’re here for you, too.”

They left her with a modicum of peace somewhat restored in their villa. Lon’qu had been waiting patiently with Excellus keeping an ear stuck to the door; the red-haired pair shared an open smirk at his expense.

“Excellus?” Sully called to him. “You better clean her room up and have it ready for the day. The maids are already asleep and Gaius I have have to go downstairs to lasso up some baboons.”

Chapter 4: Suit the Action to the Word

Chapter Text

Robin’s habit of waking much too early roused her from her uneasy sleep. The servants were still resting within their pallets, but freshly laundered clothes were laid out for her, and her Grimleal robes, still smelling faintly of soap, hung neatly within the dresser. Robin chose a simple chemise and schaube for the day, making sure to straighten out her bedsheets before silently slipping out.

Her guards, Karel and Rood, woke at the sound of the door, following her wordlessly to the castle gates. Gregor was already awake and waiting; they spoke briefly, before sharing a quiet embrace and secretly passing their letters to one another with the unspoken promise to read them later. Watching him ride away into the early morning mist left her heart heavy and leaden with loneliness.

And so she was directed to the main hall for breakfast in that state, staring glumly at her bacon and eggs—not even the extra rashers the cook gave her were any comfort. Chrom was a sympathetic presence, attempting to engage her in conversation, asking of how she slept, was the bed to her liking, were her clothes a proper fit. Robin appreciated his words, she really did, but she could only manage a few grunts of acknowledgement and shakes of her head as she tried to choke down her food. The suspicious glances of his councillors, and the other ambassadors and few others who littered the hall, did nothing to ameliorate the anxiety gnawing at her appetite through the pit of her stomach.

Upon concluding breakfast, the morning bell rang to signal the beginning of the day’s activities. Chrom and the assorted company filed in silence out of the hall and into an anteroom connecting the extensive gardens to the castle.

Robin much preferred the arrangement of Chon’sin’s palace gardens, with their cool maple lanes, gleaming river rocks arranged around larger cairns, and peach trees dropping their soft petals into ponds as an audience watched from lacquered bridges. Still, Ylisstol’s castle was not lacking beauty nor grace: the healthy green lawn was awash in dew as heavy mist blanketed the grounds. Neatly trimmed hedges enclosed a maze, and oaks and bushes with young buds guarded the perimeter of the inner walls. Stately beds of irises, the national flower, were arranged in plots of blue and yellow blooms that seemed to bow in deference to them as they walked by in single file.

Robin remembered the Ylissean myth of Naga bringing life to their land with her tears. The seedlings fed by her water grew into irises, and in the Old Tongue, their country was named after the colourful flower. Their branding too was of an iris, drawn in a stylised manner such as to match the image of a torch bearing Naga’s Fire. Chrom’s Mark seemed to burn a brighter blue as she stared back at it on his bared arm.

The small mausoleum was a clean marbled white. It was guarded by the statues of King Marth and Queen Caeda with their weapons held aloft; she with her lance, he with a past version of the Falchion, whose blade now rested in the red scabbard that hung on Chrom’s hip. At the base, in the faded script of the Old Tongue, it read ‘ For the Good and Glory of All.’

The prince spoke with the custodian keeping watch over the entrance, a war monk who Robin realised was actually a rather delicate looking man rather than a woman. The pale sunny yellow of his order’s garb was quite the contrast to the gray dawn rising. Chrom shared a few words, thanked him, and ducked under the low overhang of the door. It seemed as though they were not supposed to follow, or at least, not yet. The few moments shared between the envoys outside were tense and uncomfortable.

“Do you think he’d actually try one of his little bloodmouth rituals in there?” the man named Valentine whispered loudly.

“It would be the height of disrespect to do so,” was the scandalised reply of Minister Oswynn.

Robin’s ears burned red. She knew she was disliked. She did not come expecting to be welcomed with open arms. And yet, for them to air their grievances in such a public fashion…

Minister Eschmann said nothing but placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Basilio flanked her left and began discussing inanities such as the poor morning weather. Robin allowed her raised hackles to lower, not entirely at ease, yet somewhat relieved; she could count at least a few allies on her side. The khan was a powerful man who was not easily given to quarrelling and was more than well connected, while Eschmann was a minister of the crown and thus able to exert considerable influence along with his high birth. Basilio, however, could count on his foreign status to protect him from the machinations of Ylissean courtiers...Eschmann could not.

When will they turn on him? she wondered.

They’re grown men. Worry more about yourself, the snide voice at the back of her head growled.

“You may now proceed,” the monk said.

The interior of the mausoleum was small, and permeated with an air of antiquity and deep sadness. Down the steps, down below the earth, rested the crypt of King Marth and Queen Caeda, the hands of their tombs joined together even in death. Robin knew that there was a separate burial ground for monarchs outside Ylisstol, yet supposed that this tiny place housed only the most venerable, judging by the fact that Marth was far from the first ruler of his house. However serene the faces on the marble shielding their remains, the slack expressions made a disquieted frisson run down her spine. Like they were somehow able to watch her through their closed eyes.

They continued further below ground, silent visitors to the few other men and women mouldering inside their vaults. The place had been built in such a way that sunlight from the oculus in the domed roof was allowed to penetrate the space with a blinding ray of light, passing through a hole in the floor to keep illuminating whatever it could reach. The stairs leading them down each successive level curved around the wall and the tombs with no rail to keep anyone from falling—the trip was made with everyone sticking closely to the wall.

At the very lowest level was Chrom, head bowed, hands clasped over the Falchion’s pommel as he knelt before Emmeryn’s grave. Great care had been taken in shaping her effigy. Her curls were arranged in a halo around her face, her Brand delicately carved into her forehead. With her hands held loosely over her heart and a peaceful smile playing about her lips, it was almost as though she was merely asleep, with the figure of her loyal knight Phila resting at her feet.

It was a sight that was uncomfortably underscored by how badly damaged their bodies were upon returning to Ylisse.

The monk from outside had now joined them and supplied censers for himself and Kospa to light. Sweet incense filled the room as the assembled company tried to make way for the clergymen to circle the effigy in prayer, cramped as it was with so many people in such a tiny space. When they were done everyone came forward to pay their respects and ask her to bless them and the proceedings: first the Ylisseans, then the Feroxi, then the Rosannois and Valmese.

As the only Plegian, all eyes then turned to her.

Nerve wracking? Yes. Everything and anything she would do was up for scrutiny and criticism. But there was protocol, there were customs and conventions to follow. No matter how ill they would speak of her, Robin would pay Emmeryn her dues and honour her.

She slid down to one knee and arranged her schaube around her carefully; Robin placed a hand on Emmeryn’s marble foot, and wryly noted that the stone almost matched her skin colour. Taking a deep breath, she recited the familiar words:

“Blessed be the Six-Eyes, may He continue to See beyond us for as long as our blood walks this earth.”

Shocked susurrations swept throughout the crypt at the mention of Grima. She forced herself to ignore them.

“May He See this soul and witness it, May He shelter it within the cover of His wings so that it may safely ascend to those Exalted spheres beyond the boundary, and be laid to peaceful rest. For this we give our blessings.”

And with all being said and done, Robin brought her thumb to her mouth, pricked it with her sharp teeth, and pressed a little dot of blood to the stone.

The uproar was almost immediate, yet was swiftly put down as Chrom sprang to his feet with a shout. “SILENCE!”

His councillors had the decency to look shamed; however deep their offense towards Grima’s faith ran, it was no excuse to start a brawl upon the grave of their previous exalt, and their indecorous behaviour marked a poor start for the day. Chrom himself was shaking with undisguised rage.

“We give our thanks,” his voice fought to maintain a semblance of control, “for your presence, and for your blessings. We hope that they reach Naga’s and Emmeryn’s ears and they find it fit to smile upon us this day.”

“Hear hear,” was the disgruntled murmur.

“Your Highness,” hierarch Kospa hastened to Chrom’s side.

The monk bade the rest to take their leave as Chrom spoke to the minister. When Robin made to join them, the prince’s arm suddenly shot out and held her hand in a firm grip. She arched her brows but said nothing at his grimace.

“Please leave us,” Chrom asked the clergymen. Robin noticed the monk surreptitiously trying to wipe the spot of blood off Emmeryn’s foot before climbing up the stairs with the hierarch. The cloying scent of incense lingered, and she was reminded that she was alone with the prince and the remains of his sister and her knight.

What an awful start of the day this is turning out to be...

He turned pleading eyes to her. “I’m sorry—”

She stopped him mid sentence. “I’ve a feeling you will be apologising many times over soon. Please...save your breath.”

Her words were not unkind. And yet, Chrom looked as haggard and tired as any man who had not slept in many days. And they were not yet even through with the first day.

After a long silence spent staring into each other’s eyes, he broke contact and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “...I believe they are waiting for us,” he sighed. Chrom slung an arm over Robin’s shoulders as they ascended the marble stairs, feeling increasingly tired with each step they took.

Not yet seated at the negotiating table and already she was at the centre of a dispute. It was going to be a very long day indeed.

The sun, which had risen fully by the time of their exit and burned off the morning mist, briefly blinded them with its brilliance. Frederick was not dressed in the full suit of armour he wore the previous day, yet he shone in livery sporting Chrom’s deep blue colours. The effect was ruined by his scowl upon seeing the pair arm in arm, so Robin gently removed Chrom’s hand from her shoulder. They were surrounded by Pegasus Knights; Ylisse’s company of elite soldiers, traditional guardians of the Exalt since the times of Queen Caeda. Their leader, a stunning redhead Robin recognised from the battlefield, wore the pale blue uniform that previously belonged to Phila.

“Formation, ladies!” she ordered. The knights under her command snapped to attention and formed a circle around the ambassadors. The captain stationed herself at Chrom and Frederick’s side and, with a loud, short whistle, they all began moving forward as a single unit.

The day was late enough in that it meant several courtiers were now out and about, giving their daily rounds throughout the enormous gardens. They (along with several gardeners, servants, and guards) stared openly at the procession as it was led past the fountain, past the flowering bushes planted by the arcade, and into the castle keep. As much as Robin would have liked to examine the gorgeous stone flooring more closely, she was swept up by the pace of the men surrounding her.

Two knights detached themselves to open the massive oak doors; they stayed behind, while the ambassadors were all ushered in along with the knights’ captain, and the doors sealed shut with a loud groan.

And thus the feeling of urgency turned to one of dread.

The council room was a handsomely appointed space dominated by the enormous, darkly stained beechwood table that ran the length of the room. A sumptuous crimson carpet —a kilim of Plegian make, Robin noted— rested underfoot. It echoed the tapestry that depicted Naga and her champions slaying Grima and Medeus and the Plegians that were crushed beneath the weight of the dragons. On the opposite side, a lovingly painted portrait of Emmeryn rested snugly between the wooden paneling.

Robin was sure that the seating arrangements were intentionally prepared so as not to place her next to the other members of Chrom’s cabinet: to her left sat Eschmann, whose round belly poked her elbow every time he breathed; to her right, Basilio and the Feroxi who served under him. Chrom himself sat at the head of the table, with a minister at each side helping him arrange his voluminous blue ermine cape into his chair. With his gold and midnight blue jerkin, golden stole and girdle, and the circlet resting on his Oxford blue hair, he looked every bit the prince that he was.

A few minutes of small talk were shared. Chrom bade everyone to sit down with a bang of his gavel. “Now then,” he cleared his throat. “First is roll call. Cordelia, if you please.”

The Pegasus Knight captain ( Cordelia, Robin reminded herself) produced a long roll of parchment that she passed on dutifully to Chrom, who signed it first in the common script, then with his cursive signature before passing it along counter-clockwise amongst his privy council. Robin was the last to sign, and allowed herself a quick peek at the rows of names before signing it herself:

YLISSE:

Chrom Aidan Murtagh

Anton Kospa

Tobias Falstaff

Sionúir Ó Fearghial

Fabian Trengrouse

Balthair Urquhart

Pherick Oswynn

Daveth Valentine

Harald Eschmann

Frederick Armstrong

REGNA FEROX:

Basilio Antonius Aquilius

Lon’qu

Maor Khalili

Roshea Dianthos

Arian Gonzaga-Foscari

Miloah di Nigris

ROSANNE:

Henri Viaur

Ghislain du Berry

Celice du Berry

Alpine du Berry

Mycen Almstadt

Clive Bertrand

VALM:

Pheros Milen

Egídio Cervantes

Ignatius de Loyola

Farber Hafen

Dalton Fortier-Sachs

Camus Rudolf

Hers was the only Plegian name in the roster. While Robin was not illiterate, reading and writing were not prioritised on the same level as game theory, war simulations, and combat practice; she felt very ashamed of her chicken-scratch signature compared to the fanciful curlicues adorning the rest of the page, particularly from the Rosannois.

She supposed that, judging from what she felt was a checking spell on the parchment, roll call was also a way to root out impostors should they attempt to gain access to them. Frederick was allowed a say in the proceedings given his position as Chrom’s lieutenant general. Odd that, as the only woman in the room, Cordelia’s signature was not present, but Robin realised it was most likely due to her merely acting as a guard. In any case, the amount of wards and muffling spells placed on the room would not be very effective as some would mostly likely discuss the events outside the place anyways.

“Now that’s out of the way then,” Chrom said as the mild hubbub died down. “We can get down to business. The first call to that business, however, would be defining it in the first place. What is that we seek to accomplish beyond a vague idea of peace treaty?” His quill was poised over a clean sheet of parchment. “Any ideas?”

A bearish looking councilman’s arm shot up immediately. “Reconstruction and redevelopment of cropland.”

“Oh, that’s a good one.” Everyone jotted it down in their notes. “Yes, the fields are looking worse for wear...and we still have to decide upon a distribution plan for grain...thank you, Fabian.” The councilman lowered his arm, satisfied. Chrom looked around expectantly. “Anyone else?”

Minister Kospa raised his hand delicately. “I assume general aid and reconstruction efforts will be included?”

“Yes, Hierarch.” Robin placed the first point under the second, making sure to title the latter in a larger font.

A young red haired Rosannois volunteered his opinion. “Port reconstruction? Trade across the sea needs to be resumed should Ylisse be in want of silks and such.”

“I believe that goes under the previous point, son,” du Berry said.

“Oh.”

“If I may,” Falstaff interjected. “The issue of compensation was bound to come up in the discussion...shall it be negotiated as part of general reconstruction? Or even as a separate topic, given its scope.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the assembly. In spite of the luxuries surrounding them and clothing them, finances were a delicate topic, moreso given the unspoken expectation that some ought to pay more than the others. Nevermind the fact that there was little guarantee of transparency in how those funds would be used…or whether even acquiescence to payment would encourage others to demand more.

Or worse: who would stop them from getting what they wanted?

As it was, the Rosannois were eyeing the Valmese cooly. Robin fought the urge to shrink in her seat as Falstaff looked at her from the corner of his eye. Others were not nearly as subtle in their staring.

Chrom was not ignorant to the tense atmosphere. “Duly noted. It shall be revisited once we’ve agreed on the other points of discussion.” Disgruntled murmurs followed to the tune of scratching quills.

“Now that we’ve broached the topic of compensation, I assume that we should also be discussing the application of the law,” du Berry said. “Bandits roaming the land, entire cities that have gone rogue and refuse to submit to authority…”

“Criminals that need to be punished,” Minister Valentine smirked.

Chrom cleared his throat loudly. “Restoration of rule of law to be added to the record, with the mentioned sub points,” he declared tersely. “Any objections?”

“None,” was the unanimous reply. Chrom looked carefully to Robin for a few seconds before turning away. “Any more points to be added before tabling this part of the session?”

Another long silence stretched out uncomfortably.

“Any at all?”

The Chon’sinese man sitting to Basilio’s right raised his hand. “I don’t know if this could be added to the previous point. However, we’ve encountered an unsettling number of Valmese,” the distinctive feeling of hackles being raised made the hairs on Robin’s neck prickle, “who even deny that there is responsibility to be raised on their part.”

“What are you suggesting?” Pheros asked cooly.

“That there should be action taken against evading an issue.” Lon’qu met his gaze head-on.

“And who might these ‘unsettling number of Valmese’ be, since they are of such concern?”

“Merchants. Sailors. The expatriates who populate our port cities to the west. We don’t take kindly to people enjoying the benefits of the state and then turning around to stab us in the back.”

There was a loud screech of chairs being pushed back as the Valmese delegation rose to their feet. “How dare —”

“Wait, wait, if Ferox is prepared to do this, then surely we may be allowed to do the same to the Plegians?” Minister Oswynn wrung his hands and looked to Falstaff forsupport.

Now it was Robin’s turn to feel anger heating her skin. “You—”

“And who is to determine who is to shoulder the blame?” Cervantes, an ambassador with an impressive beard bellowed, despite being a tad unintelligible through his hair. “Are we to place innocent children and families on the same level as a unit of infantry?”

“That is superbly rich, coming from a turncoat such as yourself!” Clive shouted back.

“What of the Plegians?” Oswynn panted hysterically.

The loud crack of the gavel was heard crystal clear over the shouting. The arguing died upon witnessing Chrom and Frederick on their feet: the latter with his lips pressed impossibly thin and his nostrils flaring, dangerously quiet; the former very red in the face and a vein pulsing in his forehead, hummingbird-quick.

“Sit down,” Chrom said.

They all did as asked. Many a man glanced warily at the gavel, whose handle was splintered and broken within Chrom’s grasp.

The prince measured his words and tone carefully. “I can see that we have a sensitive topic on our hands. Now, precisely because accountability should be a goal to strive for, I do not think most would have a problem with including it in the agreement—” he was interrupted briefly by a few protesting ambassadors. Frederick’s glower shut them up. “ However. Should anyone try to abuse it for the sake of settling some personal score or vendetta...then I will personally ensure that the petitioner will be unable to enforce its application.”

Silence.

“Any objections or additions?”

None.

“Good.” Chrom sighed wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I will call a recess. For dinner.” He banged the remains of the gavel on the table and made sure that everyone had taken their notes with them before exiting the room himself.

As they were still sequestered from the rest of the castle’s inhabitants, their meal took place in an adjoining hall reserved exclusively for their use. Judging from the fact that the kitchens had access to it, Robin deduced that they most likely served as a sort of central hub for the castle in addition to the throne room. In Plegia as in Ylisse the largest meal of the day was supper; yet here, she was still baffled as to the custom of organising a meal through courses, and while the country was certainly more amenable to the growth of fresh fruit and vegetables, the rich seemed determined to eat as much meat and dairy as they could muster.

The cook winked at Robin as she cut thick slices of smoked ham for Chrom and the rest, along with little puddings and roasted leeks. The pantler brought them great big loaves of rich white bread, and today most enjoyed cider brought out from the winter barrels to drink, with Robin quickly deciding that she rather liked the taste. She was carefully going over her notes as she munched on her sixth piece of buttered bread and decided to rewrite what she remembered of negotiation charts, if only to have a reference she could consult later.

To summarise: Ylisseans favoured a non-confrontational approach. Brief small talk opened up the business proposal, which was usually couched in vague, coded terms so as not to offend...and to conceal certain intentions. Resistance and deadlocks were usually bypassed by each party wearing each other down through stalling and understatements, after which a recess was declared. Having come to an understanding afterwards, proposals were repackaged in a way that might hold mutual appeal, and points previously agreed upon were restated. Strangely enough, the decisions were made at the following sessions. Robin supposed it was a way to hold others to their words. With a society as clannish and zealously protective of public image as the Ylisseans, she could see why it had developed so.

With the Feroxi, all arguments used to be settled with deciding whoever was best at bashing skulls in. War as a tiebreaker was an increasingly archaic model that was losing favour now that politicians were expected to show up to a negotiating table rather than an arena. However, their approach was straightforward, open, and often blunt. Not to say that Feroxi were incapable of keeping their secrets, but simply that honesty, however crude, was preferred. Confrontation was often deliberately provoked to force people to defend their goals and speaking points.

Now, the Rosannois model was just as verbose, if not more, than the Ylissean one, with the speakers expected to show passion and emotion in support of their stances: language, they said, was just as much an instrument of eloquence as it was reason. Appeals to logic would be expected, as would they be to emotion and the use of plenty of hypotheticals. Thankfully, they did not negotiate in such guarded terms as the Ylisseans: they would expect a conclusion to be reached at the end of a session and they would favour a clear majority of opinion, even if they had to bully others to achieve it.

The Valmese...were a bit of a mystery, to be honest. Her tutors were well travelled, but the subject of Valmese dialogue and etiquette seemingly eluded them. She had hardly come into contact with any before the summit, much less heard that much about them until the war. That, and she had only visited the continent of Valm once; but that was to Chon’sin, and many dynasts were not too keen on being labeled as Valmese.

Thinking of Chon’sin made her heart hurt. It reminded her of peace, of actually having time to be idle and at rest. Of Say’ri. Of the last time she shared happiness with Daraen before the storm.

“Are you alright?”

Chrom’s voice jolted Robin out of her moping and almost made her drop her bread in surprise. “I—I’m f-f-fine.” Gods, she sounded like an idiot. “Just thinking about the conference.”

“I can see that,” he said warmly. He reached directly into her space to spread out her notes. She hated whenever anyone else did that —foreign hands could disorganise them or worse — but kept mum as Chrom pored over them. There was no harm in it, even if she would have preferred he ask beforehand.

“These are all yours? Wow. If I’m ever to get a hold on this whole ruling thing, I should learn to take notes like yours.”

Robin flushed unbidden under such praise. “Copying is bad,” she tried to joke.

“It’s not copying if you let me. And besides, the teacher isn’t around to scold us,” he winked.

Was it her, or did the room suddenly become warmer? “Studying would actually put something in that big head of yours.”

Chrom laughed a deep belly-laugh, attracting the attention of the several other men who were not already staring at them before, and his laugh tapered off awkwardly.

“Prince Daraen’s notes are rather good,” Chrom muttered lamely and scratched his neck.

“We are always more than happy to provide Your Highness with our own,” Falstaff smiled curtly at Robin.

“Thank you.”

Having finished eating, the table was voided with crackers and ale. Robin briefly eavesdropped on the youngest of du Berry’s sons expressing his surprise that there were only three meal courses as opposed to the usual twelve. When du Berry explained it was the result of rationing, Robin had to fight back a snort.

The food seemed to have improved the mood somewhat upon the return to the council room. There was glaring, there was whispering, but thankfully, no one decided to start shouting or throwing things. A new gavel (courtesy of Frederick) was procured for Chrom and he banged it to signal that the meeting had resumed.

“Hopefully everyone is feeling refreshed and in much better spirits.” Chrom’s cheer was obviously forced.

Mutters of assent were mixed in with the sounds of parchment and quills being readied.

“Good. The previous points will be restated. Anyone voicing misgivings, objections, or general questions should say their piece now.”

A Feroxi delegate, Miloah, raised his hand. “So the point on accountability shall be included in the final draft?”

Chrom paused. He was still deciding how to phrase it delicately enough to avoid another row.

It would not do for another argument to flare up—Robin could see him visibly struggling. She took pity on him and decided to bear the loaded question in his stead.

“I don’t think it’s necessarily the point itself that is the cause of contention,” she said carefully, “as long as there is a guarantee that it will not be abused as a form of punishment. After all, the goal is to create a peace treaty. There shouldn’t be any problems when the agreement is mutually beneficial.”

With her phrasing, there was absolutely no way that any qualms against it would be seen as reasonable, and she allowed herself to feel very satisfied when she saw the same conclusion dawn upon delegates such as Oswynn and Falstaff.

Chrom shot her a brief, grateful look. “Thank you for your input, Daraen. Would anyone else like to add to that?”

Either everyone was satisfied by the terms she laid out, or no one could come up with anything else to say, given the silence; some seemingly gave up as several “no’s” were spoken.

“Alright. That’s the last point then: our focus should then be placed on general reconstruction, compensation, and restoration of order. Look how well we’re getting along; only the first day and already we’ve been able to come to an agreeance.”

Chrom’s joke was not the best one, but his effort was appreciated and the laughs genuine.

“Anything else might be too derivative of the previous or might even be quite a bit too much. I suggest we keep the list to those, and anything else written under them.” The eldest of du Berry’s sons, a stern green-haired young man, spoke.

“I concur,” Eschmann replied.

“Well then. Seeing as we have two separate agreements...I believe that your reasoning is sound enough. Would anyone else like to add a separate clause to this treaty? Please, speak up now, or else hold your tongue in the future.” Chrom said.

A soft-spoken chorus of “no’s” rose. Satisfied, the prince banged his gavel twice. “Then that concludes the delineation of topics. Let the record reflect that.” The silent scribes posted in the corner scribbled his words hurriedly.

“That’s all very well now, but we’d like to know what exactly is it that we’re gonna talk about first.” Basilio took a hearty swig from his goblet. “And we wanna know what exactly the budget is going to look like.”

Oooh no. Talk of money so early in the game was going to rile someone up—

“Seeing as our coffers are far from overflowing, I propose some of the costs be offset with compensation payments. Surely Walhart would be as magnanimous as to extend that gesture to us?” du Berry suggested.

“Perhaps we would consider finances should you be clearer in delineating what is it exactly that you expect us to pay for,” Pheros stated coldly.

“Do not play coy us with, General.”

“Unless we have a guarantee of obtaining something in return, then your assertions are not even worth a half-pence.”

“After the devastation you have wreaked upon our land and our people, you dare to suggest we owe you something?”

“Gentlemen—” Chrom warned.

“He’s right,”· Basilio added. “There’s no way we can come up with the goods since their ships torched Port Ferox. Unless they start rebuilding those ports themselves, or at least pay us enough for it, then Valm doesn’t have a leg to stand on!”

“But why rely on Valm when Plegia possesses the fabled Morian Mines?” Oswynn again. Robin knew that his faction was vocally anti-Plegian, but broadcasting his intentions so openly at the table was foolish at best. “Bards and mages have spoken of rubies, lapis, gold and silver and sapphires and diamonds brought up from the depths of the earth, gems the size of a man’s head and nuggets as large as a dog. Think of all the grain we could purchase, all the houses we could repair with but a single ingot from there!”

Robin fought the urge to roll her eyes. Of all the silly myths to exist, that one seemed to have captured the imagination of particular Ylisseans. “We would be happy to discuss a payment plan, Minister, should those mines even exist in the first place.” Oswynn spluttered and blanched at her.

“Well, since you are so eager to discuss monetary issues, then we are happy to count with your cooperation.” Valentine’s tone was measured but the threat behind his words was poorly disguised.

Cervantes pounced on them, to Valentine’s delight. “Well! If Plegia is so willing, then why not extend the offer to us as well?”

Seriously? Robin mentally groaned. Now was the time to be more assertive, she guessed. “Why should Plegia owe anything to Valm when we have not engaged neither as enemies nor allies?”

“I say—!”

Chrom’s increasingly loud calls to order and the banging of his gavel went ignored.

A tall, thin man with sky-blue hair pushed his seat back and extended his hands out in a placating gesture. “Now, now, we would all be much more productive should we calm ourselves down and speak in a civilised manner—”

Du Berry gave him a scathing look. “Virion, you are in no position to speak on the matter.”

The loud crack of splintered wood silenced them all rather quickly. Chrom had brought the gavel down upon the table with such force that an entire section had been sheared off, with only a few remnants of splinters connecting the table to the broken piece that rested at the prince’s feet. He was sweating in his ermine and the throbbing of his vein had returned, stronger this time, as he struggled not to choke.

“Absolutely shameful, ” he finally ground out. “Barely the first day, and we already have had two arguments—no, not even two.” He sighed and rubbed his nose. “This speaks poorly of us. We are here to discuss a peace treaty, and yet you all seem too eager to start at each other’s throats. What’s the matter with you all? Hasn’t anyone learned anything? Doesn’t anyone care?”

At least they all had the decency to look shame-faced. Robin herself felt deeply for Chrom. She did not want to cause any trouble and yet she let herself be carried away by her emotions and be provoked.

“I’m sorry,” Robin apologised. “It was wrong of me. I let my feelings get the best of me.”

Valentine was smug at her admission. Chrom gave her a sympathetic look and shook his head. “Please. At the moment, you are the least of my problems.” Valentine’s smile dropped like a dead fly.

Everyone else seemed to have caught on and they too offered their apologies—Chrom raised his palm up tiredly.

“Frederick, what hour does the clock strike?”

Frederick turned his head to face the timepiece on the wall (a curious contraption with numerals Robin did not know how to read), frowned, and turned to the prince. “Exactly six, milord.”

Chrom swore under his breath. “Gentlemen, we are clearly not going to get anywhere farther today...and we’re all late for supper. By the next session, I expect us all to make an actual effort and be on our best behaviour.”

“Same hour tomorrow?” Clive asked.

“No. The day after. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I didn’t say anything about the scheduling—the day after a session is a free day, to strategise, and so I may have the freedom to attend my audiences. Then the next day we meet again, and the day after is a free day once more...are we all clear on that?”

“Yes.”

“I motion to adjourn this meeting.”

Supper was held in the Great Hall this time, with Lissa and Ricken joining them all at the high table and the princess entertaining everyone with her humorous anecdotes and infectious cheer. Robin picked moodily at her chicken leg instead of conversing. There was a lot to plan for the day after tomorrow, and she was not looking forward to all the diagrams and matrices and simulations she would have to set up. It would mean a long night of scribbling away well after the fire in the hearth would have been banked down…

“Daraen?” Lissa was waving her hand in his face. “Everything alright?”

Robin blinked owlishly. “Y-yeah. Sorry, I wasn’t really paying attention…”

“That’s alright. Sometimes I do it too. But lately Chrom’s been mooning around all the time, so really, you’re not the biggest daydreamer in here.” she tore into her bread and rolled her eyes at Chrom; her brother was again lost in thought to the tune of the lyre and of bards singing of unrequited love.

Robin raised an eyebrow, then returned to her food. It had been a long day; she did not begrudge the prince his hobbies or however he preferred to relax.

But staying in a mood would not help her own humours. However awkward socialising was, it would not hurt to indulge the princess and be friendly.

She turned to Lissa after gulping down a mouthful of chicken. “I like your hairpiece.” Robin pointed to a strange, but rather whimsical cap made of lace, large white buttons, and a golden cord that held the components together.

Robin scolded herself mentally; Frederick’s etiquette manuals had mentioned that pointing was in poor taste, but Lissa did not seem to mind and touched the buttons absently. “Oh...my Owain made it,” a fond smile adorned her face. “‘Course, he’s not old enough to sew yet, so most of it was really me—but he picked the materials! And he told me how he wanted it to look.”

“You have a son?”

“Yeah. He’s my sweet little guy.”

“He turns four in the summer.” Ricken turned from his conversation with his father to join them. “He’s rambunctious and feisty and loves playing with his toy sword.”

Eschmann smiled at the mention of his grandson. “He named it ‘dastard-whacker.’ Wherever he got such a name, I don’t think I shall know soon.”

The conversation soon became easy and relaxed for her, hearing about Owain and his adventures with his friends Brady and Cynthia and Lissa’s family and castle life. Robin was grateful that it did not turn to her or her own family. Perhaps they sensed her unease, but whatever it was, they never questioned her on it, and she was grateful.

However long and arduous the days turned, she hoped that she could at least enjoy nights and company like this.

How dare he.

He sat on the other side of the table, sandwiched between the princess Lissa and Eschmann’s boy, Ricken. They were talking of their son Owain; laughing, sharing stories, offering up pieces of their happiness to him.

That filthy Plegian had no right to it.

Oh, he had heard things about that young man. That his mother was a witch who poisoned wells and spat frogs out of her mouth along with her words...that father of his was another matter entirely. That he spoke to the moon at midnight and offered blood and severed eyes, roasted upon a pyre of myrtle and myrrh.

That fell blood ran through his veins and marked his skin with proof of his sin just as Naga’s purity and godliness marked Chrom’s.

All that evil suffusing his very being, all that wickedness, and he dared to sully the late Emmeryn’s grave with his dirty, fouled blood.

He. had. no. right.

He excused himself after supper to take his usual night walk. The fountain’s gurgling and the scent of the irises soothed him, yet it was not enough to take his mind off his turmoil. Should he go to the Lady Margaret to request a sleeping aid? Another round by the lawn?

He would have rather gone to the mausoleum and begged forgiveness from Emmeryn, forgiveness for her death and the indignity of having her tomb desecrated by dirty blood and a prayer offered to Grima. But it was locked now, and visiting Her Grace would have only worsened the pain in his heart. Empty words that would have no effect on the evil now lurking within the castle.

But he had to do something.

“Whatever seems to be the matter?”

Who said that? He jumped in alarm, searching for that knowing, sibilant voice, terrified of an assassin waiting in the wings, or worse, him. Oh, it was foolish of him to insist on taking his walks alone!

“Who’s there?” His voice quavered and he hated how obvious his fear was. “Show yourself!”

A low chuckle emerged from the shadows, along with a body: first a hose covered leg, then a torso, and a grinning, canny face followed. A tome rested within the person’s arms, while a carefully lacquered nail tapped out a steady, thoughtful rhythm on its cover.

“You need not feel frightened.” And yet he did feel frightened, as he was circled and assessed the way he had seen the castle cats do with the birds that foolishly wandered into their paths. Like he was a piece of meat to be snatched up and swallowed. “Your state of lament is obvious even at a glance...perhaps I can do something to remedy that.”

He was...receiving an offer from this stranger?

No, he told himself. Pacts made in the dark of the night were for the dishonourable and the heretical. The night was when evil spirits such as witches and wraiths and ghosts gathered to talk. The night was when Plegians danced to the moon and offered up their bloody sacrifices, when assassins and thieves made their moves.

“I...you have nothing that could possibly interest me. Leave me be!” he gathered his robes close to his body and made to return to the keep.

“Not even a way to get rid of that Plegian?”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

How could he possibly know…?

“It’s obvious, even from afar.” He jumped when he heard that voice so close to his ear. “Having to share the same space with his ilk...how degrading. But please, save your worries. I can help you. I can make sure his presence never dirties the hallowed grounds you step on...as long as you listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you.”

Chapter 5: Flights of Fancy

Chapter Text

Robin woke blearily to the sight of Mary’s smiling, wrinkled face; she had somehow risen earlier, having laid out a clean set of clothes and warmed up the hearth all by herself. The rest of the servants were already stirring in their pallets.

“Milord has requested Your Highness for breakfast,” she said.

Robin was in a much better mood than the previous day, slurping down her porridge and gnawing away at her plate of cow’s trotters and kidney pie, ignoring the distinctly hairy eyeball the other advisors were giving her over the rims of their cups. She had gone to sleep feeling buoyed and refreshed over her conversation with princess Lissa and her family—and while Robin maintained her unhealthy habit of staying up later than necessary whilst slaving over her notes and diagrams, Lissa’s cheery anecdotes of her son and castle life managed to stave off her night time anxiety and the nightmares that usually followed. A single, stress-free night proved most beneficial to her sleep, and it showed. Chrom grinned at her over his pie and she rolled her eyes upon noticing gravy had dribbled down his lip.

“You are all welcome to sit in on my audiences if you like,” Chrom announced after the table was voided. “I would kindly ask you to refrain from complaints or suggestions because I have enough at the moment.” Basilio roared with laughter.

Like the previous day, Chrom was dressed in full state attire, the difference that he had traded in his circlet for the headpiece Emmeryn used to wear. It was crafted in the shape of the iris Brand, but its resemblance to a halo was not lost on Robin. It was not as resplendent as she had remembered it, now that it was dented and scuffed...and one of the last physical remnants of Exalt Emmeryn. Yet poor Chrom still wore it with as much ease and grace as he could muster, and shouldered on with a smile as wave after wave of supplicants, nobles and peasants alike, approached his throne on the dais with their requests.

The petitions of nobility ranged from the reasonable to the insultingly frivolous: a duch*ess requested men to guard her property, fearful of a Plegian incursion as she lived so close to the border; a merchant with close ties to the duchy of Themis wanted compensation for his stolen flocks of sheep; the daughter of a minor lord had decided that her family’s feud with their neighbours was to be continued and asked for military reinforcements to push the supposed intruders off their own land.

The state of the commoners was far more depressing. Each petition was a variation of asking for more food, more water, protection from roving bands of Plegian rogues, and if the army had been able to locate those family members or friends who had gone missing or died on the frontlines. Despite the stark contrast between the costly damascened velvet of a baron’s waistcoat with the greying rags worn by a humble washerwoman, almost all shared that same underlying look of deep loathing and fear whenever their eyes set upon Robin.

She wondered why Chrom even bothered to invite her to sit in at all. She could see the use of having the other envoys, to show them how audiences were directed in Ylisse (Robin saw du Berry carefully whispering in his son’s ears as they watched the proceedings), and to stir some sympathy for the Ylissean citizenry, if only to speed up the negotiation process. Yet her presence was clearly making others very uncomfortable, and amplified her feelings of isolation.

Would Daraen have felt that way if he were sitting there, in his rightful place? Would being here have helped him learn how to run his kingdom from his future throne?

Would he spend his time moping like you do? that voice sneered.

Mercifully, Chrom called a recess to stroll around the castle before dinner, and invited them all to join him. Again, Robin missed the elegance of Chon’sin, yet was struck by the well kept grounds and the remarkable craftsmanship that had gone into building the place. She would often run a hand over the stonework of the columns or catch herself surveying the pretty stained glass fitted into a few windows.

“I can’t believe that I haven’t shown you around yet,” Chrom noticed her close attention to the castle architecture and pulled her aside. “Would you like that, Daraen? I know your stay has been short so far, but it’d be useful if you could navigate around here yourself.”

“Look how cozy you two are!” Basilio’s loud japing made the pair hyper aware of their close embrace, and they quickly separated. All the men were staring at them. “Wish I got special treatment like that. And we’ve been friends for longer, too! You wound me, milord Chrom.”

Robin’s sickly white skin made her flush all the more obvious, but it was Chrom’s stammer that drew attention. “H-he doesn’t really know his way around yet—what are you even complaining for? You know this place like the back of your hand!”

“Well, I’d certainly be happy enough to take the kid off your hands.”

“The—Basilio, what?”

The enormous Feroxi laughed and clapped Chrom’s back so hard the man practically bounced off Basilio’s hand. “Kidding, kidding. You’re so easy to rile up! Learn to relax a little.”

Chrom’s splutter was heard clearly over the awkward laughter of the others, who had never really grown accustomed to Basilio’s particular brand of humour. At the very least he was attempting to be friendly.

“Anyways,” Chrom said, “it’s early enough that I think we can start with the view. Would anyone else care to join us?”

His advisors declined; a few Feroxi and Valmese, as well as the du Berry twins, agreed. Frederick was coming regardless. They all entered a tower and climbed up the long, winding stairs, greeting the few soldiers and arbalists on guard before the ramparts’ walkways opened up to them.

The view was magnificent even from the keep. The entirety of Ylisstol seemed to stretch out before them on all sides and in all its glory: Robin could see the tiny figures of people bustling about before the majestic cathedral; horses and carriages made their way from the city square up the bridge connecting the castle to the city and back again; the din of the market and various pubs and alehouses, now in their dinner rush, added to the cacophony of smithies and guild houses at work. Dockhands unloaded wares from the boats carrying goods from downriver to the tune of music floating out of the magnificent playhouse on the riverbanks. At Ylisstol’s very edge, blue-gray smoke from the tanners and the kilns hung languidly in the sky, with flocks of starlings twisting and turning in the air like great black ribbons.

It was very different from anything she had seen in Plegia, Regna Ferox, or Chon’sin, yet possessed the same sense of grandeur that the world seen from above usually does. Robin remembered her panicked entry to Ylisstol but a few days ago. What a difference it was! Her urgency left her with only a vague, blurry recollection of people and stonework flying by on horseback; here at the top of the castle keep was a clear, sprawling rendering of earth toned buildings and the green forests surrounding the enormous city.

Chrom noticed how raptly she focused her attention on the view and allowed himself to preen, proud that Robin was appreciative. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Very. You’re a lucky man, to have all this.”

“Well, I should hope that I’m worthy enough of it.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Humility, in a prince? I thought that only existed in fairy tales.”

Chrom laughed. He shoved Robin lightly. “If I’m such a rarity, does that mean you’re selfish and cruel? Since you’re so realistic.”

She paused. Robin knew what banter was, but with men it was a strange, complicated ritual that Gregor said needed to be supplemented with roughhousing and sometimes even fighting. She had seen others go at it; why, she even had Daraen as a reference, but he was a sensitive boy who shied away from such contact. Did that mean she needed to punch Chrom back?

So she did, trying to put in a reasonable amount of force in her fist without hurting him. “Who’s calling who selfish and cruel? I bet you’ve got a few flaws, Your Majesty .”

“I was kidding! You’re much too humble for your own good. If anything, you’re the storybook character here.”

“Oh, so first I’m mean, now I’m ‘too humble?’ Sounds like you’re trying to insult me.”

“Hey, don’t try to twist my words!”

And so they went at it, trading quips and increasingly hard blows back and forth until it basically evolved into a shoving match. Robin was baffled by such a masculine practice—was there a winner? Was this how men their age bonded?—but it seemed good-natured enough. The du Berry twins were laughing behind their hands, and the older envoys grinned and chuckled, remembering their days of youth and similar friendships. Frederick, being Frederick, scowled but said nothing.

And besides, she could admit that there was a certain fun to it. And Chrom was smiling—

Chrom, however, was a man who was a poor judge of his own strength. With the sun shining on his brow and a grin lighting up his face, the prince gave a mighty heave that sent a very surprised Robin tumbling over the battlements and into the gardens below.

Shocked silence blanketed them.

Alpine du Berry covered his mouth with a hand. “Is he...dead?”

Frederick gave him a sharp look. He placed a reassuring hand on Chrom’s shoulder, who had blanched a ghastly white. “Milord…?”

“I…”

Chrom carefully removed Frederick’s hand and picked his way delicately over to the crenel. With the morbid certainty of dread, he slowly leaned over the edge—

To almost come nose-to-nose with Robin, who had floated up leisurely with her arms akimbo and her legs spread out in a strong, clear-cut stance. A chorus of astonished shouts followed her up from the gardens, with the guards and men on the ramparts joining in as well.

Robin co*cked her head to the side innocently. “I’m sure that I’m not the first to tell you to mind your strength.”

Surprise shut her up as Chrom’s strong hands grabbed her waist in a firm grip, quickly pulling Robin out of the air, away from the parapet and down onto the walkway into an embrace. One arm came to circle her nape as a hand cradled her head and pushed it securely into the crook of his neck, which her nose barely reached.

He pulled back after a long period spent holding her in silence. Robin was completely sidelined by the gesture; the severity of his reaction rendered her mute, incapable of mustering a single word. She swore that she saw the beginnings of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t—don’t scare me like that!” He patted her down (she carefully pulled her chest away) and smoothed her hair down desperately.

“Chrom, I swear, I’m fine—”

“Gods! I’m so sorry Daraen, I could have gotten you killed over my stupidity! I—I swear that it was an accident, no, what am I saying, that wouldn’t fix anything—”

“ Chrom . Please. I’m fine. Yes, you should learn to control yourself...but really. There’s no harm done.”

She had wanted to joke around and poke fun at him; like any mean-spirited joke, the novelty soon wore off to be replaced by deep guilt, and instead of feeling amusem*nt, his frightened face took on a deeper meaning when she remembered that Emmeryn had died from a great fall.

Robin did not want to be the reason for anyone’s pain, and so tried to soothe his fears and held his elbows lightly. “I am unhurt.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

Their moment was interrupted by the ambassadors rushing over. “How on earth did you do that?” Alpine gasped breathlessly.

“Is everyone alright?”

“That boy just flew.”

“Your Highnesses, are you unharmed?”

Given had Frederick had plenty of reasons to dislike her, Robin was sure that the only thing that kept him from berating her openly was the fact that she vastly outranked him. Still, she was grateful for his intervention when he firmly yet politely kept the others apart with an outstretched arm.

“At ease, gentlemen. Your concern is gratifying, yet I kindly ask you to give milord some space.”

“How did you do that?” Alpine pressed on insistently. He ignored his brother trying to rein him in.

Robin shrugged. “Wind magic. It’s quite safe, really; I’ve been trained in it for a long time.”

“With all due respect, that did not seem safe in the slightest,” Frederick butted in.

“Frederick.” Chrom’s pinched face promised a discussion later. “I’m sure he knows what he is talking about. In fact,” he turned to Robin with a smile. “I’m sure he would be kind enough to demonstrate just how safe it is.”

Mentally berating him for putting her on the spot like that (and just after she felt bad for him!), Robin co*cked a questioning brow. “Do you want me to try levitating you or…?”

“What do you say to getting us down to the gardens? I’m sure the others would want to see your skills at work, what with your previous demonstration.”

So annoying of him, yet entirely sincere and earnest. “...You better not be too heavy. And no funny business, or I will drop you.” Frederick be damned.

“Don’t worry, I promise to behave this time.”

Their audience crowded around them on the walkway along with the dozens of other people in the gardens now pointing up and gaping in astonishment at the white-haired Plegian standing on the battlement crenellations and helping Chrom up. He stood nearly a full head taller. Robin hugged him tightly round the waist and, summoning the wind to do her bidding, cautiously felt the open air behind her with a foot before deeming it safe for their journey down.

“Here we go,” she grunted and heaved him up slightly as they began their slow descent.

The liar was much heavier than her, but it was nothing compared to what Robin had handled before on similar flights. She adjusted her grip on him. Even with all his layered clothing on, his body felt hard and muscular, pressed right up against her front like that, and her cheeks heated up at such close, intimate contact. What she was doing was scandalous enough already; no need for her to get her knickers in a twist over added thoughts of impropriety.

“Do you do this often?” Chrom shouted over the winds whipping his hair. His expression was of pure, boyish delight.

Robin averted her eyes to hide her blush. “I might able to if—urgh—my passengers could be so kind as to lay off those pies.”

“The pot is calling the kettle black and you know it.”

She allowed them to accelerate just as they touched down on the garden flagstones, and she immediately let him go and stumbled back at the sudden change of weight. They were mobbed by an amazed gaggle of courtiers who had seen their descent from beginning to end, and a round of applause burst forth for them.

“Daraen, that was incredible!” Lissa pushed her way out of the ring of people to grab Robin’s hands and jump excitedly in place. A blonde with familiar red eyes and meticulously styled ringlets stood a short distance away from Lissa and surveyed Robin with a shrewd expression. Frederick, naturally, had reached the gardens at almost the same time as they did, and was currently trying to push back the crowd that had formed. Basilio and the others stood slightly apart and watched with a mixture of amusem*nt, shock, delight, and disappointment. Robin allowed herself to feel smug at the sour faces of Valentine and his co-conspirators.

“I think that’s enough excitement for one day people, give ‘em some space!” Basilio’s impressively broad body (and authority as west Khan) helped shield them from the onlookers, and Robin shot him a grateful look as Lissa and her unnerving companion shepherded them away from the hubbub.

Alpine du Berry and the others caught up to them breathlessly. “Will you carry me next?” he tugged on Robin’s sleeve childishly.

“Son, you are not a boy anymore, and monsieur Daraen is not a pleasure-pony,” du Berry chided.

“Sorry…”

“It has gotten quite late enough in the day without us running around after levitating men. Is anyone going to dinner?” Falstaff offered graciously. Most of the Feroxi, including Basilio, accepted, as did the Valmese and a few Rosannois. He turned to Lissa’s friend. “Maribelle, my dear, would you care to join us?”

Maribelle curtsied smoothly. “I thank you, uncle, but I shall have to decline. Donnel and Brady are returning from the countryside, you see, so I shall receive them.”

“Owain’s coming home too! Daraen, you want to come with? Chrom already promised he’d go with me,” Lissa nudged Chrom pointedly. “I’m sure you’d love to meet my special little guy.”

Robin was sorely tempted to refuse as she had work to do, matrices to fix and diagrams to write out. But she was a guest, and Lissa had spoken so fondly of her son, and Robin did in fact like children. Yes, she had work, but Lissa had offered so kindly...and her intimidating companion fixed her with a stare that made Robin unsure of what would make her angrier: accepting or refusing.

Well, she could not be a shut-in for too long...

“Alright.”

They—being Chrom, Robin, Lissa, and Maribelle—were joined by Ricken at the castle gates before leaving the safety of the drawbridge for the larger stone bridge. Sure enough, a sturdy wooden cart pulled by two duns came rolling up, clearly a farm wagon judging by the thick bales of hay stacked in the back. Two very happy children whose hair was mussed by straw waved and shrieked upon arrival, and once the cart rolled to a stop, Lissa immediately scooped up a little boy whose auburn hair matched Ricken’s exactly.

“Mummy, no kisses! I’m too big for those!” he whined and wriggled in her grasp.

“And I love you too, Owain,” she laughed and passed him onto his father.

A very tall, muscular young man with wild purple curls and a hoary chin beard in the same shade stepped out of the carriage and slung the quieter of the children over his shoulder; that boy shared his hair colour as well and had the sort of tough face that big children who cried easily possessed. Maribelle practically glided over to them in spite of her heavy skirts and planted delicate kisses all over their cheeks.

“Was the trip safe, my darlings?”

“Smooth sailing all around, ‘cept for a few potholes here an’ there.” the man rubbed her back in reassurance.

“Nuh-uh. We saw dead people . They were all piled up an’ stuff and they were burning them on pears—”

“ Pyres , Brady,” the man (who Robin assumed then was Donnel) began to correct his son before he caught Maribelle’s expression: simultaneously angered at being lied to, and equally concerned because it was evident she knew why he had fibbed.

“Gives us a moment if you will,” Maribelle said curtly before depositing Brady with Lissa and pulling Donnel to a side. Their arguing was mercifully brief, as they returned not too long after and went back inside the safety of the castle walls with the children in tow.

Owain stared, brazenly and curiously, at Robin from behind Ricken’s shoulder. “Are you an old lady?”

“Owain!” Lissa scolded yet howled with laughter at his candour.

“You dummy, old ladies don’t have short hair, and they wear lady clothes!” Brady rolled his eyes reproachfully at his friend.

Maribelle and Donnel, who had been conversing quietly with Chrom a little ways in front, turned at the sound of their child’s outburst. “Brady, must your diction be so crude?” Maribelle sighed.

“Owain’s being a dummy.”

“Am not.”

Brady pulled his hand out of Lissa’s and strolled determinedly to Robin, tugging on her trousers pointedly. “See? He wears pants.”

In response, Owain wiggled in Ricken’s arms until his father deposited him on the ground, and he made his way to Robin as well, demanding to be picked up with the universally childish gesture of holding his hands aloft. Bemused, Robin picked him up nonetheless, reassuring Ricken and Lissa with a quick nod. The toddler pressed his little hands to her face and peered into her brown eyes in his very thorough examination of her. Robin had no clue what it entailed, but he seemed deep in concentration, and so allowed him to proceed.

“He has lady eyes like mummy’s,” he finally pronounced. “They’re big and they got these long laces!”

“Lashes, dummy!” Brady soon forgot his scolding and became aware of the injustice of being alone on the floor while Owain was held securely above him. “No fair! I wanna be picked up too!” He began the task of climbing up Robin’s trouser leg himself. Robin scrambled to avoid him falling and heaved him up on an arm she freed, and found herself trying to balance the weight of two plump children in each arm.

Maribelle turned again from her important conversation with Chrom, gasped at the sight of Brady in a stranger’s arms, and marched right over disapprovingly. “Young man! Where are your manners? Climbing on a diplomat like that, as if you were a common baboon! You are to come down this instant and apologise!”

“It’s not fair that Owain gets to be carried!”

“Owain should also learn to mind himself around his elders!”

“Aw, lighten up Mari, there’s no harm done!” Lissa shrugged off her friend’s concerns, but the formidable blonde was not so easily deterred. She turned to Robin apologetically.

“I am terribly sorry for his state of indecency, Your Highness, he is usually not so willful—”

“At ease, milady. I don’t mind children. In fact, I find them to be rather delightful. Their honesty is very refreshing,” Robin assured.

As if by magic, they were suddenly surrounded by a ring of court ladies, whose eyes were trained intently on Robin and the little boys in her grasp. They were not so close as to be obvious, but close enough to be noticeable (no matter how well some of them tried to hide behind some shrubbery).

“Is something the matter…?”

“No, Your Highness.” There was something calculating in the way that Maribelle looked from Robin to the women tittering and fanning themselves. Chrom himself had disengaged from Donnel and stared openly at the spectacle, his jaw even dropping slightly at the sight of Robin’s sudden and inexplicable magnetism. Maribelle spun around in a whirl of curls with an unsettlingly bright smile on her painted lips.

“I hope it is not too forward of me to ask, but it would do me a great honour to host you for a small luncheon. It would be my pleasure to show Your Highness a taste of Ylissean hospitality.”

Robin was in fact very hungry. And Maribelle certainly looked the type of noblewoman to pride herself on her reception of guests and high standards in cookery. But she was also a courtier, and while not overtly unfriendly, her intentions seemed to have ulterior motives—and her relation to Falstaff very suspect.

“Oooh, we’d love to Mari!” Lissa bounced excitedly in place. “She always has the best ham and tarts when she hosts.”

“If a leg of ham awaits, then I’m sure nothing else need be said,” Chrom agreed.

Well, if both were planning on attending…surely it could not be anything too uncomfortable.

“Mummy, I want some ham too! I’m hungry.”

“Brady, dearest, you are to march yourself first and foremost into the nearest bath before you are to even think about eating with those dirty hands of yours.”

There were few moments in her life Robin could think of as being firmly in the territory of discomfort, and so far, most of them had taken place in the few days or her stay in Ylisstol.

What Maribelle had phrased as a “small luncheon” was actually a gathering of some 20-odd court ladies (not including herself, Maribelle, Lissa, their husbands, and Chrom) perched on several settees and chairs. Maribelle’s parlour was a curious space: it was decorated in various shades of pink; vases filled with roses and gentians dotted the room, and portraits depicting women at court or domestic scenes hung over the peachy pale panelling. It gave a lot of insight as to her personal taste, but it was not tacky or ugly.

Despite the supposed rationing set in place, they were surrounded by a veritable treasure trove of delicacies, including loaves of thick white bread and the legendary leg of ham. There were even foods Robin had never even tried before: her plate was piled high with unknowns such as hardboiled eggs, blue cheese, and a delicious honey-soaked marbled bread.

The women seemed to not mind Robin’s still terrible table manners as she demolished her plate and went back for thirds. In fact, most were positively coquettish, fanning themselves, brazenly adjusting their cleavage, and some being so bold as to bat their lashes at her. Even the young lady who had sneered at Robin’s dirtiness on the day of her arrival was now making eyes at her. Was a declaration of liking children suddenly enough to endear herself to these women who were ready to mock her for her foreign heritage? And what was Maribelle’s purpose in inviting them, anyways?

Robin had learned that the lady herself was the duch*ess of Themis, the palatinate in southern Ylisse that accumulated its impressive wealth through farming and textiles, particularly in the business of sheep, barley, linen, and wheat. Her father had been the previous duke, and his seat as head of House Themis poised to be inherited by his brother Tobias upon his death—curiously enough, the man had instead chosen to pass it on to his niece instead. By all accounts, she was doing an admirable job of administering it.

She was, however, completely unamused over the way Robin was soiling her previously clean table linens and pushing food into her mouth like a starving animal.

“How fare you in Ylisse, Your Highness?” Maribelle asked. “Is your stay to your liking?”

“Though I’ve only been here but a few days, the castle has been agreeable so far.”

“Should you have any concerns, I place myself at your service. I shan’t disappoint.”

Maribelle’s flattery was merely a test: for what, Robin could not yet tell, but if she was anything like her uncle, then she was to be treated with extreme caution. At the very least her outward persona was of ingratiation instead of her uncle’s chilly politeness.

A pretty redhead who could not have been older than 16 leaned over coyly. “It is our pleasure to have your presence gracing Ylisstol.”

“Ah...thank you.”

Throughout the entire lunch, Chrom (having changed into more informal attire) had gaped at Robin in complete and utter amazement. She herself could not understand this sudden appeal she had, but it had placed her in an embarrassing spotlight, and she rather wished that she could simply stride across the room and close Chrom’s mouth before he caught any flies.

“And such a dear Your Highness was to those little darlings,” an elderly countess gushed. “It is always such a good quality in a man, to be mindful of children.”

“I quite agree,” Maribelle’s smiled tightened by a fraction. “A king who loves his children is one guaranteed to love his people in equal measure.”

“Have you any? Children, I mean,” the countess inquired.

Robin was acutely aware of the subtle drop in noise. “Er—no. I have no h-wife.” There was an almost audible sound of increased heartbeats as the ladies looked at each other from the corners of their eyes and smiled ever so slightly.

“I am confident that whoever you choose for a bride shall make a lovely mother. I do wonder what it must be like to raise children in Plegia,” Maribelle sipped her mulled wine delicately.

There it was. Robin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Contrary to what many think, the climate is rather agreeable for a child’s constitution. And while we do have nurses in our employ, we prefer to defer to the tribal custom of entrusting them to communal care. We believe it works best to build bonds as a community.”

“How...quaint. Was Your Highness raised in such a manner?”

“I was.”

“It seems like such a simple life for one of noble background.”

“It was even simpler considering that I was brought up in a village. With goats.”

Donnel, who had mostly kept to himself and his plate of biscuits, perked up at the snippet of conversation. “Wow, really? That’s really somethin’ else, Your Lordshipness—so did I! I mean, I don’t live in the Farfort anymore, but I never really met a prince who didn’t grow up in a castle.”

A most miraculous transformation overcame Maribelle as her face softened into an expression of genuine warmth and affection. She sat her fine porcelain cup down, folded her hands primly on her lap, and simply listened to them talk.

“You ever get stuck with mucking duty whenever ya behaved badly?”

“I was practically the stable boy,” Robin laughed. “I got into so much trouble. It’s a wonder my mother never used a rod on me.”

“I’ll say! My ma would scream to high heaven whenever she saw me slackin’ off on my chores.”

The luncheon continued amiably enough, with Robin being able to mostly ignore the other women or give simple, non-committal answers as she focused her attention mostly on Donnel, Maribelle, and occasionally Ricken. Chrom was a cause of concern, however. He spoke and ate very little. He was curiously subdued and paid close attention to the way others were interacting with Robin.

“We appreciate your generosity, ladies,” the prince finally said and rose to his feet. “But I believe it is time for us to take our leave...I have audiences to attend to. Good to see you again, Donnel,” Chrom nodded to him. “Lissa, Ricken. Daraen…are you coming?”

There was something a bit insecure in the way he called to her, in the way that his hand unconsciously wrung out his sleeve. Why on earth he looked so lost was beyond her, and Robin worried that it was something she did or said.

“I’m sorry...I’d like to, but there’s been so much going on that I’m afraid I’ve neglected my notes. I really should get some work done if I’m to come prepared with anything at all for tomorrow.”

Chrom’s crestfallen face made her feel a twinge of regret—and she forced herself to tamp it down. He was a grown man, she reminded herself, and he too had his duties to attend. And besides, they were going to see each other again anyways—

“Oh. Of course. I’ll...see you at supper then.” he gave her a half-hearted smile, bade goodbye to the ladies, and made for the door where Frederick and the Pegasus Knights were waiting for him. Ricken and Lissa left with Donnel to attend to their children and take them for a walk after the boys’ bath.

Before Robin could shrug into her coat, stored carefully behind a painted screen in the entrance to the parlour, she was accosted by Maribelle.

“A word with you, if you please. Alone.”

She took Robin to a small antechamber coloured in the same tones as her parlour. It seemed her instincts as a hostess were utterly irrepressible, for as soon as Robin sat down, the duch*ess had a plate of cold cuts and a steaming pot laid out for them.

“I wasn’t aware that Ylisse knew of tea,” Robin said fondly as she ate.

“It is quite a civilised drink,” Maribelle held her cup delicately with her pinkie outstretched. “Fit for any respectable court. I daresay that I am surprised at your knowledge of it...why, with your tales of growing up amongst the goats —”

“Western Plegia has been growing that stuff well before Ylisse requested to be able to trade for it in the first place,” Robin reminded her testily. “And I’ve also sampled some from its original source in Chon’sin. I’m sure that your husband must have had the privilege of drinking it too, seeing how he’s married to a duch*ess.”

It was clear from the narrowed red eyes that Maribelle was not one for being challenged on her own turf and terms. After a tense beat of silence, she eased her posture with a sigh of defeat.

“I apologise. I have been rude and careless with you despite your being a guest of House Ylisse. It is not my place to take such liberties with you and I am sorry for being so callous.”

Robin was surprised that a duch*ess of all people (and an Ylissean to boot) would admit such things to her in the first place; the apology did not pacify her completely, but it was a start, and it was certainly a higher degree of honesty that she had seen from the women who had gone from sneering at her to batting their lashes in the space of a couple of days. “Any friend of Chrom’s and Lissa’s is sure to be kind enough given the chance for it, so apology accepted.”

Maribelle’s red lips twisted into a wry, wistful smile. “He is a good man. I worry for him, so I’m rather glad he’s found a friend in you, even if you are not a member of our court.”

“What do you mean? He’s the Exalt-to-be...surely he’s got some friends? Don’t you count? Lissa? Ricken? Donnel? And what do you mean by me? We’ve only known each other for a few days…”

“Your Highness, as a Prince yourself, surely you know that any true friendship royalty has is few and far between; why, it would be like asking a man to try and sort between a box of vipers and a box of spiders, and then asking him which one he likes best. We do care for him...but our positions and responsibilities are not the same as they were when we were Shepherds. Our contact with him is but a mere shadow of how things used to be.”

“Is that why you wanted me alone? To ask me to watch him for you?”

“Yes and no,” Maribelle set her cup down and leaned forward attentively. “He has enough of Frederick’s nagging to keep him out of trouble most of the time...your antics in the gardens have shown that your can be just as bone-headed as he is.”

“Thanks. Are you going to ask a favour of me, or do you want to get in some nagging yourself?”

“Patience, milord. You are still much more guarded than he is. And as the former tactician to Plegia, you are far from what I would call rash or unobservant...traits that, I’m sorry to say, are still very much a part of Chrom even as an adult. My request is of a more... amorous nature.”

Any logical argument that Robin had prepared in the back of her mind died and she sat, completely dumbfounded and disarmed, at Maribelle’s mercy. “Oh.”

The duch*ess excused herself briefly to ensure no one was listening at the door. Satisfied, she returned to the chair opposite Robin’s. “You saw the way those women were looking at you.”

“I honestly doubt that most of them are smitten with me. Plegian or not, I’m sure that one or two at least has a parent waiting to marry them off to whatever rich Prince comes their way.”

“True. And I can also safely say that others are also dim and fickle enough to immediately fall for this exotic, dashing young foreigner who has admitted that he wants children in the future. Don’t sell yourself short: you are quite the catch.”

Robin burned a fierce red. “How does that make me an expert on women, since that’s what you seem to be saying?”

Maribelle arranged her curls to the side and rolled her eyes. “The fact that we are having this conversation shows that you are clearly capable of discerning a lady’s intentions and have far more insight into the mind of my sex than milord Chrom does.”

A light went off in Robin’s head. “He’s having lady issues and you want me to help him.”

“Of all the crude phrasings to use—” Maribelle sighed exasperatedly. “Yes.”

“But...why me? I have enough on my hands with the summit as it is…”

“I know it is much too forward of me to even consider asking you such a thing, and I apologise. I will not hold it against you should you choose not to pursue this,” Maribelle tried to placate her. “But I ask because you spend much more time with him than I or his other friends are able to, and because it is quite obvious that he places a great deal of trust in you. Combined with your intellect, I should hope that this could be an open and shut case before summer.”

Robin’s sigh ruffled her white bangs as she leaned back into the upholstery and considered Maribelle’s pleas thoughtfully. She and Daraen had been known as matchmakers back in their days on campaign, simply because guiding people through their relationships was a good way for them to build bonds with their subordinates: a harmonious army is a strong army , they would often quote to one another. As much as she hated to admit it, they had always been desperate for friendships ever since being taken under Validar’s harsh wing. The downtrodden way that Chrom had looked at her, after all he’d done for her, the way that Maribelle’s words confirmed those sentiments, activated that shameful, craving part of Robin.

How could she say no?

“Who’s the lucky lady?” Robin conceded.

Maribelle clapped her hands together in victorious satisfaction. “Her name is Olivia.”

“Feroxi then. So she’s here?”

“As a matter of fact, she is Basilio’s niece, and here as part of his personal entourage.”

“Wonderful. Does Basilio know?”

“Rumour has it that, while he is a very good friend of Chrom’s and House Ylisse, he personally prefers the Duke Virion for his niece.”

Rumour was usually not a very sound hunch to go off from, but Maribelle seemed like the kind of person who knew how to procure court gossip and sift through leads she found to be the most probable.

“And why is that?”

The duch*ess smoothed down her voluminous dress and picked imaginary pieces of lint off the immaculate maroon fabric. “She is a dancer and a singer, he a very cultured and thoughtful man who is much more attuned to her sensitivities than Chrom is, unfortunately. And he is well-versed in the art of courting, and from what I’ve heard his approach is subtle and well-paced. Chrom is...well, the closest I can seem to describe it would be overbearing.”

Robin quirked an eyebrow. “Chrom doesn’t seem the type to be overbearing.”

“To you? Of course not. But, as I said, she is a sensitive woman,” Maribelle exhaled, “and his constant sending her gifts, love-notes, and trying to catch her alone in the gardens are too much for a lady of her constitution. What they both need is for a patient, tactical hand at work.”

“And if I fail?” Robin pressed.

“Then you shall surely know how to soften the blow and help Chrom once more. But please, I doubt that you, with all the reputation to precede you, accept anything less than victory.”

Robin stood and thanked her for the generous meal. “I shall see what I can do, milady.”

“But of course,” Maribelle’s teeth were a sharp, pearly white next to her rouged lips. “Allow me to walk you to the way out.”

Karel and Rood were waiting for Robin where the Pegasus Knights were standing but a few moments ago, ready to escort her away. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace. I’ll try my hardest.”

“And I have the utmost faith in Your Highness,” Maribelle replied. “Farewell!”

Robin never quite knew what is it that pushed the duch*ess to seek out her help specifically, or why she was so dead-set on procuring her support for Chrom. Whatever it was, she had a sinking feeling in her gut telling her that she might have bitten off more than she could chew.

Chapter 6: The Willow Cabin

Chapter Text

It seemed as though she had scarcely gone to bed when Robin was shaken, roughly and carelessly, from her sleep. Blearily opening her crusty eyes, she turned in her mattress to try and discern the offender who would dare to disturb her slumber.

"...Chrom?"

The prince regnant was, simply put, a mess. His hair flew all over in a wild disarray. His eyelids were drooping and his clothes were dishevelled. He had a look in his eyes that suggested a sort of mania had taken hold of him and kept him pacing all night.

"T-thank goodnesss you're awake," Chrom slurred, and the stench of alcohol rolled out of his mouth and washed over Robin's face. The man positively reeked of ale: his clothes and breath were impregnated with the awful, powerful scent, and it took all of Robin's willpower not to gag in front of him.

"Chrom, it's—" she turned to the clock sitting on her nightstand until she remembered that she could not even read such a device in the first place. "—too late," she muttered. "What are you doing here? Is everything alright?" She did not miss the absence of her attendants...or her chest bindings. Robin immediately cocooned herself within her sheets.

"Not really," the prince admitted sadly. He brightened up almost immediately. "But...you can help me, can't you?" Chrom made himself at home on Robin's bed and sat by her side, their combined weight sinking the mattress down even further.

"Um...what is it that you're looking for help in, exactly?"

"...You'll laugh at me if I say."

"I promise I won't." And it's too gods-damned late in the night for you to wake me and then not want to say anything about it.

Chrom mulled her words over for a good while. When it seemed Robin would nod off out of exhaustion, he shook her again and finally spoke.

"A-at Maribelle's luncheon...you had allll those ladies looking your way."

"...Did I?"

"Yeah...all of them looked so...happy at you. Hanging on to your every word…I want to be looked at like that too."

Oh dear.

This was a rehash of her conversation with Maribelle. But instead of a poised, perfectly composed duch*ess explaining the terms of a request to her, Robin now had an inebriated, lovesick prince paying her a visit well into the night and babbling over her supposed romantic prowess that he wanted in on.

Were she not a prince (or at least masquerading as one), she was sure that Frederick would have skinned her alive.

"Look, Chrom...are you sure that you want to discuss such a thing at this hour? It's very late, and you're very drunk. Wouldn't you rather talk this over in the morning?" Robin placed a hand on the small of his back to try and push him out of her bed, and pressed the cup of water from her sideboard into his hands in the hopes that he would attempt to keep himself hydrated.

Chrom downed the entirety of its contents in a single gulp, but refused to budge from her side. To her horror, he kicked off his boots and settled into bed along with her instead, leaning back comfortably with his head stealing her pillow.

"This can't wait!" Chrom insisted. "I need you now."

Pegasus dung. This was going to be a long night…

"...Fine," Robin sighed. "Tell me."

His smile was bright and cheery in spite of the night's darkness and his state of disarray. Robin was supposed to stay annoyed at him but could not help but feel a bit of her bad mood melt away at the sight.

Chrom turned his head away to yawn. "So there's this woman—"

Olivia, Robin thought.

"—her name is Olivia. By gods Daraen, is she the loveliest thing! The most beautiful sight I've ever laid eyes on."

He turned to Robin expectantly, but she merely nodded, prompting him to continue. He scratched his head before picking up where he had left off.

"She's...honestly, the most gorgeous thing ever. Pink and fair as any rose—no, a hundred times prettier than a common rose. Eyes as gray as the ocean...or were they violet? Dark pink?"

Robin sighed. Then again, he was drunk, so she was not really expecting his narrative to be all that reliable.

"And she's a dancer. And a singer. When she performs...it's like nothing else exists. It's just her and…" Chrom raised his hands dreamily and moved them in the air as though he were tracing a woman's curves.

Robin rolled her eyes exasperatedly. Men, she thought.

"But she won't even have me!" Chrom lamented and threw his arm over his eyes dramatically. "I've sent letters, gifts, flowers...she sends them right back without a word. I don't know what I'm doing wrong to begin with…"

"Have you asked her why?"

"Huh?"

"Have. You. Asked. Her. Why."

Chrom squinted through the darkness and tapped his chin thoughtfully. Even in his drunken state, he had the decency to look shame-faced and turned to her sheepishly. "...No."

Robin scoffed incredulously. "Well, maybe this would be settled if you just talked, then. Gods know how many misunderstandings could have been cleared up if people actually made the effort to talk. And now that this has been settled, I definitely think it's time for you to go to bed." Robin tried to roll him out with as much force as she could muster without accidentally pushing him into the corner of her nightstand or onto the floor; she could do without a lashing from Frederick for dashing the prince's brains out in her guestroom.

The oaf had the gall to open up her bedsheets and burrow into them, sticking his tongue out stubbornly instead of cooperating. In spite of him being a strange, mopey drunk rather than aggressive and argumentative, Robin's patience was starting to wear thin and sleep threatened to overtake her sooner or later.

Chrom pulled the sheets up to his chin and sighed, melancholy and forlorn, totally inured to Robin stewing next to him. "That's the thing...what if I just scare her off? What if I say the wrong thing? W-what if she laughs in my face and says she wants nothing to do with me?"

Has it occurred to you that there are far worse things that could happen? Robin did not say. However petty and annoyed she felt, Chrom cut a pitiable figure, lying in bed like that, and she soon felt sorry enough for him to wonder if his desperation was so great as to drive him to drink.

"I'm sure she won't," Robin tried to comfort him and patted his back gently, if awkwardly.

"How do you know?"

Robin shrugged, unsure. As she was about to open her mouth to continue, Chrom shot upright, a brilliant grin replacing his gloomy frown.

"Of course you would know. You're you."

"I'm what?"

"All those ladies were talking about you...admiring you...when I left it was all 'Daraen this, Plegia that.' They couldn't take their eyes off of you!" The prince took her hands in his; in spite of the smell of alcohol, the feeling of his breath on her face made Robin feel hot and bothered.

"What are you talking about? No, it's clear that it's the ale talking—Chrom, you're making very little sense."

"No, no, I'm perfectly fine," Chrom insisted even as his head lolled bonelessly. "I'll be even better once you teach me what you know about women...what is it that you do to make yourself so irresistible to them!"

Robin barely had any clue herself as to this sudden appeal of hers that Chrom described, and despite her promising Maribelle that she would help the lovelorn prince, she had little idea for how to even begin. She had never even met Olivia and yet found herself wanting to strangle the woman for putting her in such a predicament.

No, better to strangle Chrom for being such a fool in the first place.

"Maybe you just have to change your approach," Robin grunted as she tried to heave him out once more.

"You're right," Chrom agreed, and sank into moroseness once again. "Maybe I'm c-coming on too strong. Maybe she feels me too threatening, too coarse and boorish for someone like her."

Thank goodness for self awareness, Robin thought approvingly just as she was able to push him to the edge of her mattress.

She groaned, close to resignation, as Chrom rolled back to his previous position, seemingly not having noticed her attempts to get him out. He hiccupped drunkenly and knit his brows together in concentration.

"Maybe she's one of those ladies who prefers the company of other women…"

Robin had been so invested in her efforts in reclaiming her bed that she did not notice him moving. She froze as his hand came to rest on the back of her head. As lush as he was with alcohol, Chrom's eyes were trained intently on hers; the way that his hand moved from her hair to her cheek felt deliberate.

"I-if she prefers the company of women, then doesn't that mean that you have to rethink your whole strategy?"

"That won't be a problem with you helping me now, won't it?" a dreamy smile quirked his lips up. "If that's the case, then she'll surely feel more comfortable around you."

"I-I'm a man, Chrom," Robin said unconvincingly. "I doubt that she'd take to me at all."

"Nnnonssensssse." Chrom leaned in closer to her, with their foreheads almost touching. "The way you are, you barely look a day over manhood. That soft, high voice, those smooth pink lips…" he swiped his thumb over her lower lip as he spoke. Robin's cheeks flushed a hot red; drunk or not, the contact was strangely intimate, and yet...she made little effort to push him off.

Chrom mercifully untangled himself from her sheets and left her bedside, staggering a bit before regaining his bearings. Robin exhaled a breath she was not aware she had been holding. His lopsided grin was as bright as ever and he looked entirely unfazed by their exchange.

"You'll act on my behalf, won't you? With you there she'll surely not have much to object to."

"Wouldn't you rather just d-do it yourself?"

Chrom waved a hand dismissively. "You'll soften her up before I come in. Make her see that my love for her is as true as can be. Put your logic, speaking skills, and strategic thought to my use."

"And how exactly do you propose I do that?"

"I dunno. Be insistent. Be loud and obnoxious. Break down her doors if you have to. I know that you're the right man for the job...you'll help me, won't you?"

Chrom smiled down at her as he braced himself with a hand on the headboard and the other on Robin's duvet, right over her thigh. She immediately thought back to the touch of his thumb on her lips and gulped, unsure of what to do.

"If I promise to help you, then you have to promise to let me sleep," she conceded cautiously.

Chrom blinked dumbly in response. Comprehension lit his cloudy vision and the prince nodded in agreeance. "That I shall. I hope you sleep well Daraen," he started towards the exit. "Thank you for this...I'll see to it that your efforts are rewarded," he winked drunkenly.

"They better be. And go sober up," Robin grumbled under her breath.

She watched as he missed the door by a mile and smacked into the wall with a loud bang. He stared intently at the wall for a few good moments before his hand finally found the doorknob and he opened it to reveal a sliver of light and Frederick's disgruntled face staring in. With a cheery wave, he finally took his leave.

Robin flopped back onto her pillow with a loud sigh and dragged her hands down her face. Now it was going to be impossible to try to sleep.

Robin yawned into her hand for the umpteenth time as she strolled over the keep's lawn. She had made sure to wake early, even for her, to be able to ask around as to the location of the apartments housing the Feroxi delegation. That way she could get started on this infernal task of hers and at least get it over with before noon.

It was not to say she had no time for it that particular day. In fact, the previous summit meeting had gone rather poorly; while no one had stood up in their seat to scream and fling accusations, the atmosphere was decidedly chilly and the negotiations basically amounted to arguing whether they should set a budget first or whether they should decide to tackle a certain issue beforehand. Chrom had been forced to adjourn the session with no progress made, but warned that the issue of funds against topics was to be put down to a vote. At the very least she had some work finished up from the day Chrom accidentally threw her off the battlements.

She groaned at the thought. As charming and kind as he was, many of her current predicaments could be traced back to the prince, on top of having to keep up the pretense of filling her brother's seat. Playing matchmaker for an Ylissean of all things…

But Robin was a woman of her word, and she had already promised herself twice over, to the duch*ess and the prince. No matter how tedious the job, no matter how difficult it would be to balance with her other duties, Robin would see this to the end.

Why Chrom insisted that this Olivia had to be the one was beyond her. Was it not enough to be the richest, most politically visible bachelor of Ylisse? He could have picked any other woman who would have been more than happy to wed and bear him children. Why the one who refused him?

Sometimes we humans let our greed get the best of us, Daraen had mused over a similar case, once. Having something that was denied to us feels like a vindication to some. The chase is often more thrilling than the catch.

She hoped that Chrom was not as selfish as to be the kind of man who would toss a lover to the side once the novelty of courtship had worn off.

Robin was jolted out of her reverie by her arrival to the Feroxi villa. It was pretty: a burbling fountain with spouts in the shape of pegasi taking flight cooled the leafy courtyard, with flowers and trees of all kinds (rhododendrons, roses, a stately willow rustling with movement, and rows of hedges and delphiniums) dressing the space in the colour and cheer of spring. Robin tucked her hand in her pocket to make sure the paper with Chrom's talking points was still there as she walked to the doorway of the handsome apartments.

The prince had taken her aside during the previous day's breakfast, confessing that he remembered everything that transpired the night before. He had begged her forgiveness and admitted his shame once he came to the morning after and was able to reflect on his indecency, rambling on until Robin interrupted him with an upturned palm.

"Chrom, however strange last night was, don't worry. I already promised to help."

"I—what?"

"You heard me."

"But...Daraen, I was being nothing more than a drunken oaf, I touched you, you don't have to—"

"I'm not a man who reneges on promises, Chrom. Once I finish this, then I'm sure you can find a way to make it up to me; but for now, let me do the job I am held to."

She was sure that the prince had tears of gratefulness in his eyes, lovesick fool that he was. At the end of the day, as they all filed out of the hall with bellies full of mead and roast pork, he had pushed a sweaty note, folded up several times, into her open palm discreetly.

Robin had squinted at the hurried scrawl. "Chrom, what is this?"

"My, uh, talking points. Look, just because you agreed to help me doesn't mean I'm leaving all the legwork to you. That would be unkind of me, don't you think? But please, let her hear it from your lips only." At the word lips, Chrom flushed a bright pink and excused himself hurriedly.

To his credit, the speech was fairly standard, waxing poetic on Olivia's beauty, her charm, grace, and the heartache Chrom felt pining after her in the hopes that she would reciprocate. It certainly was in need of editing, but Robin preferred to see just how exactly Chrom's words worked with her own eyes and take notes as to what needed fixing. Tailoring his approach was one of the first things that needed to be established.

Even so, it did little to diminish the impression that Robin was going to come off as either very stupid, simpering, or both. She grumbled as she took the heavy brass knocker and rapped it loudly against the front door.

Sully was watching Robin from the sliver of window she had exposed under the heavy drapes, suspicious as to why they would have a solicitor at their doorstep so early in the morning. She frowned at the distinctly Plegian sheen of his (for the stranger wore male clothes) hair. She had heard of the lone Plegian ambassador in the castle—but what was he doing here of all places? What business did he have?

The redhead muttered and griped under her breath all the way up the stairs, careful to stay out of the way of the servants tidying up the apartments for the day's beginning.

Sully knocked at the door to Olivia's boudoir harshly, as she was wont to do until she heard the lady's soft exclamation of "come in!" She opened it with a terse "thanks" as she took her seat by the window. Soft early morning light streamed inside and bathed the room and its occupants with a rosy glow, touching up Olivia's hair and giving it an even pinker tone. The khatun was at her vanity and was being fussed over by a cadre of ladies-in-waiting who offered her a multitude of silks and jewellery as she applied her makeup and prepared for the day.

Accepting an offered platter of fruit, Sully selected an apple and crunched into it noisily before beckoning Excellus over. The steward glided over to her silently with his customary early morning glower.

"I am not a dog that you can summon so carelessly," Excellus sniffed.

"Yeah yeah, mornin' to you too, Toady. Listen...I think we might have a situation at the front door."

"Another of Lord Chrom's messengers?"

"Dunno. Young guy. It's the Plegian, actually. No idea why he's here though."

At the mention of the prince's name, Olivia sighed, waved off her attendants, and turned in her seat to face Sully and Excellus, her earrings jingling with the movement. "Again?" she sighed in dismay.

"I dunno why he's here exactly, Olivia, but the guy's Plegian. The Plegian, I'm sure you've heard."

Olivia pursed her lips contemplatively. "Why on earth would he be here?"

"Beats me. I bet it's something important, since it's still so early…"

"Milady, what think you of this? Shall I send him on his way?" Excellus said eagerly.

Olivia, thinking hard, chewed on her lip. The circ*mstances surrounding that man were certainly strange; in his short stay in Ylisstol there was already an abundance of rumours circling throughout the court. What exactly did a man like him need here?

Then again, there was the minor scandal that had originated in the gardens...something about him being able to fly. They said that he had taken Chrom up in his arms and had levitated them down from the ramparts and onto the lawn.

And if there was any mention of Chrom, then it was something Olivia had no desire to be involved with.

"Please do," she sighed and returned to her mirror. "If the young man desires an audience then he would certainly be more prudent and reschedule for later. He probably sent him."

"Of course, milady," Excellus simpered and scampered off to the door.

Robin tapped her foot impatiently and adjusted her collar now that the rising sun heralded a shift in temperature. While the newfound heat was a welcome presence, the change in times had left her irritable. Who would be so rude as to leave a visitor waiting so long? Did they not have anyone to attend to the doorway? Or were they just going to blatantly ignore her?

Her questions were almost answered as the door opened a smidgen to reveal who she assumed to be a butler of sorts. He wore robes similar to that of a sage and his hair was cut very short and with a blunt fringe. He would not have looked so ugly were his smile not so evidently fake and unwelcoming.

"Good morning," the man sniffed, and raked his eyes over Robin's form condescendingly. She immediately decided that she found him to be annoyingly rude. "Are you lost, young man? Or have you any business with Khan Basilio, or the Lady Olivia?"

"Good morning. I was sent here on behalf of Prince Chrom." Robin's reply was polite yet clipped.

The man's ugly, square white teeth were revealed bit by bit as his lips opened in a slow sneer. Robin barely knew him and his openly disrespectful mannerisms were already starting to grate at her patience. "I'm afraid to say that we are currently not accepting visitors or—ah, messengers at the moment. Perhaps if you'd had the foresight to schedule an audience beforehand...if not, then I'm afraid you're simply wasting everyone's time. You are welcome to return later and try again...but for the moment, I'm afraid you have to leave. We can't have any obstructions on our doorstep..."

Nobody told me anything about having to schedule anything. It's too damn early for me to be dealing with this, Robin thought as her frustration and lack of sleep threatened to spill over. She jammed her foot into the slowly closing door, startling the astonishingly impudent servant, and positively growled at him.

"And just who is it that I have the distinct displeasure of talking to?"

Stunned silence was the reply. A moment later, she heard a petulant "Excellus, sir," from behind the door.

"Listen, Excellus: I have but one message. I assure you that the faster I get to it, the faster I'm out of everyone's sight. I got here early so that I wouldn't take up everyone's valuable time, you see. Is the Lady Olivia available or not?"

Another sullen silence stretched out. Robin made a point of tapping her nails on the door.

"...She is...asleep," Excellus tried to lie. Robin rolled her eyes.

"Then I'll just wait for her until she wakes up."

"She is asleep because she feels unwell, sir."

"Then I'll just wait for her until she feels better."

"Milady will not deign to speak in the presence of such a coarse thing like yourself," Excellus spat.

"My message is for her ears only. I'll not let an arrogant toad try to throw his weight around as though he has the right. I'll stay here like a damn signpost and wait even if it takes me a week to get an audience." Robin crossed her arms, sat herself resolutely down on the step, and shoved her leg further past the doorway with a sharp glare.

Excellus stared wordlessly back and left the door to scurry up the stairs, spitting curses as he went.

Olivia was alerted to Excellus' return by the distinctive sound of him swearing. She sighed into her pot of rouge as her steward stormed into her boudoir thundering up a hurricane of profanity.

"Ooh, impudent wretch that he is, one would think his mother's milk was scarcely out of him—as though a boy of his type has the right—"

"Excellus," Olivia interrupted softly. "What is the matter?"

The steward's face was an unattractive shade of puce as he struggled to control his breathing. When his laboured panting finally evened out, he smoothed back his hair with as much dignity as he could muster before replying.

"This peascod, this codling, this upstart waiting at the gate is very rude and speaks as though he were a common shrew. I tried to dissuade him, milady, but he threw my words in my face and demanded to speak to you immediately...he says he is here on behalf of Prince Chrom. Shall I have the guards throw him out?"

Olivia chewed her lip nervously as she contemplated the situation. The khatun had feared that it was another one of Chrom's attempts to woo her...but why send the Plegian in his stead? What reason did he have for coming on Chrom's behalf? Why would he be so uncouth as to demand her presence so stubbornly?

She sighed again. Try as she might, her refusals to Chrom seemed to have either flown over his head, or he was choosing to ignore them entirely, and now he had gone and involved a third party in the matter. Whatever the case was, Olivia was at a loss.

What to do? She could easily accept Excellus' offer to summon the guards—the Plegian would be escorted off quietly and without a fuss. If she wanted to be more aggressive, she could even have Sully do it in her usual brash manner and send him on his way, hopefully too intimidated to return, as the retainer had done with previous messengers. Either option was tempting: it meant Olivia would not have to be there herself. She would be able to ward off another of Chrom's attempts and keep herself as uninvolved as possible.

And yet...he presented a mystery that had piqued her curiosity begrudgingly. He was himself royalty on equal standing with Chrom...why go to the trouble of waking at such an hour for the express humiliation of standing outside her door, hoping to deliver a message, as others had attempted unsuccessfully before? Why even accept to debase himself to such a lowly position as Chrom's lackey? Was he being blackmailed? Had he been promised something in return?

Or was there something more to him?

"Sully, may I have my veil, please?"

The redhead, who had amused herself over Excellus' typically overdrawn displays of anger, snapped back to attention and blinked at Olivia. "You're not seriously going down there yourself?" Sully carefully handled the gauzy fabric and helped to drape it over Olivia's shoulders and face, tucking the corners into the back of her dress.

Olivia exhaled nervously; she was always terribly shy in front of others, nevermind complete strangers, and royalty to boot. Interaction often seemed like an impossibly daunting task. But if she wanted this cleared up, then she had to try and be as firm and composed as possible. "W-well, sometimes, we have to do some things ourselves," she replied shakily as she made her way downstairs.

As Robin waited sulkily on the doorstep, feeling very ridiculous and frustrated (what with having a leg halfway through the door as she sat, splayed over the entrance), the door opened once more. To her surprise, a heavily hungover Basilio greeted her. He had a white handkerchief in one hand—it looked suspiciously more like someone's cravat to Robin—and a stein of beer in the other.

"Ho, Daraen!" he yawned and belched. A fishy scent permeated the air and Robin held her breath instinctively. "Damn these pickled herring," Basilio muttered under his breath. He took a hearty swig of beer and wiped his thick lips with exaggerated delicacy before addressing her again. "What brings you to this neck of the woods so early this morning?"

"I'm here to see Olivia," Robin shrugged plaintively.

"You—wait, what?" Basilio's smile slipped a fraction. He then sighed and scrubbed his face with the handkerchief tiredly—he had seen this scene played out before. "Did Chrom send you here?"

"...Yes."

"..."

"Sorry for being a bother."

"It's not you," Basilio sighed. He opened the door with a look that could only be described as pity before he hauled Robin bodily up by the scruff of her collar. "You should prolly come inside—my ass is hurting just from looking at you sit like that."

"Thanks."

Basilio led her to a small parlour populated by cushy couches and warmed by a stone fireplace. They sat by a large bay window where they were immediately approached by a deferential maidservant.

"A refreshment, sirs?"

"Nothing too strong for Bubbles here, else he might pass out from all the excitement," a sly voice mocked.

Robin arched her brow at the lanky, freckled ginger leaning casually against the doorframe, a stick of chamber spice jutting jauntily out of his mouth. His clothes were better suited to skulking around dark alleys at night and his soiled boots were muddying the expensive hardwood floor, a fact that did not go unnoticed as he sat with them and propped his feet up on a frail side table. The maid sighed in resignation but said nothing and left.

"Bubbles?" Robin asked.

The man waved away her question nonchalantly. "Never you mind that," was his airy response. His narrow eyes were a bright, calculating green that surveyed her brazenly. "Heard Your Highness was here on some…'official business.'"

"I know you know," Robin replied evenly. "You were eavesdropping in the willow. Hard to be stealthy when I can hear you moving around on the branches. Or when you're trying to sneak in through the back and the fountain makes the grass muddy." She nodded pointedly at the mud dripping from his dirty boots.

Robin felt a twinge of unease as his eyes narrowed further; perhaps her answer was a bit too on the nose and she had offended him somehow. Her worries proved unfounded as the man snorted and clapped her hard on the back.

"This guy's a smartass, alright."

Basilio laughed in return. "You honestly thought you could hide from him? Nah, Gaius. They called him 'Six-Eyes' during the war."

Robin laughed nervously and gratefully accepted the cider the mute servant had returned with. It was a sensitive topic she was not willing to discuss with non-Plegians...at the very least, they thought it some sort of nickname often bestowed on soldiers of the type given to notoriety, instead of knowing its true origins.

"But what's a guy like you doing slumming around these here parts? Doesn't Blue have enough fancy servants on him to send instead of a prince? What'd he promise you?" Gaius weedled.

Blue? He probably meant Chrom. "Nothing," Robin said honestly. "I just promised I would help him."

"He for sure needs all the help he can get," Gaius muttered under his breath. Basilio snorted into his empty stein of beer as he reached for the cider. "C'mon man. Nobody does stuff for free. Nobody's that nice unless they're expecting something."

"And what do you think I'm expecting?" Robin countered.

Gaius rested his chin on a hand and shrugged. "Dunno. I'll find out sooner or later. Wanna talk this over lunch? You'll have to foot the bill, though."

"Gaius, you will do no such thing," a soft, tired voice sighed.

Olivia did not share her uncle's dark skin or his confident posture, but there was definitely a resemblance, even with the gauzy veil of her half-mourning clothes obscuring her face. Her hands clutched the front of her dress nervously as she watched them from the foot of the staircase. Excellus, that smug toad, was blatantly staring from behind the bannister, while a short, muscular, redheaded woman stood a little ways behind Olivia in a protective stance.

A slow smirk curled the edges of Gaius' lips. "'Sup Babe. Wanna join in? We got cider."

"No thank you. And uncle, what are you doing, drinking again? You're going to need a surgeon at this rate…"

"Relax Livvy! It's just the hair of the dog," Basilio grinned. "I'm trying to be a good host."

"Pickled herring is not the answer to a night of binging, and cider will make it worse," Olivia said exasperatedly. She turned to Gaius. "Please, he's half-dead already. Can you take him upstairs to rest?"

"I'm not an invalid," Basilio complained.

"And why do I gotta do it?" Gaius chimed in. "We were having such a grand old time with Bubbles here."

There was a long, pregnant silence as Olivia's eyes turned to Robin expectantly.

Though she wanted to adjust her collar out of anxiety, Robin met her gaze evenly. Now that the lady of the house was here in the flesh, Robin could deliver Chrom's message and get it over with, the sooner the better, and to the mutual benefit of everyone involved. Olivia was probably sick of having to play games of artfully deflecting Chrom's unwanted attentions—he was kind enough to Robin and his subordinates, but snubbing men with his kind of power often did not go over well for women. Either way, Robin was determined to make this as quick and painless as possible.

But damn if the others had to make it so awkward with their staring.

"I was told y-you come bearing a message for the lady of the house," Olivia tried to control her voice.

"I do," Robin stood and bowed politely. "Might you be her?"

"...Well...if you could just state your business…"

"My message is for the lady's ears—"

"Look," the redheaded woman interrupted presumptuously. "We all know why you're here. That's nice of you and all, but we don't care how important you are, or even if Chrom himself sent you. So I'm gonna say it slowly in case you don't understand, and I'll tell you the same thing I told the others: you're better off just leaving."

"With all due respect, my message is rather short. If I could just say my piece, I promise to leave as quickly as possible," Robin smiled tersely.

"Then get it over with."

"It's for the lady's ears only."

The woman scoffed. "Of all the—look, if it's more of that lovey-dovey hogwash that Chrom's too scared to deliver himself, then you're wasting your time here, like all the other chumps before you. And if you're wasting our time, then what's the point?" Sully strode purposefully to the doorframe and held it wide open pointedly. "Ready to set sail, sir? The door's right here."

Excellus had never looked so smug in the short time Robin had known him.

Thoroughly fed up with the astounding rudeness she had encountered throughout the so far very short day, Robin walked up to the redhead and squared off resolutely, noting that she was at least a head taller than the brash woman. "The sooner I get it done, the faster I'm out of here, considering how eager everyone has been to get rid of me so far."

The woman's nostrils had begun to flare dangerously. While Robin noticed the servants edging away nervously, her anger at being treated so poorly overrode her senses. She looked the woman dead in the eye and said, "So, no, I'll have to decline your offer, because this boat's docking here a while longer, little sailor." And then she reached behind the woman and closed the door with a loud slam.

Despite the redhead's impressively fast lunge, Robin managed to pull her head back just in time to avoid what might have been a devastating punch. As the servants crowded around the furious woman, and Basilio left his seat to try and help to restrain her, Olivia threw herself in the middle of the fray.

"SULLY!" She admonished. "Control yourself!"

"If that little bastard thinks he can get away with being a smartass, he's got another thing coming!" Sully grunted and strained against the people holding her back.

"Let's not start an international incident right now!" Basilio heaved her over his shoulder like a sack of flour; it only angered Sully more, and soon her face was as red as her hair as she beat Basilio's back and spat profanities. Excellus looked entirely too amused with the situation, and Gaius looked as though he was about to die from laughter from his seat.

Olivia, on the other hand, looked as though she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole. Mortified, she turned to Robin, hands clasped, eyes pleading. "If I agree to hear your message, you must promise me to leave so that peace can be restored here!"

"I'm sorry I interrupted your peace in the first place," an embarrassed Robin said.

"I think it's time for me to get some rest," Basilio started up towards the stairs with a still screaming Sully over his shoulder. "Gaius, mind giving this old man a hand?"

The ginger-haired man stopped laughing immediately. "C'mon, I can't miss this!"

"Gaius."

He sighed and joined Basilio at the foot of the stairs sulkily. "Fine." He turned to Excellus reproachfully. "Don't think you're gonna get to stand around here, Toady."

The very mention of such a name wiped the smirk off Excellus' face. "I need to stay put; why, if my lady requires anything—"

"She's got a whole houseful of servants, and she can go and scream for anyone she pleases. And besides, Bubbles said it was a private message," Gaius interrupted, relishing Excellus' increasingly sour expression.

The steward stared brazenly at Robin, wringing his hands just as Olivia did with the fine cloth of her dress. "Alright," he conceded grudgingly. Gaius did not budge until Excellus finally gave in and began to climb up the stairs behind Basilio. Gaius gave Robin an encouraging thumbs up from behind Excellus' back, and a relieved manservant closed the door on Robin and Olivia, finally leaving them alone.

The awkwardness of their meeting was punctuated by the solitary ticking of the large clock on the fireplace mantle. Robin scratched her nape, suddenly at a loss now that they were alone, and Olivia's hands migrated from her dress to picking at a stray thread on the cuff of a sleeve.

Robin looked askance at her. "I think that it might be best if we move somewhere else."

"O-oh?" Olivia replied, startled at being addressed.

Robin shrugged. "The others seem like the eavesdropping type."

A wry smile could be seen under Olivia's cloudy white veil. "They are. Y-you're rather good at reading others."

"So I've been told."

They stood in silence for yet a little while longer until Olivia interrupted their pause. "There's the drawing room a little ways behind here...we hardly use it anyways…"

"The drawing room it is, then."

The khatun led the way to a larger room decorated in the customary Ylissean blues and greens, making sure to lock the doors behind them. She bade Robin to sit with her on a set of chairs that were separated by a spindly tea-table stamped with the crest of house Ylisse. The heraldry was a pointed reminder of the task ahead, and both stewed a little while longer in their discomfort.

It was Olivia who took the initiative once more. "If you please…"

Robin swallowed nervously. "...Right." She stuck her fingers into her pocket discreetly to make sure Chrom's speech was still in there. "Though I'm supposed to recite a speech before getting to the point."

"What for?"

"Praising your finer points, apparently."

Olivia scoffed under her breath. "I'll let you get away with skipping the praise."

"That's too bad, because I spent a considerable amount of time memorising it. Chrom wrote it himself, and I think it's rather poetic," Robin frowned. She did not want to have her efforts go to waste.

Even from under the veil, Robin could see the lady rolling her eyes in open disdain. "That means it's more likely to be fake."

"No it's not," Robin insisted. "He was very earnest about it. And besides...I'm not going to let him make me do all the legwork, you know."

"But he's tried this before, don't you see? What's another messenger, then? What difference does it make, except for how exceptionally rude you were compared to the ones before you? And what difference will it make once you finally leave?" Olivia snapped.

"If I was rude, it was because of how poorly I was treated on arrival. Please...I come in peace. Once I explain myself, then you can finally rid yourself of me."

Robin was taken aback at Olivia's sudden display of anger. The khatun realised this as well, and brought a hand delicately to her face, suddenly feeling very sorry indeed. Basilio always said that it was unkind to take one's' anger out on the messenger; and yet here she was, as though she were an entitled, pompous lady and not one who had been taught better by her uncle and her parents.

"I...I'm sorry," Olivia apologised. "I...I would like to hear your piece, please."

"Thank you," Robin replied. She cleared her throat clumsily and wracked her brain for the appropriate words—it would have been incredibly uncouth to admit defeat and reach into her pocket for Chrom's paper. "'Most sweet lady—" She began.

Robin was interrupted by Olivia once more, in the form of a soft, barely discernible sigh.

"Pretty words!" Though her voice was low, the mocking tone was still heard. "He always tries to start off like that."

"His words are completely sincere, I assure you."

"He always sticks to those kind of openings. As though they were as immutable as the holy scriptures he reads for the masses he sometimes leads."

"Perhaps it's because those words are in the first chapter of his heart."

Olivia, shy as she was in fiddling with her dress and fidgeting in her seat, suddenly sat still as she regarded Robin attentively, her head co*cked to the side. "If nothing else, I can see that he at least thought you speak well."

"May I see your face?"

The pink-haired woman was surprised by the request. "Whatever for?"

"Perhaps it's because he really isn't that different from other men and chose you for your beauty. It could explain why he's so determined to court you even though you're so openly contemptible of him. If nothing else, he's decided that your looks are worth it in spite of your disdain."

"How would you seeing my face be so important, if you're so convinced of what he thinks?"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Maybe his love for you is clouding his judgement, and all he needs is a second opinion to get him to change his mind."

The jab was quite blunt and deliberate, and, while Chrom's thoughts did not really bother Olivia, it still peeved her that this upstart was openly goading her. She did not consider herself vain, and yet—

It was working. Her looks had been subjected to the implication of ugliness before, as she was a woman who had been witness to the envy and carelessness of others. No, what hurt was the fact that this self assured young man had outright said that her looks were but a mere façade for an ugly personality.

And that she could not abide.

So she very carefully took off her half-mourning veil, slowly peeling it from below to first reveal her lips, then her nose, then her eyes. Olivia folded the soft cloth and set it in her lap after having made sure that its removal did not muss her curls, and then she turned to face Robin squarely.

"Well?" She tried to hide the quaver in her voice, hoping that it came out strong. "Do I look like I'm 'worth it?'"

Olivia was in fact very beautiful. Robin was embarrassingly speechless as she took in the lady's long, pink hair, her heart shaped face, and the nervous flush that coloured her cheeks and the undersides of her eyes. Chrom had indeed fallen for quite the beauty.

"W-well?" Olivia pressed anxiously. Her words snapped Robin out of her light daze.

"I would say so," Robin admitted. "But now I've seen what you're like. You're proud. But you'd still be beautiful even if you were as proud as a devil."

"Did you come here to praise my looks, insult me, or both?"

"We both know what I'm here for."

Olivia heaved another sigh. She turned to look out the window pensively, as though admiring the well kept greenery of the garden and its flowerbeds, but in reality deep in contemplation.

"At my age I might as well be a spinster," she said. "The idea doesn't sound too terrible. Why even bother marrying? All anyone seems to care about are my looks and my relation to Basilio. 'Lady,' they moan, 'you'd be the cruelest woman alive if you were to die with no children left behind to inherit your beauty.' Oh, but I'm not a cruel person. I'd make an inventory of me," Olivia rolled her eyes at the very thought, "all labeled down to the last detail: a pair of lips, of an ordinary shade; two eyes, gray, with lids on them; a head attached to a neck attached to a body. That way, future generations can enjoy me for as long as they like."

"Look, even with my past words, I don't think Chrom would be so selfish as to care for you as though you were only a painting in some collection," Robin protested.

Olivia quirked her eyebrow skeptically. "Oh? Then how does he love me?"

"Well...he thinks of you often. He gets lost in thought over you. He sighs, and moans, and—"

Olivia heaved her longest, most drawn-out sigh yet, and reclined morosely in her chair, nervously fiddling with the thin necklace she wore.

"I'm not making much of an impact here, I take it."

"No, but you're more self aware than his previous messengers, at least. It's just...Chrom knows what I think. I...I'm sure that he's a very kind man. He's young, and noble, and very rich and handsome. And everyone keeps assuring me of his fine reputation, of how generous and educated and brave he is. Any girl would be lucky to have the attentions of a man like that. But...I can't force myself to love him. No matter how many people or gifts he sends...I-I just can't. And he should have realised that before you came along."

The only sounds were that of Olivia swallowing and the wind rushing through the branches of the willow. Robin pondered the situation, torn between her refusal to admit defeat and fail in her promise to Maribelle and Chrom, and the fact that the woman before her had spelled out, very clearly, her complete lack of enthusiasm towards the prospect of returning Chrom's affections. What to do? What to say?

Damn Maribelle and Chrom for putting her in this situation. Damn herself for foolishly accepting their harebrained proposal in the first place.

Robin exhaled loudly through her nose. "If I'd love you as much as he does, hearing such a rejection would hurt."

"I'm sorry, but you have to understand that there's little he can do about it."

Robin smiled wryly. "A lot of men find no sense in denial. They think that the best strategy is to expend all their efforts on small approaches leading up to one final grand gesture—a cabin of willow," she motioned airily to the tree outside, "built outside their fair lady's doorstep, where they'd write songs of unrequited love and sing them all night long, hoping that pity will stir the woman's heart for them." Robin let her head loll back onto the chair's top rail. "As if."

"You speak as though from experience. I find it hard to believe that a man, especially as one as young as you, could speak so...eloquently on the subject." Olivia co*cked her head to the side questioningly."

"Didn't you just say that you thought I spoke well?"

Olivia blinked owlishly, then covered her mouth to hide her tiny laugh and blush. "I did." Her smile broke some of the tension in the room and Robin reciprocated it. "I-I did hear that you're visiting royalty...I-I hope I'm not being too rude, but honestly, why are you doing this? Running matchmaking errands for Chrom seems so...below you."

"Chrom has been very kind to me and has shown himself to be a man I can trust. It may seem silly, to do things like this, but...I feel that this is the least I could do for him."

There was a hidden depth to those words that piqued Olivia's interest.

Robin noticed the longer shadows stretched out across the floor and the furniture, noting that it was past breakfast already. Feeling hunger gnawing at her insides and acutely aware of just how long she had spent trying to fruitlessly win Olivia over, she stood and bowed her head deferentially. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, milady. I think it's best if I take my leave for the time being."

"I'll see you out—wait, 'for the time being?'"

The Plegian shrugged sheepishly. "As much as I want to respect your wishes, Chrom doesn't seem like the type of man to give up on matters of romance. Whether we want to or not, you might see me back here again soon."

Olivia frowned. That single-minded boneheadedness sounded like Chrom alright…"And you can't just put your foot down and refuse him?"

"Like I said, I owe him a debt."

The servants were conspicuously absent as they crossed the foyer to the threshold, and Olivia graciously held the door open for her guest. "As much as I dislike these kind of audiences...I appreciate your honesty, milord…?"

"Daraen, milady. Likewise; as strange and awkward as this has been, it has been a pleasure to talk," Robin replied courteously. The wind ruffled her white hair and she turned her eyes skyward, noting just how late in the day it was. It would do well for her to ask the cook for a late breakfast. "The next time we do see each other, I hope it's under more pleasurable circ*mstances than this."

As Olivia watched the strange young man walk across the castle lawn, a most peculiar sensation settled at the bottom of her heart. She was so engrossed in watching him leave that she ignored Sully bursting out from behind the parlour door with a very annoyed Lon'qu and Excellus in tow.

"You seriously didn't buy that load of crap he spewed back there?" Sully demanded.

Olivia had no answer.

Chapter 7: Motley in my Brain

Chapter Text

Despite having been gathered in the same place but a few days ago, Robin felt as though ages had passed since the last meeting. And yet, the scene was identical to the last: Chrom in his deep blue livery at the head of the table; his ministers forming a u-shape around him in their seats, followed by Robin and the Feroxi on the right side of the table; the Rosannois on the left, and the Valmese completing the ring on the opposing end of the table.

The tension was also the same. The Valmese and Rosannois squared off, glaring, and the Feroxi also had their eyes on the former. Meanwhile, the Ylisseans were doing a poor job of pretending to mind their own business, glancing at each other warily, with some barely even disguising the burning looks sent Robin's way.

She fought the urge to shrink into her seat. It was an excellent reminder of how she was quite literally the only Plegian in the entire castle.

Chrom, looking tired and exasperated due to the early hour and the grossly obvious misbehaviour of the present company, did not even bother to put on a polite mask and dragged a hand down his haggard face. "As the moderator, I'm going to speak plainly: I'm going to put the first issue to a vote—" he rapped his gavel sharply when voices rose in protest, "whether you all like it or not. Now then," Chrom pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. "Redevelopment of cropland, general reconstruction, compensation, and the application of law are all on the table...as is the issue of budgeting. Which one are we going to discuss first?"

Robin thought hard. Valentine was nowhere near subtle in his intentions towards pushing for harsh, swift criminal punishment—preferably with a few men swaying in the gallows before the week ended. Falstaff seemed unlikely to be as obviously bloodthirsty, but she was counting on him to hide his cards and bide his time until the right moment presented itself; he wore the face of a nobleman, but to Robin, the glittering red eyes of the pit vipers she had encountered in the Plegian deserts sprang to mind.

She was not opposed to the application of justice, but certainly not in the sweeping, generalised fashion her opponents thirsted for. Her only option was to stall until she could formulate a plan that would keep the innocent from the noose's reach. That, and the whole point of the peace summit was to keep the interests of their nations at the forefront; many were certainly baying for her blood as they spoke, but Robin knew that personal vendettas and national anger would not be able to feed and clothe the needy.

She raised her hand slowly, very conscious of everyone's eyes on her. "I would like to vote for the first point of discussion to focus on the reconstruction of cropland and the distribution of foodstuffs."

The rustle of shuffled parchment filled the room. Valentine, always eager for a fight, immediately jumped into the fray. "Might I inquire as to the reasoning behind it?"

"People are starving. Therefore, food must be provided to them."

"We are aware of that," Valentine smiled. "But I must say that it is rather...presumptuous to assume that the crown has not undertaken any measures. Perhaps our time would be better used to discuss the other topics on the, ah, 'to-do list.'"

Robin raised an eyebrow and steepled her hands. "No one objected to it in the previous meetings, and Chrom himself asked if there were any. Therefor, I must conclude that it is seen as a discussion to be had. Aside from that, the…things I saw on my journey towards Ylisstol were horrendous…I cannot pretend that they were mere figments of my imagination. If the crown has indeed taken steps as you say, then I can only conclude that they are far from adequate. Inefficient, even."

The comment cast a pensive pall over the gathering; a few Ylisseans ranged from looking worried to offended at her comment. The shrivelled prune she remembered as Ó Fearghial coughed roughly and spat out an enormous glob of phlegm to the side before resuming the conversation. "I do not understand. We have seen to the distribution of grain earlier in the year. Is that not enough?"

"He might have a point," the bearlike minister of Lands and Waters—Fabian Trengrouse, Robin reminded herself—admitted grudgingly. "The people did take the grain, but they needed to after they blew through their winter stores. And now that spring's here, the fields either lie torched or fallow," Robin tried to ignore the few accusing stares, "and most of the farming equipment thatwasavailable before was used up by the farmer conscripts. While the weather is fairer, it's not of much comfort when we have to scramble to prepare for this year's harvest."

"Or when so many peasants have died." Valentine glanced at Chrom slyly.

"We don't have much luck in the food department either," Basilio added. "What with snow nine months of the year, and that's in the areas closest to the border with Ylisse. The few warmer places under our control aren't in the, ah, best of shape."

Valentine propped his chin up with a slow smile. "But do tell us of your proposal, Your Highness. Surely you have somebrilliantidea up your sleeves to save our starving people?"

Apparently, his tone was a little too obviously mocking, for his words earned him a sharp look from Chrom along with a loud rap from the gavel. The apologetic bow of his head belied the obvious delight he took from his prodding.

"Well…aside from the monetary compensation that is expected…then surely we can send food convoys—"

"With all due respect, Your Highness," Falstaff's interrupted smoothly, almost as if cautiously. "Unless your mage corps are skilled enough to cast the largest warp circle in all history, then I doubt that any sort of convoy will be able to arrive in a timely manner with enough foodstuffs to supply everyone in need. That is not even considering having to travel over entire mountains to aid Regna Ferox."

Robin swallowed. Valentine smirked. And the scratching of quills continued, unabated.

They were right, though. The affected regions housed most of Ylisse's populace as well as some of its most fertile areas; transporting entire bales of straw and fruit, not to mention driving thousands of heads of cattle east, would be time consuming and intensive, and there was no reliable guarantee of the precious cargo arriving on time and without spoiling when starving people needed itnow. And yes, what of Regna Ferox? The mountains were in a near-constant state of harsh snow, and the crossing extremely treacherous. Was there truly no solution to be found?

"Hmmmm," the large, burly man with a red shock of a beard and hair—Urquhart—hum-growled loudly. "If I remember correctly, I think Miriel was—"

"Don'tbring that crackpot's nonsense into this," Valentine snapped.

Chrom brought the gavel down with a sharp bang. "She is most certainlynota crackpot. I put her in your workshop for a reason." The prince's expression was thunderous and his voice just as loud. "I'm warning you, Daveth. If I have to remind you to behave again, then you can be sure that I'll take the necessary steps to discipline you."

Valentine slumped sullenly in his seat, his bluster and bravado suddenly gone. "I apologise," he muttered.

"Do you understand?" Chrom pressed, his tone hard and unyielding.

"Yes," Valentine glowered right back at him. The tension between them crackled visibly, a thin string drawn taut, ready to snap at any moment.

Robin watched the scene play out before her with undisguised discomfort; Chrom had every right to reestablish his authority over his minister, but there was something more personal to their confrontation…clear offence taken over the crackpot jibe. Who was Chrom defending? A friend? A Shepherd? Both?

Robin was not the only one to have noticed the implications behind their fighting words, clearly, but most seemed to have taken most note of Valentine's moodiness—conduct unbecoming a man of his rank, and a minister, no less. Alpine was whispering, shocked, to his older brother. Pheros narrowed his eyes in disapproval. Even Falstaff, clearly not a man given to overt displays of public emotion, gave a little side glance in Valentine's direction that spelled nothing short of disappointment.

Cervantes cleared his throat in an attempt to get the conversation back on track. "Rosanne boasts of its green fields constantly—surely it won't be much to ask the same favour of them?"

Du Berry scoffed incredulously. "While we appreciate thekindnessof Walhart and his dynast allies for deciding against torching them because they were so useful to their cause, you forget there is still an ocean separating our continents,sir."

"If you're so keen on asking Rosanne about food, why not give it to us yourself?" Basilio added. "You guys don't look like you're starving…I daresay you look more well-fed than most of us here!" The khan laughed boisterously, and Cervantes' belly jiggled, outraged, as he spluttered and tried to fire back a retort.

Pheros, ignoring the petty banter around him, addressed Chrom directly, quill at the ready. "If I may ask your Minister of War, who is this Miriel he spoke of?"

Valentine coughed obnoxiously in reply. Chrom scowled, nostrils flaring dangerously, fingers at the gavel's handle. Urquhart shared the sentiment and glared at Valentine in warning before returning Pheros' address. "A mage under Valentine's employ. An eccentric, for sure, but she's got quite the brain. She mutters about all sorts of things and tinkers with anything and everything, so perhaps she might be the one we need to ask about the logistics of warp spells and such."

"If I may interrupt," Valentine asked carefully.

Chrom's stony stare fixed upon him and waited for a few silent seconds before responding. "What do you wish to say?"

The minister ran his fingers through his wavy pink hair, mulled over his next words, and glanced back warily, if still churlishly, at the prince. "With all due respect, I have her occupied with other projects to attend to, and I have several other more highly-ranked mages at our disposal instead of having to rely on one woman who does not have the years of experience they do."

A Feroxi delegate named Miloah spoke up. "But sir, the general vouched for her skill, perhaps she can solve the issue of time—"

"Time that can be put to better use thinking up of a solution weneedinstead of wasting it on spells and casting techniques that may take even the most learned of men years to develop." Valentine's smile was tight and brooked no further discussion. The mood, now thoroughly soured, filled up every corner of the boardroom as the men broke off into smaller groups to murmur to one another before Chrom sighed resignedly and called a recess.

This so called Miriel certainly sounded like a genius for those men to refer to her when thinking of magical solutions…but why would Valentine oppose a referral to her? He called her a crackpot, but in spite of that, his stubbornness over the issue seemed to transcend any personal pettiness felt towards her—and Chrom. What could possibly be the reason to block any discussion of using warping magic to transport desperately needed foodstuffs across the border? What other alternatives could he have to it?

Why, none of course, a little voice in Robin's head said.

Well, why not? Did he not care about his countrymen dying of hunger?

Think about it, Robin. In the short time that you've known him, what has been made abundantly clear about him?

That he hated her and spent a great deal of his breath trying to insult her and hamper her—Plegia's—progress.

What has he been shown to want so far?

A couple thousand, if not most, Plegians executed for war crimes. To make them suffer.

Short of killing Plegians and feeding them to hungry Ylisseans, what exactly do you think he is trying to accomplish here? What do you think he will demand so that it will hurt you and your people?

Of course.

Valentine was stalling against mentions of teleportation magic as without it, it would mean a long, arduous journey: not only would the convoys have to cross perilous terrain and face nature's wrath, but they would have to be defended against bandits and hungry Plegians, angered and desperate at the sight of food not meant for them. More people would starve to death waiting for food that would arrive anywhere from 70 to 80 daysat best. And if more people died, then it would certainly be easier to weaponise the fury of outraged Ylisseans and demand more in compensation. If Plegia failed to deliver, then it certainly would not seem disagreeable to demand cold, hard bullion to pay for the expenses incurred from it.

Yes, Valentine thirsted for the sight of bodies on a pyre and the gallows, but it seemed that he was also more than open to squeezing every last coin from Plegia's coffers.

Robin made a beeline straight to a familiar head of blue hair. "Chrom! Chrom!" she called out and waved frantically.

He was almost out the door, surrounded by his cabinet, and with the ever-present Frederick hovering protectively close by. Chrom bid them to step aside to make room. "What is it, Daraen?" Though transparently hungry and tired, his genuine concern never failed to feel rather touching—and touching he did, placing his heavy hand on her shoulder. "You're looking a bit worried here. Everything well?"

Robin looked him square in the eyes and wasted no breath. "Where can I find Miriel?"

With naught but a roll of bread to assuage the hunger gnawing a pit into her stomach, Robin set off towards the mages' workshop as fast as her legs could carry her;it was imperative that she find Miriel immediately and bring her back to the councilroom, roll call be damned. From the way they spoke of her, it was very likely that she was not only the solution Robin needed, but the only solution Robin could find, especially on such short notice. For smaller, but less altruistic reasons, Robin was also intensely curious about this so-called Miriel; Robin and Daraen were recognised as prodigies and innovators in the field of magic, but not for practical, everyday applications. Perhaps there was something to be learned from her brand of knowledge.

And besides: the look on Valentine's face once he saw what Robin had done would be an immensely satisfying sight to behold.

Now if only she could find that workshop…

Robin turned the corner too quickly and, after nearly crashing into one of the colonnade's stone pillars, righted herself and continued down the hall with a stream of muttering. So focused was she that a passing servant girl had to jump out of the way lest she be mowed down by all 160 centimetres of disguised princess.

Wait, Chrom had said it was close to the kitchens, did he not? Or was it the library? No, he had mentioned the kitchens…or had he?

She groaned and dragged her hand down her face. She was lost, then. And she hadn't much time before dinner ended and her presence was required back at the boardroom. What to do, what to do—

"Ah!" Robin spied a pair of guards keeping watch over the library door and hailed them. "Excuse me!"

Both were relatively young. Their eyes widened in surprised recognition before they remembered their manners and bowed in appropriate deference. "Your Highness! How can we be of service?"

"I need to find the mages' workshop immediately—please."

The tallest of the pair stifled a snort. His shorter companion harrumphed in warning, and raised his arm to point to his right. "Turn the corner here and then go straight down. You'll come across a cloister with a red door at the end. It's…hard to miss."

The poor boy had scarcely finished his sentence before Robin took off with a small gust of wind, rattling the windows in their casem*nts, and pushing back the astonished guards slightly. "Thank youuu!" her exclamation, carried by the wind, echoed loudly within the confines of the cloister.

"…You're…welcome?" The short guard readjusted his uniform, perplexed. He certainly wasoddfor a prince…

There it was! The red door door, just as promised! The cloister housing it was rather plain, with nary a window in sight, nor was there a patch of grass at its centre like she had seen in the other parts of the castle. The door, strangely enough, had no knobs or knockers to indicate where it opened or announce someone's presence. Perhaps a magic spell was needed? Was there a bell to be rung? Should she knock?

She did, then. Silence greeted her, and Robin tried again, rapping on the wood three times in quick succession.

More silence.

"Come on," she growled in frustration. "I don't have much time!"

"You don't have much time for what?"

Robin blinked as some of the wooden panels in the door slid away with a rhythmicclack-clackand a skinny beanpole of a cat stepped out. Its fur was short, pitch black, and silky smooth. Its only discernible facial features were its enormous, fiery lantern eyes, blinking slowly back at her as it sat down and curled its tail neatly around its feet.

"Er…" Robin began. She cleared her throat somewhat self-consciously. "Hello. Were you the one that spoke?"

It blinked in response.

She looked around in increasing desperation. Goodness, she could already feel the sand in the hourglass start to run out, she could just see the smug smirk perpetually stuck to Valentine's face should she return, empty-handed, to explain her absence.

"I-I'm looking for Miriel," she explained and gulped nervously. "I was told I could find her here?"

The cat, of course, stayed silent and perfectly still.

If the cat was evidently not much of a talker, then who was the one that spoke to her? Was it from inside the workshop? Was Robin supposed to provide some sort of password to gain access?

Well, Robin most certainly did not have any sort of password on her person, nor did she have more options at hand and she was beginning to feel more than a little queasy.

Robin got on her knee and looked very deeply into the cat's eyes. "Look," she said, extremely seriously. She refrained from touching the cat on the off chance it took offence to the gesture. "I don't have a lot of time. I've only heard about Miriel today but what I did hear has me convinced that she's my only shot at fixing something very big and it could go very, very badly for thousands of people if I don't. If you know where she is, or you can take me to her, I would appreciate it very much." She paused and breathed in deeply. "Please?"

"Alright," the voice spoke again, though not from the cat. It stood up and scratched lightly at the door until the whole thing retracted up into the ceiling, as though it were designed like the one back at the bridge. Sparing only the briefest of glances back at Robin, it disapeared under the awning and she took it as her cue to follow.

The workshop's interior displayed an interesting, if disjointed, dichotomy upon presentation. The space was neatly segregated into two halves: one was tidy, well swept, and its mostly middle-aged mages almost claustrophobically confined to their workbenches as they pored over massive tomes and scribbled away a dizzying array of complicated formulae in tight-handed lettering. A large globe of ominously glowing runes revolved slowly on a lone bench. All of it was done in silence. It seemed as though one would be escorted out before they even got the opportunity to sneeze over their snowy white parchment.

The other half, on the other hand…

Robin felt the corners of her lips twitching up into a smile even as her eyes burned from the sheer amount of colour invading the space. To her, it resembled an artist's studio more than it did a workshop of magic. The floor looked as though countless buckets of paint had been spilled on it, creating a richly patterned mosaic almost as chaotic as the activity swarming it, with people of all shapes and sizes rushing to and fro between several projects at once. Whimsically shaped glassware snaked its way around many benches as the mages manning the chemical stations poured potions down the tubes and jotted down their results. An old woman whizzed by, trying to chase down an errant teapot that had somehow been magicked to start flying about. The fun kept going in the back as Robin spied a man teaching a gaggle of children of all ages the finer points of transfiguring a rat to the size of a small pony.

"I've never seen anything like this," Robin breathed in amazement.

"Mother says it's a very unique sort of situation," the voice from before piped up. It belonged to a young boy, tall for his age, with short, fastidiously combed blonde hair and the dark gray and black uniform of the mages in the shop. "What is it you seek her for?" he queried as he stooped to pick the cat up.

"What's your name?" Robin returned the question.

"Laurent. Andyou'rethe prince of Plegia. We've all heard about you here. Lord Valentine doesn't like you very much."

"So I've seen…" Robin rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"You seek mother for what purpose?" Laurent went straight back to the point.

"Well, I heard from Minister Urquhart and from Ch—PrinceChrom that she might possibly know of a way to devise a special sort of warp portal that could very useful to our interests."

"What kind of interests?"

"Helping to feed people and keep them alive."

The gravity of the situation fully impressed upon him, Laurent nodded and turned, beckoning Robin to follow. "Mother says knowledge for knowledge's sake is necessary. But she also says that knowledge for the sake of the common good is a prime directive of any self-respecting researcher."

"Your mother sounds like a very wise person, Laurent."

"She is," he nodded sagely.

The woman in question occupied a bench directly underneath a massive apparatus that hung from the ceiling, looking as though someone had hammered two hilariously floppy canoe oars to a hollowed out gourd with a doorway and a window carved out of it. Her bench was overflowing with hills upon mountains of books and paperwork, with a pointed hat rather like the one her son and Ricken wore perched precariously on the highest stack. A small puzzle-box floated before her, constantly rearranging itself as she recorded her findings into a slim hornbook.

"Greetings, Your Highness," Miriel said before she had even finished writing and only turned to face Robin when she was done. "It is quite the honour to witness your arrival to the workshop." She stuck a finely shaped hand out to her.

Robin blinked in expectant confusion.

"You are supposed to shake it," Laurent admonished gently, as though he were talking to a small and slow-witted child.

"It is quite alright, Laurent," Miriel said, unfazed. "I forget that Plegian greeting customs must certainly differ from our own, though I do recall Lord Valentine becoming cross at such a gesture anyways, as he claims it is beneath nobility and unbecoming of castle staff. I must enquire as to the proper protocol then, for I seem to be grounded in a constant fugue state over such matters."

"…It's alright," Robin assured the pair. She tentatively took Miriel's hand from the wrist and shook it rather weakly, unsure of how to perform it properly. "The pleasure is mine. I've not heard much about you, but what I have heard was enough to convince me to seek you out."

"Might I inquire as to the reason?"

"Prince Chrom and Urquhart say they have heard of your research into warping," Laurent replied precociously in Robin's stead. The cat wriggled out of his grasp and settled onto a stack of papers, seemingly uncaring as it teetered dangerously under its weight.

"I see." Miriel set down her hornbook and adjusted her wireless spectacles. Her gaze was piercing and calculating as she studied Robin from over their rims. "Your Highness believes there is merit to my research, then, as you have come here to seek me out."

Robin assented. "We share the belief that your findings can be of great benefit to the people of Ylisse."

"And can assist the proceedings of this summit."

"Yes."

Whatever else Miriel was about to say went unspoken as a great banging and clamour from a side door—another red one—interrupted the workshop's atmosphere of concentration, replacing it with the sweat and musk of tired, shouting warriors flooding inside, evidently having finished up their afternoon drills. One of the largest of the herd was a tall, dark-skinned man hefting a mangled mass of metal and wood underneath his left arm. His stride was confident, he was laughing and joking with his fellows. "Honey!" he bellowed. "Where's my super arm?"

"Your what?" Miriel said, appearing only slightly baffled.

"My super arm, woman!" he guffawed and perched himself right onto her workstation, uncaring of the stacks of pages and journals that his weight threatened to unseat from their already precarious position. The cat allowed him to scratch its ear and blinked placidly.

"I see your activities have resulted in the destruction of yet another prosthetic."

"Aw, I didn't mean to, hon," he gave her a puppy-eyed look in apology. Her husband—for the man was undoubtedly her husband, given the way he spoke to Miriel, and especially judging by the fact that Laurent possessed the same blonde hair—reached out to take her hand in his, and Robin was struck by the sheer difference in size between them. "But you know how training gets. All that blood and fightin' spirit just goes rushin' up to my head, yeah?"

"Yes, I have borne witness to your many feats of strength and the total state of disinhibition that incites them." The mage took the wreckage from him and began to assemble it as neatly as she could over her own mess, with Laurent producing screwdrivers and picks from his tool belt to assist her. "But fear not. The constant stressors applied to my creations serve their own purpose: they allow me to build upon my previous designs and correct what have proven to be miscalculations, be they through my own lapses in judgement or even common flukes."

"I still don't understand a lotta those big words, but gods do I love hearin' ya talk."

Miriel's labour was quick, diligent, and precise. The warriors' raucous banter died down after most had dispersed to the benches in Miriel's half of the shop; Robin saw that a great deal of them were missing limbs, or even chunks of their bodies, and were being attended to by the mages who inspected their prosthetics for damage and provided regular maintenance.

Miriel's husband had no right arm—a scarred, veiny stump was all that remained. This man had clearly fought on the front lines. The sight of the war injury brought back the images of the dead piled on pyres in the countryside. Of thin, hungry children staring with empty-eyed longing. Worse still were the brief flashes of the battlefields, and Robin had to suck in a hard breath through her teeth and force her knees to keep from buckling.

Her struggle did not go unnoticed.

"Kiddo!" Miriel's husband said lightly. "Take Seeley out, wouldya? I don't want him tryin' to play with my loose nuts and bolts again and bothering your mother while she's working."

"Yes father," Laurent replied dutifully. The boy unstrapped his tool belt from his smock and stored it in a wicker basket hidden under the bench, then stood on the tips of his toes to pull the cat down from his perch. Seeley meowed in plaintive protest, but resigned himself to the interruption of his sitting time and was carried out of the side door. Presumably both could enjoy the fresh air and some much needed play-time.

And it left Robin with a sudden feeling of being too exposed.

"The name's Vaike," the muscular blonde said after a long silence. There was little friendliness in his address. He did not extend his hand out in greeting like Miriel. "You probably don't give much thought to smaller folk like me, but I'm a survivor of the Fall."

The Fall? Where on earth could that have possibly taken—

Oh.

The lump Robin tried to swallow was hard, painfully so, and felt worse under Vaike's unflinchingly direct gaze. She had just come to fetch Miriel in the hopes that the mage could pledge her assistance towards a feasible food aid clause in the peace treaty…and yet here she was, being confronted with—no,by—the results of her wartime tactics.

You have no business being surprised,the awful little voice in her head whispered.What's more…youdeserveit. Take a good hard look at him and ask yourself why you aren't feeling sorrier.

"His Highness had come seeking me out," Miriel thankfully interjected. She had finished piecing together a phalange and had moved on to shaping the knuckle attached to it. They were wonderfully designed and articulated, Robin thought. "He says he is interested in my research into warping magic and believes it could be of great benefit to the summit's progress."

"Well good! My Miriel's got the best brain around these parts, so of course she'd know!" Vaike squeezed her hand again. His eyes never once left Robin's, tingeing the display with overprotectiveness more than it did with praise. Excessive? Yes. But, unfortunately, understandable.

"I must admit that being approached by a man of his rank, and in his unique position to influence the outcome of such a historic peace treaty no less, is flattering. That word of my research has reached the ears of noblemen outside the confines of the Ylissean court portends an auspicious new chapter for my future as a woman of science," Miriel said calmly. "Beyond its implications for science, however, are also the practical applications that can be employed for a variety of purposes beyond the bellicose. I feel that this is an opportunity to be taken."

Vaike expelled a forceful breath through his nose, torn; it was clear he loved his wife and wished to support her various endeavours, but extending that support to the (wo)man who was less than indirectly responsible for his terrible war injury? Or even the deaths of comrades?

Could they place their trust in a chief architect of war?

"I am not requesting your authorisation," Miriel stated, resolute.

"I know," he sighed. He swallowed thickly and took her hand, more likely for his own comfort than hers, and brushed circles over her knuckles with his thumb. Vaike's gaze was still set upon Robin. "And I'll leave ya to it. Better not get in the way of your work and all that."

"Thank you, dear." Miriel squeezed his hand back and set about tidying up what she could, placing the appropriate wires and screws in a labelled compartment box, and carefully draped a canvas sheet over the rest of the prosthetic's remains before returning to Robin. "I shall not take long, and I promise to be back before supper."

"Don't worry about me," Vaike grunted, stepping down from the table's edge. "I'm done for the day so I'm just gonna spend it with Laurent." He kissed his wife and started back towards the side entrance. "I hope that guy takes advantage of your smarts and doesn't use 'em to murder more people, hon!" he called back before the door slid open for him and engulfed him a square of brilliant afternoon sunlight before sliding back shut.

With Vaike gone, the workshop's atmosphere reverted to a somewhat hushed mood, even on Miriel's half, if not for the sounds of mages working; there was, however, an uncomfortable sensation following Vaike's outburst, coupled with the staring…either surreptitiously, from the corner of eyes pretending to look elsewhere, or brazenly head-on.

Amazing how you've not yet gotten used to it,the little voice seemed to roll its own eyes.Suck it up.

"Ready when Your Highness is," Miriel announced when she had finished gathering up the relevant journals and a quill, and donned her pointed hat. Robin merely nodded wordlessly and followed her to the entrance, waiting for the red door to slide open as she mulled over Vaike's words.

The walk started out in silence. It felt comfortable enough, but even so, Robin was suddenly struck by a bout of loneliness. Chrom was very kind to her, as were Lissa, Ricken, Maribelle and her husband Donnel—but those were very few compared to the rest who were (rightfully) angry and resentful towards her and Plegia as a whole.

She was directly responsible not just for the loss of limb, but for the loss of life and love, too.

"I notice that my husband's words have disturbed you," Miriel interjected. "I apologise in his stead."

"It's alright…it's not as though he doesn't…have a reason to feel that way."

"Of course. It is folly to attempt to merely forget the dead. And your actions have come with an insurmountably high cost."

The cool bluntness stung. Robin, biting her lip, turned her head so Miriel would not see the tears pricking her eyes and feigned interest in a pegasus fountain they were passing by.

"However—" the unexpected, almost hesitant weight of Miriel's hand on Robin's shoulder startled her; when she whirled around to face her, she was not even aware of the small tear that escaped. "My initial skepticism when Lord Chrom spoke so highly of you, in light of recent events…seems to have been erroneous. Capitulation, humility, remorse…these are all rare qualities in the highborn, especially within those who have commanded battlefields. And the fact remains that it is you who sought me out rather than the reverse. You are a perfect stranger to me…though perhaps Chrom's words have a greater weight to them than I had expected. I look forward to working with you, Your Highness."

Robin said nothing. There was nothing to be said, really—the impact of those words spoke well enough. She wiped the tear and allowed herself the tiniest smile as they resumed their walk, silently, with a newfound sense of camaraderie.

Valentine's face, previously alight as he tore into Robin for her tardiness, fell, delightfully so, as the heavy oaken doors opened for the pair and Miriel's presence was made apparent. The subsequent chaos, and Chrom's subsequent gavel pounding and shouts of allowing Miriel there to at least speak her piece andthat was final, made a little thrilling frisson run up Robin's neck as she realised she secured a major victory.

She intended to score many more after it.

And as the day ended, and the assembly prepared to vacate the premises to soothe their rumbling stomachs, Robin whispered to Miriel out of the corner of her mouth, "Call me Daraen, please."

Chapter 8: Honourable Ladies of the House

Chapter Text

For the first time in several weeks, Robin's awakening to the faint glimmer of dawn beyond her guest room's window was tinged with (slight) optimism instead of mounting dread. Mary greeted her with a sunny smile and a fresh change of clothes she changed into herself, as usual, and she went off to breakfast with a spring in her step.

Chrom was nowhere to be found in the dining hall; it was Frederick who sought her out as she was finishing her bowl of porridge under the cook's delighted watch.

"Milord Chrom requests your presence in his study." His brow wrinkled in distaste as Robin licked the oats smearing her lips away.

"Now?"

"Yes, it is a most—"

The cook interrupted with a hearty laugh. "Let the poor man finish his breakfast, Sir Frederick! He's only on his first serving!" She proceeded to pour Robin another heaping bowl of steaming shallot porridge.

Frederick, clearly dying to say something, stifled his words with a sigh and watched impatiently as she wolfed it down with her customary lack of table manners. He snatched Robin up from the back of her collar the very second her spoon began to scrape the bottom of the bowl, and she was hauled off to her impromptu appointment with only enough time to wave back sheepishly at the cook as they left.

"You could be a little more gentle about it," Robin huffed once he released her. She licked the corner of her lips, still tasting the delicious saltiness of her breakfast, as she settled into a comfortable pace by Frederick's side.

"Perhaps," he replied tersely, "but my duties cannot wait, nor can yours. It would be wise to keep that in mind."

Annoyance crawled up the back of her neck unpleasantly and coloured her cheeks a bright scarlet. "Look," she ground out, "I understand that you do not like me. I'm not asking you to," Robin raised a hand when Frederick began to splutter. "But I don't think I'm being unreasonable when I ask for a little more confidence in me on your part. I know I've a lot of work to put into the summit to fix what I've done, but frankly, your 'concern' is bordering onnaggingand it's starting to get on my nerves."

Frederick's face matched hers in colour after her statement, but he only harrumphed in response and they spent the rest of the walk in a thick, tense silence.

They came upon the doors to Chrom's study mercifully quick. Frederick nodded to the on-duty guards, who saluted him in turn, and he gave three strong and precisely timed knocks to the heavy wood. "Milord," he called out. "I've arrived with Prince Daraen."

"Oh, good!" Chrom's voice was muffled by the door. "Please let him in."

As soon as the enormous door was pulled open to the tune of the guards' strained grunting, a trio of hairy, slavering dogs burst out with an explosion of barking and yipping, bowling Robin over in their excitement. She was immediately assaulted by an onslaught of saliva and bad breath, helpless to stop them as they had her pinned to the floor.

"Boys! No!" Chrom rushed out and pulled one away as Frederick and the guards dealt with the other two—the dog gave Robin one last parting lick over her mouth and nose.

"They seem very nice," Robin hacked and coughed out a mouthful of dog hair as she was pulled to a standing position.

"I am SO sorry! I promise they're friendly," Chrom dusted off her newly furry doublet. "They just get so excited over guests, but I promise I've been working on it—no! Bad Toby!" He held his knee up to prevent the tallest of the three—a lanky wolfhound—from jumping onto Robin again. "He's the worst of the offenders," he glared at Toby. The dog's tongue lolled out of his mouth, dripping with drool, as his tail blurred from its vigorous wagging.

Frederick got ahold of his collar from Chrom. "I shall keep them under close control, Milord," he promised.

"Thank you, Frederick. Oh, uh, please, come in, Daraen! We were expecting you."

The study was a rather cozy place in spite of its size: a rich green wallpapered the first half before giving way to warm wood panelling; paintings of landscapes and still lifes and mythical creatures decorated the walls. A surprising amount of floral ornaments were arranged throughout, including the beautiful mouldings on the fireplace's mantel and header. A blue kilim of Plegian make sat under the blonde wood of Chrom's desk, and behind it, a large tapestry of the Ylissean Brand with Naga passant beneath it was displayed prominently. Robin was vaguely surprised that the room was not completely carpeted in dog hair as she was.

"Greetings, Your Highness," Miriel said. Her workshop uniform was exchanged for a simple beige dress with mutton leg sleeves and a white apron. Valentine, in spite of his far richer wardrobe, looked grumpy and dishevelled, greeting Robin with a perfunctory and ill-mannered grunt as she took her place by them. Robin chose to ignore it under the reasoning that, despite his rudeness, itwasearly in the morning.

Chrom himself was still in a dressing gown—Robin spied the remains of a hasty breakfast on a trolley tucked away in a corner. She smiled at the charming sight his tired eyes and bedhead made.

"Now that we're all here," he said as he took his seat behind the desk, "we can get to signing this and get it over with."

He pushed a single sheet of parchment towards them. Scanning it quickly, Robin read that it was a work contract—one that named her and Chrom as chief directors, Miriel as the main contractor, and Valentine as the supplier of labour and resources.

Valentine's face turned an interesting shade of puce. "With all due respect, Milord, I simply cannot agree to this. I can't suddenly deviate my mages to this project when they still have so much else to do."

"Well, I did remember that you mentioned these 'other projects,' so I took that into account when I wrote this up." Chrom pointed to a paragraph in the middle. "It says here that they'll devote half a workday to it, and the other half is reserved for their previous duties."

Cornered, Valentine's mouth made a fascinating, fishlike flapping motion. "I—Milord. Why must my workshop be commandeered so? Can I not nominate someone else to spearhead this—this proposal?"

"I would rather Miriel be assigned to it," Chrom smiled and steepled his fingers together in a gesture Robin recognised as him taking delight in Valentine's squirming. "Out of all your mages, she's the one who has the most and best knowledge in areas like warping, and as such, it would be in the treaty's best interests to have her working towards a solution that will bring Ylisse the food aid it needs."

Robin wanted to die of laughter. The minister's lips were now pursed tightly as though he had sucked on a lemon.

"I am humbled and honoured to have been chosen for the position," Miriel added, seemingly oblivious to how her statement was the final nail in Valentine's coffin. "I look forward to working with your Lordships and that the fruits of our labour can be of great benefit to all."

Robin signed after Miriel, and held the stained quill out to Valentine once her signature was scrawled over it as well. He took it without further protest and signed with an elegant yet resigned flourish.

Chrom sighed a relieved, blustery sigh, and took the parchment and locked it safely in a drawer beneath his desk. "Well, now that that's settled," his chair screeched as he pushed himself back to stand, "you are all free to go. Thank you for your cooperation."

Valentine bowed his head and politely as he could and fled immediately. Miriel, unperturbed, repeated the gesture to the two princes and trailed after her superior at a leisurely pace.

Robin suddenly felt a stab of awkwardness, hanging around with seemingly nothing else to do now that her engagement had ended. Should she…stay? Take her leave? Chrom certainly seemed amenable to her company, but her presence seemed to be an unwelcome one according to Frederick's stiff upper lip.

"I was worried for a moment that you wouldn't make it, Daraen!" Chrom rounded his desk and clapped a friendly hand onto her shoulder. "Though I admit that it was my fault for mailing those missives so late at night, I was hoping you three would show up together. Everything alright?"

"Missives?" Robin asked, perplexed. "What missives?"

"Now see here," Frederick's sharp rebuke took her aback. "They were very clearly sent out; are you saying you never received yours?"

"No—?"

"What are you implying by that? How could it have not arrived?" Frederick scoffed. "It is clear that you have either lost it or you are simply unwilling to admit that you preferred to skip right ahead to breakfast to gorge yourself silly instead of paying attention to your duties!"

Chrom, with a tranquility so strained that Robin thought he was going to burst a blood vessel, placed his hand between Frederick's shoulder blades and leaned in as though sharing something confidential. "Fred," she heard him say very softly. "We're going to let him leave and we'll have a nice long chat after this. I want you to pay very close attention to what I will say, and I want you to keep that in mind for the rest of summit." He breathed in a deep, exhausted breath. "Understood?"

Frederick, to his credit, took this embarrassingly public admonition with a marked display of composure. "Understood, Milord."

"Good." Chrom was all smiles when he released his vassal and turned to address Robin once more. "I hope you've had a restful sleep! I had to spend most of my night writing that contract and get it done today—I wasn't going to debate it at the table when we'd already approved your motion in the first place! However unorthodox your methods are, they've certainly got us moving forward instead of getting stuck in some political bog."

"I hope that means you can get some time to yourself to sleep, though! I know it's not the healthiest habit as I do it myself, but you should get some rest after staying up all night," Robin advised.

Chrom sighed again. "Unfortunately, I have more audiences to attend to today, but I'll try. Thank you for your concern, Daraen." He clasped Robin's hands in a brief, yet warm squeeze. "I'll let you go now—I'd rather not bore you to death having you wait around as I change!"

Robin tried—and failed—to dispelthatparticular mental image, and made a miserably pathetic show of coughing into her sleeve to try and hide her beetroot face. "Ah w-well, t-thank you, Chrom. I'll just, uh…be on my way now," she gulped. "I have—have a lot of notes to take! So, uh, thank you!"

She made a mad dash for the door with nary a second thought, past the guards, down the hall, and finally out to the gardens until she realised what she had done: she had quite literally fled Chrom's chambers out of sheer embarrassment.

Oh that's smooth, Robin. Good job.

No!she rebutted. Yes, it was an extremely awkward and foolhardy thing of her to rush out without thinking, but she had to try and stop thinking in such catastrophic terms. Chrom would certainly never hold it against her, she reasoned, and besides, what was important was that she had secured Miriel's position as a key part of the food aid agreement along with Chrom. Valentine had lost this little spat and would certainly be more cautious about goading her so recklessly at the table as he had done for the past week.

And besides…Chrom still owed her for that drunken display in her sheets that night.

So! She would attempt to gear her thoughts in a more positive direction, Robin promised herself. She would march straight to the library, work on her notes and allow herself her allotted dinner break instead of ignoring her hunger to keep poring over books. She would work some more, and she would even permit herself the luxury of sleeping early for a change.

The sun was shining, her breakfast had settled comfortably in her stomach, and her efforts so far had paid off not only in her preferred direction, but by bearing delicious fruit in the form of a thwarted and puce-faced Valentine. Robin set off towards the library practically skipping—her bearing was of such vigour and high spirits that the groundskeepers and nobles walking the length of the gardens stopped to stare.

However, a particular passersby caught her attention.

Little Thomas, who she had not seen since the day she arrived at the castle, was peeking out from behind a column; his astonishingly red hair made his attempt at making himself inconspicuous a moot point. Robin felt a sudden rush of tenderness towards the child who had helped her settle in, and she decided to repay his favour with a short detour from her trip to the library.

"Hello!" she called out to him. "How are you?"

Thomas' face lit up as brightly as his hair. An awkward, shy little smile grew on his face like a little dawn sunbeam, and he returned her greeting with a short wave of his stubby hand.

"What are you doing? Where is your mother?" Robin prompted gently.

Emboldened, he left the safety of the column to talk—only to be pushed aside by a much taller child.

She looked not much older than Thomas, but to call her a 'little girl' felt wrong, as she was more than a head taller. Her neatly styled emerald hair and her authoritative stance—arms held akimbo, legs spread out, scowl in place—attested to a precocious and even imperious bearing.

"Thomas," she demanded, "why aren't you working? It's bad to not work."

He screwed up his doughy face, confused. "But it's playtime, Bridget…you said so yourself."

Bridget brushed away his point as easily as she did a strand of her pin-straight hair away from her eyes. "So? That doesn't mean it's right for us toconsort," her mouth formed the word carefully as though savouring a rare treat, "with people we're supposed to serve."

"Oh, but his Highness is nice!" Thomas's beautiful little smile returned. "This is the prince of Plegia. I got to see him up close when he came to the castle!"

"Hello," Robin said.

Bridget's stare was unnervingly cutting for a girl of her age. "Where are your horns?" she demanded.

Her words were a slap of cold water to the face, and Robin caught herself before she could splutter from the shock. "Mywhat?"

Nervous titters and flustered whispers echoed in the colonnade. Robin spied a gaggle of children, all similarly attired in the castle's colours just like Thomas and Bridget, pressed behind a column—a few hid their faces upon meeting Robin's eyes, afraid of being caught in the act or simply of Robin herself. She could not tell.

"Come on out now. All of you," she said gently. "What's all this skulking about like spies?"

The children stepped out hesitantly, their heads bowed. Their feet scuffed the flagstones and they shared timid, hesitant glances with one another.

"You were all misbehaving," Bridget admonished, as though she was not part of their little group, "so he'll eat you all now."

The children quailed. A little girl began to cry in earnest.

"Please don't eat us!" her older companion pleaded.

Robin balked at the certainty of their belief—just where exactly was it coming from? Who was telling them that she ate children of all things? "I can assure you all that I most certainly don't do that." She glanced questioningly at Bridget.

"A-and he doesn't have horns either!" Thomas piped up.

"You can see for yourselves." Robin kneeled and tipped her head forward to the little crowd. She very nearly started as a small pair of hands meshed themselves in her hair, searched, and retreated, only for two more to take their place.

"He's right…" a chubby blonde boy reported to Bridget wonderingly.

"So if he doesn't have horns, maybe he also doesn't eat kids like us?" the little girl stopped her crying to add hopefully.

Bridget, who had overseen the horn inspection with great interest, balked at having her convictions questioned. "My mummy told me that. And she wouldneverlie to me."

Thomas frowned. "But you just saw—"

"I don't care!" she snapped suddenly. "It doesn't matter! They're all bad anyways, and my mummy isn't the only one who says so! You've always been a stupid little boy for wanting to suck up and the only thing that'll get you is eaten and he'll use your bones like toothpicks and then your mummy will cry because she had such a stupid boy for a son. And it'll be no one's fault but yours because of how stupid and slow you are and I won't feel bad when it happens!"

Fat, silent tears began to stream out of Thomas' eyes once he had processed the full weight of her tirade, watery snot following soon after. Then came the sniffling—heaving, gasping breaths that shook his pudgy little body as he struggled to wipe his face.

The children stood, petrified, under the situation's heated thrall. Bridget's nostrils flared in self-righteous indignation as she watched Thomas cry.

Robin felt sick. Nevermind that the girl had essentially admitted to not caring over the veracity of such bald-faced lies fed to her by her own mother; Bridget had already come itching for a fight, but the way she turned on Thomas for disagreeing with her, and how quick she was to insult him so callously, shook Robin. Her stomach churned an ugly soup of shock, dismay, and steadily building rage.

And yet, she could not act on her feelings; memories she thought long buried and forgotten came rushing up to her mouth along with the bitterly caustic taste of bile.

"HEY!" a new voice shouted.

If actions spoke louder than words, then Bridget's bared teeth and incensed growl were a cannonball launched across the battlefield. Their latest arrival was either of a foreign mindset who was blissfully ignorant of such an aggressive language, or simply bold enough to disregard the warning shot and wade straight into the fray. She was a girl of Bridget's stature, but far coarser in appearance: her chocolate brown curls were done up in two pigtails with enough straw in them that surely an actual pig or two was hiding in there. Her blue smock was dirty and the knees of her breeches torn and frayed. Most surprisingly of all, the toy sword she held was almost as tall as she was, and was afforded a far higher standard of care in its appearance compared to its bearer.

"What are you doing here, Cynthia?" Bridget ground out.

"You left me behind, so I looked for you."

"Weleft you behind becauseyouare too annoying to be around. Justice Cabal is a stupid baby game and nobody likes to play it but you."

"That's not true!" Cynthia protested. "You're just too bossy to play it right."

"Am NOT, you're too stupid to play normal games so you can't play with us."

A fresh round of wailing from Thomas reignited with the mention of Bridget's favourite word. Cynthia's pigtails slapped her face lightly as her head whipped around to stare at the scene. Robin suddenly felt sheepish, kneeling in the midst of upset children, and had the oddest feeling that she had seen the Cynthia's intense brown eyes somewhere before.

"You're bullying him again!" Cynthia yelled indignantly.

Bridget huffed and stamped her foot. "He's just beingstupidagain! He's a crybaby who gets upset over anything and if he doesn't like it, then he can go play with you and your stupid baby frien—"

She was never able to finish her sentence: Cynthia had seized Bridget by her long, silky-straight hair and commenced a savage beating with her wooden sword, pounding the blade into Bridget's head with a ruthlessness Robin thought incapable in children of their age and size. The others began shrieking and howling, morbidly absorbed in the display of such violence.

"STOP. SAYING. THAT!" Each word was punctuated by increasingly ferocious blows until tears and mucus were pouring down Bridget's face, and the girl, blubbering pitifully, tried to hold Cynthia back by pressing her hands to her face and managed to get in a few hard scratches.

"Please! You're hurting me! " Bridget screamed.

Cynthia growled and grunted, undaunted and uncaring in her ceaseless assault. "You should apologise first!"

Somehow, Robin snapped out of the shocked fog her head was swimming in, hooked her hands into the back of the girls' collars, and forcibly wrested the two apart. Cynthia strained and screeched, still swinging her toy sword, and Bridget hid her face in her hands and wept.

"Let me go!" Cynthia panted.

"She hit me! She hit me!" Bridget sobbed.

"That's enough out of both of you!" Robin warned them in the best no-nonsense tone she could muster. "There'll be no more fighting today."

The children whispered in a little huddled mass, worried, wondering what this strange and frightening foreign figure was planning to do. "Are you going to punish them?" a lanky brunette queried.

At a sudden loss, Robin tried to think of an answer. She did not want to fuel whatever other notions of child-eating Plegians they possessed, yet she wanted to impress upon them an image of undisputable authority—one that would hopefully keep them from attempting violence upon one another in her presence.

That, and—she glanced at Thomas, who had taken refuge behind her legs—she would hate to overstep her presence any more than she had a right to, or a perceived one, anyways. Robin could think of a parent or two who would take personal umbrage at their child being subject to the orders of a Plegian, nobility or not.

She settled on a firm "that's for your parents to decide." She was relieved to have hit upon a response that worked well enough; the children stilled like rabbits sighting a dog at the mention of their parents. "Do any one of you think they'd like to hear that you've been involved in a fight?"

"No," they chorused in shame-faced unison.

"Then go. I'll be dealing with these three alone. I don't want any of you listening in while I'm at it."

The gaggle shared hesitant, tentative glances, unsure of their course of action, yet ultimately chose to heed her and slunk away chastened and meek.

A rush of confidence buoyed her. This was certainly not on the level of her victory over Valentine earlier, yet the satisfaction felt the same, having handled the fight in a calm, adult manner. It helped to cement her image as a principled ruler who knew how to diffuse conflicts with subjects of all kinds, even with those beholden to another.

Robin turned to Cynthia, Thomas, and Bridget. "Now, as for you three—"

"I hate you!"

Bridget's outburst stopped Robin in her tracks. "You—"

"Mummy is right about you people! All you do is cause trouble!"

Thomas peeked out at Bridget's tear-stained face from behind Robin's legs. Cynthia held onto him tightly and licked at a scratch near the corner of her mouth that had begun to bleed sluggishly, obviously dying to have another go at Bridget, but Robin's hand on her shoulder reminded her to stay put.

Bridget's eyes, in spite of being clouded by tears, burned with hatred. "You're all evil. I don't care what Thomas says, I bet you do eat people like uncle and I hope you justdrop dead!"Her last words were a forceful screech as she turned tail and ran, sobbing loudly as she went.

Robin's heart pounded awfully against her ribcage.She's just a child,she reminded herself in an attempt at calming the ache.She's angry and resentful. She's just parroting what her mother told her.

Just a child.

"Are you alright, Thomas?" Cynthia asked, patting his red hair.

He sniffled loudly, nodding a shaky assent. "Y-yeah."

"She's a piece of work, that one," Robin said. "But you—" she turned to Cynthia, "hitting others like that is most definitelynotthe right thing to do."

Cynthia huffed, clearly offended, and fired right back. "Why, because scolding her would've worked so much better?"

"Well, ye—"

"No! She keeps doing this," Cynthia stamped her foot. "She's a liar and a bully and a sneak and all the grownups say not to bother her. But it's never worked becauseshe'sthe one who comes to us! So if she keeps messing with me and my friends then I have to teach her a lesson so she'll stay away." Cynthia bounced the tip of her sword against the flagstones in an quick, agitated rhythm. She frowned at Robin. "And you—you're a grownup too! And you didn't do anything."

Robin froze. "I…"

"Bridget called him awful things and made him cry. She calledyouawful things and you didn't say anything. But when I do something about it, everyone gets mad, and I bet she ran to her mother to call me more names and go to my mother to rat me out because she's a snitch."

"You hit her very hard—"

"So that's bad but her saying that Thomas is stupid and you're evil isn't?"

Young as she was, there was a clear-cut logic to Cynthia's word choice. And judging from the exasperated weariness in her eyes, it was one born of not just repeated experiences of this kind, but of a deep-seated sense of upholding fairness. Could that be called justice? Perhaps. Cynthia's conviction surprised Robin, and shamed her, too.

Robin kneeled before Cynthia and lowered her head, humbled. "I'm sorry. It was—it was wrong of me to not correct that. You stood up for your friend, and all I did was watch uselessly on the side lines. I…I apologise for not stepping in when I was needed."

Cynthia looked fairly surprised, to see an adult (one of such high station, at that) bowed before her, asking for forgiveness; her mouth opened slightly as she stared agog at Robin.

"Wow Thomas," Cynthia said. "She's nice."

Thomas raised his brows, perplexed. "'She?' He's a prince."

"Oh. Right." Cynthia regarded Robin with a newfound sense of respect, studying Robin's borrowed courtly dress with great curiosity. She noticed the little girl fixated the most upon her white hair. "I don't understand. You're a grownup. And Bridgetnevertalks back to grownups."

"But you heard her, Cynthy," Thomas replied. "She doesn't like Plegians…"

The words Bridget spoke, still fresh in Robin's mind, stung as sharply as a hornet's bite, moreso due to how thoroughly poisoned the mind of a girl of Bridget's age had been. If that was what was being fed to a child, then what were her parents like?

Robin tried to shake such thoughts off. "I don't agree with your…methods,"she addressed Cynthia, "but that was brave of you. Not many would call others out, let alone stand up to them."

Coward,the snide voice in her head muttered.

Cynthia beamed proudly. "Mother and father taught me to always do the right thing." She swung her toy sword excitedly, forgetting its length and nearly catching Robin and Thomas in the face with its blunt edge. "And I wanna be a knight like them one day so I can save people, so I gotta practice being shrivelruss and not be afraid of anything."

"That's an admirable goal to have."

"Yeah! I practice with my friends lots! Me and Owain and Brady play Justice Cabal all the time so we can grow up big and strong, and we practice for all sorts of stuff, like killing evil trolls and rescuing damsels and riding and fighting bad guys."

"Oh, you're Brady and Owain's friend?" Robin was pleasantly surprised.

"Mhmm. We were playing 'fore I heard dumb Bridget screaming, so I knewsomethingwas up." She took Thomas by his pudgy little hand and began pulling him away unceremoniously. "You should come play too, Thomas! You should practice with us so you can teach villains a big lesson!"

Thomas shrank shyly. "But will Brady and Owain…like me?"

"Sure! And if they don't, then I'll make 'em," Cynthia crowed confidently.

Robin smiled to herself. Cynthia was certainly a raucous little girl, but her cheer proved infectious, and Robin simply could not find it in herself to stay upset for long. She watched the children jog lightly to the castle lawn, stopped, and turned to look back.

"Why aren't you coming?" Cynthia yelled.

Robin blinked. "Oh. You want me to?"

"Wellduh!"Cynthia rolled her eyes as though Robin had missed the most obvious thing ever.

Chuckling, Robin pulled herself up from her kneeling position and strolled leisurely to them, Cynthia impatiently urging her on with a little push to the small of her back to change her pace to a jog. Thomas gripped the hem of her robe anxiously as Cynthia led them to wherever she wanted them. They crossed the castle green, ducked past a colonnade, and entered a large greenscaped area Robin recognised as adjacent to the Feroxi guest quarters and the smithy. The castle stables were smelled before they were sighted: a handsome stone structure decked out in green and blue pennants, with stable boys and grooms hard at work mucking out the stalls and leading glossy-coated horses through a large guarded gate that presumably led to a private pasture.

Brady and Owain were head-to-toe sweaty and covered in the grass they now rested on together. A wooden sword rather like Cynthia's lay a few feet from them, but the small wand Brady was using was very much a real tool and not a play-pretend toy; he kept waving it, frustrated, over Owain's bruised knee, mumbling unhappily to himself when all it produced was a bright light.

"Oh, Cynthia's back!" Owain waved happily to the trio as they approached. Brady opted to flop back onto the grass instead of replying, covering his face to avoid disappointed tears from leaking out of his eyes.

Cynthia broke from the group to greet her friends. "I brought Thomas so he can play with us."

Owain grinned toothily. "Great! Does he wanna be the bad guy? We need a bad guy to practice on."

"N-no…" Thomas wilted at the suggestion. "I'm not a bad guy…"

"Then you won't be," Cynthia assured. She finally seemed to take notice of Brady's plight, sitting down cross-legged to poke him with her sword.

"Don'tdothat," Brady whined.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, ignoring his complaint.

"Nothin'," he muttered and rolled over to bury his face in the grass.

Owain sighed, exhausted. "His wand won't make my bruise go away and he's been trying for a while now."

Robin sat beside Brady and began rubbing his back soothingly—the unprompted action startled him and his red face shot up to look at her wonderingly, a few loose pieces of grass dotting his forehead.

"That's alright," she told him. "Magic is hard. But it's good to practice—it's how you get better at it, so don't give up just yet."

"But it's not working," he complained sadly.

Robin gave him a wry smile. "Of course not. It's hard. But that doesn't mean nothing is happening. You're at the age when most start, and I didn't get to it till much later, so I had a lot of catching up to do," she confessed.

The children shared impressed glances, astonished that an adult was confiding such a thing to them. It seemed too odd for adults to have struggled with something that now came so easily to them.

"Can you do healing?" Brady asked.

"A bit. Certainly not up to your mother's level, but just enough to work for me."

Brady mulled over his thoughts carefully, seemingly debating over whether to keep his words to himself or not. "Can you help me practice?" he finally blurted out.

"Of course. Mind if I take a look at your wand?"

Brady handed it over without a fuss. It was very obviously a gift from Maribelle—Robin simply could not see Donnel having a hand in its selection. It was a gorgeous, slim little thing made of ash wood, a handle of mother-of-pearl, and what was most likely her son's name inscribed in runes on the shaft. Owain sat himself down with a grunt and stretched his leg out, eager to see how it would work with a more experience mage wielding it.

"The trick," Robin tapped the wand against the bruised gently, "is to think about what you want themagicto do rather than what you hope thewandwill do. We use wands and staves because they are useful conduits—"

"What's a conduit?" Cynthia interrupted.

"Think about it as a channel. For example, an aqueduct is a channel for water to run through—"

"So that means pipes are poop channels!" Owain cackled. The children burst into raucous laughter over the dirty joke.

Robin cracked a smile in spite of herself. "Well, yes, you could say that. As I wassaying,"she fixed them with a mock glare, and the children shushed themselves with loud giggling, "wands and staves and tomes are conduits for our own power, since casting is difficult. Most people prefer to keep using them throughout their entire lives, though a few graduate to casting without the help of an item." She pointed to Owain's bruise, Brady looking on intently. "So you already know how to feel the magic inside you?"

"Yeah," Brady said.

"Think very carefully about how you want to use it." Robin placed the wand into his hand. "And think about it going through your wand and to the bruise. Think about how you want the bruise to disappear."

Brady screwed his face up, concentrating very very hard, his face turning red from his exertion. Nothing happened.

"Don't worry. Don't strain so much. Breathe slowly, relax, and just keep at it."

He sucked in a deep, deep breath and closed his eyes less tensely. The children all gathered around with bated breaths, eager to see whatever result could be produced; Thomas was seemingly of the idea that something horrible would happen, hiding his face with his hands.

The edge of the bruise started to fade lightly.

Owain cheered. "It worked! It really worked!"

Brady flopped back onto the grass, heaving a relieved sigh. "I can't believe it worked…"

"He should be our healer now that we're ready for Justice Cabal again."

"No fair!" Brady shot up, cheeks flushed, indignant. "I'm already the healer."

"Well, maybe he can be the villain, since Thomas doesn't want to," Cynthia said. "And I'm already the knight."

They were sweet, friendly children, and their intentions were wholly innocent, yet their words left a sour taste in Robin's mouth. "I wouldn't like to be the villain," she mumbled, crestfallen.

Cynthia scowled. "But we need a villain! If you're not the villain, then who?"

"Cynthia!" a voice called out.

The children stilled immediately. A very pretty young woman sporting the castle's colours (in a modified version of what the groomsmen wore) emerged from the stables. She had very long ashen curls tied back into a sensible braid, large brown eyes, and wore an expression of deep motherly relief as she ran to them. Something in Robin's chest shifted uncomfortably at the sight.

"Where were you, young lady?" the woman asked, not unkindly, yet very directly.

Cynthia had the sense to look sheepish as she scuffed her feet on the grass. "I'm not a lady. And I'm back, aren't I?"

"She went running after Bridget," Owain blurted out.

"Tattletale," Cynthia hissed under her breath.

"Cynthia," her mother—for she was obviously her mother, with that chiding tone she took—sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you to steer clear? Frankly, I'm a little tired of her mother demanding to speak with me over whatever new tiff you've had."

"But she called Justice Cabal stupid. Ihadto prove her wrong. And when I found her she was being mean to Thomas again. Ihatethat."

Cynthia's mother brought a finger up to her daughter's face, tracing the now healed scratches marking her cheek, under her eye, and across the bridge of her nose. "She's not worth all that," she murmured sadly. "And you know how upset it makes me and your father feel to see that you've been fighting again."

"Are you mad at me? Please don't be mad at me," Cynthia pleaded. She threw her arms around her mother's neck and buried her face in her neck. "I promise not to do it again…"

"We'll see about that later. For now, we need to head back—it's late and we're meeting your father for dinner." She gathered her daughter up and heaved themselves both up to a standing position, seemingly uncaring of the dirt her little girl was tracking all over her uniform; then again, she was most likely used to the muck and grime, given her occupation.

Brady and Owain immediately stood at attention, straight as proud flagpoles. "Can we come too, Lady Sumia? We'restarving,"Owain asked.

Sumia's laugh was charmingly amused, delighted even. "We would love to have you over, boys, but I did promise your mothers that I'd have you ready for them at this time."

"Aw," Brady visibly deflated.

"Please don't worry. I'm sure we can all get together soon to eat."

It was then that Sumia finally turned to Robin. Something about those doe-brown eyes was somehow simultaneously rather appealing yet wholly unnerving. As though she was trying to disassemble her and peer into her secrets; a look that was as full of wariness as it waspity.

Robin was not entirely sure what to make of that.

"Forgive my rudeness, your Highness," Sumia dipped into a curtsy. "I hope the children haven't been a bother. My Cynthia is quite the feisty little thing and she can be quite insistent."

Blinking, Robin remembered she had a mouth she could use. "Oh, not at all. I just…happened to run into them. I've made the ladies Lissa and Maribelle's acquaintance before and I've met Brady and Owain."

"Oh, I've heard—I mean," a soft pink coloured Sumia's face, "I was just about to bring the boys to them…I noticed that they're rather fond of you, and I-I don't suppose you would care to join us?"

"I'd be very glad to."

Sumia called the children to them after carefully lowering Cynthia to the ground, bidding them to follow as they began the short trek to the castle's main courtyard. The children chattered happily amongst themselves and laughed over their toys, expressing their eagerness to eat, with naught a care in the world. Robin was envious at such joviality and lightheartedness.

Sumia kept sneaking little glances her way that left Robin wondering: what exactly was she planning? What was she thinking? She mentioned Lissa and Maribelle in such a way that Robin knew they were far closer than being mere acquaintances, but there was a cautiousness—dare she say a shyness, even—to her demeanour that Robin was keenly aware of, and thus left to ponder over whether this new character would be as welcoming towards her as her fellow noblewomen.

Said women were taking in some sun with other ladies gathered around them on lawn furniture, chatting animatedly over their needlepoint and a small game of trump. Brady and Owain broke away from the group to run to their mothers, shrieking delightedly.

"Young man," Maribelle sighed as she and Lissa stood to receive them. "You must remember to use your words like the gentleman you are, instead of running around screeching like a monkey."

"I'm hungry, ma," Brady ignored her reprimand.

"No, first you acknowledge what I have said, and secondly, you must ask for your mealpolitely."

Lissa laughed. "I see they've been playing really hard today! Have our boys done anything naughty?"

"Nooooooo," Owain declared, unconvincingly wide-eyed.

Sumia shook her head lightly. "Oh, not at all. They had so much fun, and they even brought back a few friends." She gestured casually to Thomas and Robin.

Lissa spied the tiny bruise on Owain's knee and then glanced back to Robin. She shared the briefest look with Maribelle, seemingly able to share an entire conversation with just the slightest of gestures, and smiled brightly at the arrivals. "Well, I'm glad to see our boys have been in such good hands! They were hoping to see you again, Daraen, and they wouldn't stop talking about you last time so I know they'll talk our ears off over dinner right now!"

Robin flushed slightly over the ladies' titters and the way they played at a coquettish appreciation of "his" affinity for children, hiding their upturned lips behind ivory white handkerchiefs and turning their heads modestly. "I'm flattered to hear that. They're fine children—I can see where they get their charm from." The giggling was barely concealed this time.

"Flatterer," Lissa beamed.

Maribelle performed a perfectly executed curtsy, the white hem of her dress barely folding against the grass before she instructed Brady to bow (which he did, clumsily), and took Lissa by the elbow. "We would simplyloveto stay and chat some more, your Highness, but I am afraid that we've a previously arranged dinner, and our boys need a proper washing up," Brady ducked his head in embarrassment, "if we are to keep to our schedule."

"Oh, don't mind me. I would hate to keep you from your meal," Robin said.

Her rouged lips curling up into a soft, secretive curve, she curtsied once more. "Thank you. I do hope that you can accept a future invitation to lunch again; I've made sure to procure an excellent pheasant from the cooks for next week."

"It would be my pleasure."

The women took their leave and their children, with their cadre of whispering, glancing ladies-in-waiting following soon after. Robin thought it strange that Sumia did not follow them or go her own way; there was an odd look to her eyes that Robin was unsure of, and they shared an awkward, uncertain quietude.

"Um…" Sumia took it upon herself to break the silence. "I was wondering…I-I was hoping…would you care to join us for dinner?"

Robin had been in the middle of far more dangerous situations before, but there was something uniquely uncomfortable about the fact that she was about to share a meal with Frederick.

Robin had accepted Sumia's offer without thinking—food had always been a particular weakness—and followed her and Cynthia to their dwelling close to the castle gardens. The exterior was hidden in the shade of a cheerfully blooming lilac tree and well-kept beds of irises and lupines. It was rather rustic looking on the inside compared to the rest of the interiors Robin had seen so far, yet very cozy and homey. There were a variety of lovingly crafted details (crocheted throw pillows, furniture carved with equine features, knitwear in soft colours and handmade toys in a woven basket) that gave the whole place a warm, human touch.

Sumia seemed to open up now that she was in her domain, shedding the shy persona she had previously presented in favour of a talkative, smiling, rosy-cheeked image. She donned a white apron as she welcomed Robin and bade her to sit at the table whilst she bustled around in the adjacent kitchenette. Sumia prattled on about this and that as she gathered ingredients for their meal, and Robin wondered at the apparent lack of servants. Not that the place was in need of them; it was evidently very well cared for.

"Oh, you're back just in time, dear!" Sumia exclaimed to the door. Robin choked on her cup of mulled wine as Frederick, of all people, crossed the threshold and was received warmly by who were evidently hiswifeandchild. "I brought a guest over."

"I can see that," Frederick ground out.

And so their dinner progressed in an awkward fashion as Robin and Frederick mostly kept to their plates (a hot slice of meat and fiddlehead pie with a generous side of green onions and ramps), listening as Cynthia and Sumia provided most of the conversation. Sumia discussed her work at the stables, the newborn foal and expectant mares they were caring for, and Cynthia her day of fighting imaginary dragons and evildoers with the Justice Cabal.

"Was a wicked sorcerer the one who gave you that scratch? Or was it Brady or Owain?" Frederick, who had been quiet until now, asked pointedly.

Cynthia's smile dropped along with her face, unable to look her father in the eye. "Ummm…"

"We can discuss that later," Sumia began to clear the table briskly. "Cynthia, why don't you go out back and play some more before dessert? I'll bring up some strawberries from the cellar and we can have them ice cold and drizzled with honey, just how you like them."

"Okay." Cynthia seized the chance to postpone her father's questioning and raced out the back door. The spacious windows revealed a garden even lusher than out front and a lovely carved swing set hung from a blooming apple tree that Cynthia flung herself onto with unrestrained gusto.

In spite of the happiness the sight brought to Robin's heart, she could not help the jealous pang that followed; Cynthia had a childhood many would have given anything for.

Frederick was clearly dying to protest, but a sharp, exasperated look from Sumia's end quieted him. Even his wordless offer to help tidy up was rebuffed, and thus he and Robin sat across from each other in a forced, uneasily silent companionship as they watched his wife scrub their pewter trenchers and cutlery at an implacably fast pace.

When she finished, she sat at the head of the table and folded her hands primly before her.

"Now then," she began, "I have to admit that I had an…ulterior motive for inviting you here, your Highness, and I have to apologise for that."

"Sumia—"

"Please, not now. I need to finish," she cut her husband off. She took in a deep breath and continued. "I heard everything from Lissa and Maribelle."

Robin gaped at her with all the charm and verbosity of a fish left to die flopping on the riverbank. Was the arrangement she made with Chrom and Maribelle supposed to be kept a secret or not? Just what was going on here? "H-how many others know?"

"Just the relevant people, I promise. That would be me, Lissa, Maribelle, I guess Fred counts, and Sully."

Sully?The red menace who wanted to punch her the second they locked eyes? "Can I askwhy?"Robin sighed.

"Sumia, with all due respect, this entire plan in of itself is farfetched and harebrained," Frederick burst out, "and I see no good coming of it. I do not approve of what Lissa and Maribelle are doing, and I certainly don't approve ofyoubeing involved in their schemes, especially," he flung his arm out in Robin's direction, "colluding with men likehim."

"Frederick."Sumia slammed her hands on the table and her chair skidded back with a screech, startling everyone with her sudden, unforeseen display of anger. "I am not asking for yourapproval!"

Tension crackled between the couple: Robin was able to pick out equal parts exasperation, frustration, and a stinging resentment of sorts. This was clearly a sore point between them, and as much as Robin wanted to dig a hole and hide in it, being at the crux of their argument made it rather impossible at the moment.

Thankfully, Sumia's sigh brought her back down to her chair and ended the standoff mercifully quick. "I'm sorry. It's just—it's something that's been weighing on my mind lately. I don't want to fight with anyone. I just want to help Chrom."

"I apologise as well." Frederick reached out to take her hand in his; Robin was struck by the massive difference in size between his bearlike palm and Sumia's slim, ladylike fingers. "I too wish to help him, even if I disagree with your…methods."

Robin raised her hand tentatively. "…Can I ask just what exactly is going on here?"

Frederick and Sumia exchanged a quick yet heavy glance, and Sumia heaved another sigh, extricating her hand from Frederick's to steeple her fingers pensively. "Well, better to start with what you already know…that you're playing matchmaker for Chrom."

"I'm aware of that."

Sumia sighed yet again. "My point being that I don't think you've been given a very thorough explanation, I think, as towhyyou were chosen for it. I daresay you've already got your hands full with the summit…and while Maribelle isn't one for mincing words, she sometimes doesn't consider that the backstory is important to the plot, too."

Robin's eyebrows stayed put, belying the interest piqued by Sumia's statement. "…I'm listening."

Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, Sumia pursed her lips pensively before easing into the waters gently. "Chrom…is not in a very good position right now. He wasn't raised for the job like…like Emmeryn was."

The ticking of the winsomely decorated clock (a curious thing that produced a tweeting bird hanging on by a spring mechanism upon the stroke of every hour) on the wall underscored Robin's discomfort. Chrom was one thing, but mentions of his dearly loved deceased elder sister complicated things. There were still a lot of unsaid things to try and process.

Robin was not even sure how she felt over the woman, or what she felt towards her legacy.

"Even when she was still here, Emmeryn…well, she was a bit famous for dawdling on the marriage front. Her council pressured her to find a husband and produce heirs quick ever since the previous Exalt passed, but she would always push their efforts back or work on some other things to keep them away. And when she died…the only way I can describe what it was like here was pure panic on their end."

"But according to what I've seen and heard, Owain was born around that time, correct?" Robin pointed out. "Doesn't he qualify as an heir? What does Chrom have to worry about now?"

"Oh, we all wished that would be the case," Sumia said, ruefully. "But the thing is that, unlike Chrom, Lissa never manifested a Brand. At least, not a visible one like her siblings or—or your Highness." Her brown eyes flicked down to the bruised coloured sigil on the back of Robin's right hand; Robin hid it in the safety of her left palm out of self-consciousness. "And it seemed to be the case for Owain as well. His didn't show up until a year ago. The council wanted someone with a Brand to ensure a ruler that could use the Falchion and perform the Awakening ceremony. And even if his Brand would have shown up since birth, he's too young to take part in the Awakening."

"So those men wanted someone they could kill Grima's vessels with, huh? How lucky for them that we surrendered," Robin muttered bitterly.

Sumia lightly slapped Frederick's hand away just as he was about to raise it in protest. Her husband grumbled, but did not contest her action and leaned back into his seat. "Yes. But before that, they were determined to find a husband for Emmeryn to carry Marth's line and secure the throne. They'd already started on Chrom's prospects in the event that she would keep defying them." An acerbic press of her lips emphasised the fine lines around them, so young yet already starting to show signs of stress. "And with her death, and war upon us, they turned desperate."

The clock's ticking only served to make Robin feel more at ill-ease. "I don't mean to pry, but…how do you know all this? About Chrom?" Robin asked after a pregnant pause.

A soft, wistful nostalgia turned Sumia's eyes a misty gray, and her lips twisted into a wry, regretful smile. "We were courting. Once."

As awkward as Robin felt, knowing the implications that Sumia's past with Chrom held, she also felt a deep sadness for them. "I'm sorry," she said with complete sincerity. "It must have been a very happy time for you both."

"Oh, it was." Frederick's hand clasped his wife's shoulder in a show of reassurance. Sumia reached back to hold it, and Robin spied a matching pair of simple silver wedding bands glittering on their fingers. "We were—we've been friends for a long time. I knew him since childhood and I grew up with him, Sully, Maribelle, Cordelia…" she trailed off. "Even when I announced my entry to the Pegasus Knights, he was completely supportive of my decision. I was so clumsy back then, and I had zero self-confidence. I was the youngest child out of six. The other girls teased me over anything and everything, and my family didn't think I had much in the way of prospects." She sighed. "But from the moment Chrom told me he loved me, I was so happy, and I didn't care what the others thought. With him by my side, I felt I could do anything."

"And then what happened?" Robin prompted gently.

For a moment, it seemed as though a stray tear was threatening to spill out of Sumia's eye; a strong, reassuring squeeze from Frederick's hand brought Sumia back to her senses, and she wiped the corner of her eye with a rueful smile. "We were pressured into announcing our engagement immediately. We barely had any time to ourselves: everything down to the times we could have dinner together was overseen by the council. The other Knights—they began to resent me for my connection to Chrom. It affected my performance with them, and soon I was dealing with accusations of favouritism from them."

"I found out about them as soon as they were reported," Frederick was clearly sore over it, too. "Phila was a dear friend, and as their Captain, she saw it fit to share them with me. Their words were nonsense, of course."

"They didn't think so, Freddy. I had their relatives—someparents,even!—trying to start fights with me during practice drills, friends snooping around to find something unsavoury about my private life…there was one time I caught a servant looking through my linens and trying to plant evidence of unfaithfulness on my part."

So, in other words, their engagement was a nightmare. Robin felt nothing but sympathy for the poor young woman, and silently thanked whatever higher power that might have been watching that she was too young by Plegian standards to have herself forced into an engagement back then. "Chrom was helpful at least? That sounds like something he would have taken immediate action against."

To Robin's utter confusion and more than a little horror, the couple looked away to their sides and sucked in uncomfortable breaths. "Um…how to put this…" Sumia began.

"Milord Chrom has always been a very kind and thoughtful man, but he was far more naïve back then and not of much help, I'm sorry to say," Frederick supplied for her bluntly.

More naïve than he isnow? Robin wanted to groan out loud.

"It's not that he didn'thelp,"Sumia stressed, "but more like it was combination of things. Not only were his hands tied with constant council interference, but he thought, bless him, that he could appeal to their better sides with a chat and thought that would solve things."

Frederick hummed in agreeance. "He is always trying to see the better sides of others."

"And it didn't help, I take it," Robin deduced.

"It actually made things worse," Sumia murmured. "I started to get threats over running to Chrom every time there was an incident, and I felt so helpless to do anything about it. I kept my mouth shut and pretended everything was fine so I wouldn't burden him with more issues. I didn't want to be more deadweight to carry."

Oh, Chrom. Oh, Sumia.

"But the worst part was after Emmeryn died. He became a total mess," Sumia sniffled. Frederick immediately offered her a snowy white handkerchief to wipe herself with, and she accepted but did not use it. "Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, drink, or think straight. I took a nasty blow myself the day of the Fall—"Sumia patted her side absently; Robin had a sudden, vivid memory of watching archers shooting their targets that day, and thinking how slowly the feathers fell compared to the pegasi and their riders—"and I was completely bedridden for a week. The doctors said that it was possible I might not even be able to have children after."

Robin spared a quick glance to Cynthia playing happily outside, totally oblivious.

"Naturally, I became completely useless to the council overnight," Sumia said with a bitter smile. "I was told Chrom got hundreds of letters pressuring him to drop me and find a new fiancée immediately. But he was in no place to negotiate anything. He was too lost in grief."

"Chrom made a lot of unwise decisions during that time, unfortunately," Frederick added sadly.

Sumia exhaled. "He was so afraid of losing more loved ones that he—he told me I was to quit the Pegasus Knights and leave the front lines immediately. For my safety. And I broke our engagement over that."

"Why?" Robin asked. "Not that I'm saying he was right to demand that of you…but it seems like such a final decision to make."

The dimming light of the day cast a soft glow on Sumia's face as she turned to watch her daughter leave her swing to pick up a toy lance and wooden pony, her brown eyes turning that liquid, misty gray from before as her child pranced and charged with naught but her imaginary enemies to worry her. Years of previous hopes and fears, years of past hardship gave Sumia an aura of indelible maturity, and Robin felt awe at the sight. "Working with pegasi has always been my dream. Since as long as I can remember," she finally replied. "I loved him. I still do. But I was never going to throw my away dreams; not for the people calling me to step down in the first place, and not for him either."

"I'm sorry…"

Sumia reached out to take Robin's hand in hers, surprising with how her soft and delicate appearance disguised years of callused skin and damaged nail beds. "Don't be. Dwelling on the past constantly doesn't teach us anything. It just hurts," she reassured. "And besides: I always looked forward to sitting on the back of a pegasus more than I did on a throne." She wiped her eyes carefully and then turned to Frederick with a radiant smile. "And it's how I chose Frederick, in the end."

"Oh, you don't have to tell that story—" the sudden show ofbashfulnessfromFrederickwas shocking to Robin.

"But I want to!" Sumia beamed. "I know he seems like a killjoy and a wet blanket and a sourpuss—" Frederick's shyness immediately morphed into a displeased frown, forcing Robin to try and stifle her laugh—"but he nursed me back to health and stayed by my side the entire time." She grasped his enormous hands lovingly and ran her thumb over his thickened knuckles. The upturned corner of Frederick's mouth was totally new to Robin, and she wondered what was it exactly about Sumia that was able to bring that out in him. "I would've never recovered were it not for him telling me that he believed in me and supported me wanting to stay with the Pegasus Knights."

"And yet you ended up taking up a non-combatant's role."

"So? I'm still a Pegasus Knight! I'm just the primary breeder now—I'd rather leave the spear end of things to Cordelia."

"Ah, hold on," Robin was still trying to piece things together. "How do Sully and Maribelle play a part in all this?"

Sumia sighed for the hundredth time in that conversation, wracking her mind to try and find a way to condense what was clearly a long, impossibly tangled web of relationships. "How do I say this? We all had our little crushes on him growing up, and we had a falling out when Chrom announced we were courting…I'm so thankful it didn't last though, I would've hated to lose their friendship over something like that. But the thing is," her eyes crinkled anxiously, "after I broke things off with him and started seeing Frederick…he faced a lot of pressure of the council and basically tried to woo them in my place."

Chrom. You complete, utterly, f*cklessidiot. "And I take it that trying to use them as replacements didn't go down very well," Robin deadpanned.

"As well as a leaden wyvern," Sumia confirmed. "Sully's barely on speaking terms with him."

Robin considered this new information carefully. A long and complicated history with several women, all of whom he very nearly burned his bridges with due to his impulsiveness, fear of loss, and general naïvité made for a difficult job indeed, much more difficult than she had anticipated. Two of them had children whose age confirmed to Robin that they were conceived and born shortly after their mothers married, and right before the war ended as well. Adding to everyone's woes was Chrom's infuriatingly meddlesome council, and Robin wondered, not for the first time, if she was biting off more than she could chew.

"And how did he meet Olivia?"

"It sounds romantic, when you think about it," Sumia mused. "He saw her tending to the wounded and refreshing those who needed it in the battle before the war's end—it was love at first sight for him, apparently. He asked around and it turns out that not only was she the one who also helped secure the troops' escape from Plegia after the Fall, but Basilio is her uncle as well."

"And why her?"

It certainly was a difficult question to answer; there was no fault in Sumia delaying her answer as she hemmed and hawed for suitable words. "Well—she's obviously very beautiful; she's from a noble family with important connections, and it would work well to help keep Ylisse and Regna Ferox closer than ever. Other than that, I can only guess as to why her and not all of the other available young women who I know would be more than happy to marry him. I…I haven't spent much time with him lately to know his reasons."

"Sully is better equipped to explain that," Frederick added cryptically.

Robin leaned forward as if sharing a secret, and with complete seriousness, said "and why me?"

Sumia was somewhat at a loss for words. Robin patiently awaited a response; she remembered Maribelle's reasoning over choosing Robin, yet Sumia mentioned she did not think Robin was briefed sufficiently on the subject. What would she say? What was there to know that Robin did not?

Frederick, surprisingly, answered in his wife's stead.

"Milord Chrom believes that, as a third, neutral party, you will be disinclined to probe into his personal affairs the way his council has in the past," he explained, "and continues to do so despite Milord's attempts to push back.However,"and this was said with a distasteful, long-suffering sigh, "he believes it to be a way to foster closer relations between our nations, and prove to the rest thatbygonescan be left to rest."

It was a ludicrously convoluted plot that made Robin want to brain herself on the table's edge. Chrom was no tactician, that was certain, and his awkward, fumbling attempts at romancing a woman who had rebuffed his advances several times could have been solved by ceasing his pursuit in favour of a far more willing partner, or simply eliminating the foolish need for a middleman and attempting to talk to Olivia face to face for once.

But by the gods, did Robin owe Chrom. Robin owed Chrom an enormous debt whose depths were unfathomable to the average bystander in the whole affair. Stupid matchmaking plan or not, Robin was deeply touched by Chrom's trust in her, and was determined to repay her debt and honour that trust and by carrying out his wishes down to the dotted i's.

"Thank you for sharing this with me," Robin scrubbed her face tiredly, mentally exhausted from still attempting to processing the giant information dump she had just received. "It's a lot to take in, but I think I understand this mess better."

Sumia's curls bounced softly as she shook her head. "We're just looking out for Chrom. We'd hate to see him get hurt, and since he trusts so much in you, we want to do what we can to help you all out."

Her words were kind, yet settled into a leaden weight at the bottom of Robin's stomach as she felt a familiar mounting sense of dread.

How much more would she be hated if she failed at such a monumental task?

"Does Chrom know? About you all being involved?" she queried shrewdly.

"Milord has only a vague notion," Frederick replied, sourly. "But we would prefer to keep it that way in the event of a catastrophic backfiring, as the councilmen have decided that the involvement of former Shepherds in his personal life is not to their taste."

Oh, that's not a big obstacle at all. Nope. Not at all."I need to look more into these ministers, now that you mention it; I know a thing or two about meddling, but these men sound like they're on an entirely different level, and especially with such high stakes at risk during the summit."

"Perhaps another time," Frederick was curt. "We've spent a little too much time on the subject for my comfort."

Sumia took that as her cue to call Cynthia in for dessert. Robin herself was glad for the reprieve, and watched the little girl shriek delightedly as her mother brought out a bucket of gleaming, glossy red strawberries, fresh from the cellar, and a pretty silver boat full of golden honey. Frederick carefully laid out tiny forks and corrected their positions with his usual fastidiousness, then plated the berries into bowls decorated with flowers and fruits. Sumia did the honours of drizzling the honey over the strawberries, and gave Robin an extra heaping serving with a wink and a smile as Cynthia cheered her thanks and dug in. Frederick scowled and kept swooping in to wipe her stained face every few seconds with his napkin.

Robin had no idea of the fatigue that had creeped into her skin and settled into her bones until Frederick and Sumia began clearing the table and she was made aware of the sinking heaviness of her body and the way her eyelids began to flutter warningly. The next thing she knew, she had been pushed into the plush couch and a thick, woven blanket tucked over her snugly. She closed her eyes blearily and began to drift off slowly.

"Look at him," she vaguely heard Sumia say. "The poor thing."

"He doesn't need coddling," came Frederick's sigh. "He's a grown man."

"Oh Fred, he barely looks a day older than we started started our own training. Don't you remember how nervous and afraid we all were back then?"

"That was a long time ago, Sumia. He's 18, he can handle himself. They didn't make him their main tactician in the war for nothing—"

"You're not the only one dealing with losses," Sumia snapped. "We're all trying to mend and move on. And I know he did horrible things Fred—gods, do I know—butlookat him. He's trying so hard, he's making such an effort to make things right—you're being much too hard on him. Why don't you give him a chance?"

Robin was steadily sinking deeper and deeper into slumber, but had a vague image of Frederick rubbing his eyes with a tired hand. "You speak as though he needs a mother looking after him."

"Well…maybe he does. I always did know that Cynthia wants a sib—"

"Love, we can have as many more babies as you want, but the thought of having a son like him is, frankly, a bit terrifying."

They shared a chuckle right as Robin was lost to the dark. She did not feel Sumia's hand brushing her fringe away from her face, nor did she feel her being tucked in more snugly after her boots were removed. Most crucially, she missed Sumia's hesitant query:

"When should we tell him that Cordelia still has a crush on Chrom?"

Chapter 9: The Lady's Fee'd Post

Chapter Text

The sitting rooms of the castle's west wing, Olivia was told, had been personally designed by the late Exalt's spinster aunt. Poor childless thing that she was, she devoted herself entirely to decorating and planning and designing, and positively threw herself into rebuilding half the castle from the ground up after a fire during the early years of her brother's reign nearly destroyed the place.

Olivia certainly could not tell whether any trace of the woman's touch was evident, as it all looked like the rest of Ylissean architecture she had seen so far. It was pretty, at least: the coffered ceiling had the iris brand carved into the recesses of the wood, and the colour complimented the walls' paneling; the lone wall free of panelling was instead wallpapered in a tasteful flowered blue, and great care had been employed to make sure the shade did not overwhelm the furniture set that came in various hues of the colour.

The various wives, sisters, mistresses, and other assorted female members of the courts attending the summit were perched on their seats as a veritable menagerie of fashion and wealth. They cooed, preened, and peaco*cked over their damask silks, their crushed velvets, their taffeta and satins and gauzes and lace.

Olivia was content to sit on the cushion provided for the bay window and look out into the gardens below. She was no fool, though, and kept an ear on the general conversation; though it was plain to anyone with half a brain that the little get-together was devised by the men of the realms mostly in an effort to keep them entertained and out of their politicking, there was a silent understanding that, underneath the passing of finger-foods and exclamations of admiration over a lady's dress, this was also a form of power brokerage. Everyone present had a measure of status and a pedigree in some way or another. And beneath every smile, there was an attempt at assessing their fellows' worth, their connections, and to what ends they could leverage them to their own advantage.

Still, Olivia did wish that they would drop the façade of vapid fawning. They were all obviously women of good breeding who had been educated accordingly, yet there were only so many times she could stomach the same conversations of cosmetics and clothing and scandals. She missed her cultured discussions of humanities and the arts with her friends back in Regna Ferox. She did not particularly care for the gossip being passed around like the little tea breads and was becoming increasingly bored with each passing second.

If I hear another word about Lord so-and-so's latest tryst or Lady whatsit's daughter's engagement,Olivia thought to herself,then I would very much like to stab myself in the ears with a pair of knitting needles.

She had thought her fellow Feroxi would be more direct and forthcoming in the conversation, but, though no strangers to the world of frivolity and painfully structured etiquette, it seemed as though they were rather overwhelmed by their Ylissean and Rosannois contemporaries and elected to let them do most of the talking with but a few phrases thrown in. Their characteristic honesty would have been taken as blunt and rude given the current subjects.

Olivia wondered if things would have looked differently with Plegian ladies present, or even invited to the castle at all.

And speaking of Plegians…

"I can't believehe'shere," a blonde Ylissean hissed. She stabbed her needlepoint with a viciousness uncharacteristic of the dainty persona she had previously presented.

"Who?" Her friend, who had been much more interested in her snack, discreetly wiped her lips before returning to the conversation as though she had been paying it mind.

"That Plegianfreak."

"Must you spoil the peace?"

The blonde narrowed her watery blue eyes at the offending character: a stern looking Valmese lady with a pince-nez framing a set of grey eyes that stared coolly back. "He already spoiled the peace by being here."

"If we'd have wanted to hear grievances being aired out about your neighbours, then I daresay that we would have done better to sit in on the men's conference. Please. Let us stick to more appropriate topics," the Valmese woman admonished.

But it was too late—the very room seemed to lean in on the little scene with an inhalation of anticipation. The air was now thick and tense once the issue of the Prince of Plegia was brought up, their polite veneer having been stripped away over the thought of such controversy in their midst.

Sides were being picked at the very moment.

"The subject was bound to come up sooner or later," a Feroxi woman—Tullia, Olivia remembered—said rather uncouthly, if at least honestly.

The blonde Ylissean jumped right back in now that the subject had been broached. "He should have never have come," she insisted. "Lord Chrom was a fool to allow him, and now we'll all suffer for it."

"Sufferwhat?"the Valmese lady scolded. Her eyepiece and critical gaze made quite the schoolmarmish impression on the assembly. "I cannot seem to comprehend how is it that the presence of a mere boy apparently portends such catastrophe as you say, or how he is able to reduce ladies of your stature to such a state. "

The blonde, previously content to put forth her best impression of a put-upon waif, dropped the act in affront. She narrowed her eyes at the apparent challenge. "I take it, then, that you approve of him? You wish to make friends, hmmm?"

"Far be it for me toapproveof the lordling of a group of uncivilised desert-dwellers." The Valmese woman's glare was witheringly cold in response. "But here I was under the impression that the nobility of thisfinecountry was above such maudlin displays and would exercise more restraint, instead of trying to moan about how much they dislike their neighbours to any person that will listen."

The blonde's nose quivered and flared in deep offense, and her mouth opened to fire off a retort.

Thankfully, a fat young Rosannois interrupted before a fight could break out. "Pardon me!" she said. "But I cannot seem to comprehend what is it about your Plegian neighbours that inspires such—how do you say in your language—animosity! Surely they need to be here, given the circ*mstances?"

The room dissolved into a flurry of discussion, with women clucking and crowing and talking all over one another in an attempt to get their version of the facts through, and for a second Olivia briefly lost her hold on the conversation. What she was able to make out were a few Ylisseans explaining the bad blood between the two countries: their shared history, stories of war atrocities, and anecdotes of Plegian misbehaviour whose veracity Olivia doubted of. A particularly pious old woman very sternly recounted the religious basis of their mutual grudge and why worshipping Grima meant eternal damnation for the heathen souls who believed in such wickedness.

"I say!" another Rosannois interjected. She was wearing a cheerful pink gown that complemented her pale peach hair. "I am not entirely sure what to make of all this if there are no Plegians here to share their side of the events," she pointed out sensibly.

Her statement proved deeply irritating to the Ylisseans. "What's there to say? You all heard of the horrible things they did during the war—and the one before! How exactly will 'another side' excuse all of that?" the blonde snapped.

The peach-haired girl, displeased with such open aggression, looked away to a side and bit her lip. "Well…what if they say the same about you?"

"Preposterous! How on earth areourpeople in any way as comparably bad astheirs?"the pious old woman from before scoffed.

"'Calamity for the fly is good fortune for the spider,' I was always told," was, surprisingly, an Ylissean's sage answer. She cleared her throat before continuing. "I can't say I know many Plegians myself, but there is a point to considering their perspective—especially since I think we can all agree that they most likely say the same things about us." Her face changed with a sudden, sly twist of her lips. "And I daresay that's rather rich coming from you, Lady Compton, what with all theinterestingthings I've heard about your husband's conduct on the battlefield—"

The old woman—Lady Compton—and the blonde drew their ruffled feathers up in a reproachful rustling of silk and lace. "You mind your mouth about my husband, you," the former hissed.

"I'm just saying that there's something uniquely interesting about a woman who thinks that Plegians eatchildrenof all things seeming to not care a whit about her husband engaging in a spot of baby-hacking before lunch—"

"That scoundrel Lord Chrom has somehow decided is fit to be harboured within our walls is a war criminal and should be tried as such for all that he's done. My husband is a noble man dedicated to the good of the Halidom. But somehow it's him who gets tossed to the dungeons instead! It is completely unfair—"

"Pfffffffft. As if awarof all things were ever just or fair except to those few who gain from it!"

Olivia was treated to a cacophonous symphony of squabbling women and sighed to herself as she continued staring out the window, growing even more tired of the situation. The gardens looked so inviting and refreshing, and she was increasingly desirous of taking her leave to enjoy a cooling stroll in the hedge-labyrinth and admire the fastidiously tended flower beds. Anything was preferable to being cooped up with ladies whose costly garments and fanciful perfumes belied their all-too human natures.

But Olivia could not lie to herself—the subject matter still kept her more interested in the goings-on of the room more than she cared to publicly admit.

A lull in the politically charged argument thankfully came up. Another Feroxi, going by the name of Bice, took that as her chance to speak up. "I daresay I'm rather surprised by the prince. From what I heard, I was picturing a tall, muscular warrior…but the actual person is quite small." Titters from the audience accompanied her words.

"I too, was surprised," a very fat Ylissean with a grandmotherly look to her said. "But what I have seen so far waspleasantlysurprising! I was told things like, 'oh, he is very horrid and imposing,' but seeing him in the flesh, well, he was a rather polite young man!"

"And he is so good with children," her friend gushed. "I was out with Princess Lissa and the duch*ess, Maribelle, the other day, and he showed up with their boys in tow. I do think that it is a very good sign that he seems to quite like Her Highness and milady, but after we retired for our dinner—well! Those boys could not seem to stop talking about him!"

"If I remember correctly, I did hear that he is interested in children of his own one day."

The last sentence brought about a remarkable change of atmosphere in the room.

A Valmese woman with an extraordinarily long chestnut braid tapped her chin thoughtfully with her closed fan. "He's a bachelor…isn't he?"

"He is," Bice confirmed.

"And ifIremember correctly, he is a bachelor who is also poised to inherit a rather impressive fortune," Tullia added.

Slow, tentative murmurs and whispers ran the length of the room: the sound of careful calculations and planning. Olivia could practically see the cogs turning in the women's heads as they carefully went over the significance of those facts—and what they possibly could mean for them.

An Ylissean woman with one of the most expensive looking day-dresses of the lot offered her take, fueled in part by her evident fondness for the sherry offered to them along with the tea breads. "Well well…if that doesn't sound like quite the catch!"

"You're joking, right?" The blonde from before was completely astounded by the sudden show of interest.

"What's there to joke about? Young, rich, and single…it helps that he's good-looking," the tipsy lady stroked the lusciously long purple ringlets framing her flushed face and giggled.

"If he were to marry, whoever he chooses not only will have access to Plegia's coffers, but it also means having control over a sizeable part of the continent and its main trade routes to Valm," a middle-aged Valmese woman stated very matter-of-factly.

The room's noise rose in pitch, with ladies eagerly sharing their opinions and thoughts in a whirlwind of talk. The women were divided: those who staunchly stood against Prince Daraen and anything Plegian, and those who were rather keen on marrying into power and wealth. The ones who remained indifferent to the situation, or those who leaned in one direction or were not wholly committed, were a little more difficult to spot.

"I've heard he's got his eye on someone, though. Right, Livvy?" Tullia obviously meant it to be light hearted teasing, but Olivia still cursed her all the same as the entirety of the room turned its attention to her.

A haughty looking Rosannois sized her up with barely disguised disdain. "You're Khan Basilio's niece, are you not?"

Olivia, still painfully shy even after years of etiquette training, could barely muster up more than a whisper. "…Yes."

"Hmph. Well, I can see why Duke Virion chose you. Not bad looking at all, at least."

The way she spoke of Virion was nothing short of contemptuous, and Olivia noticed how the air around the Rosannois seemed to sour at the very mention of the man. Sully, who stood guard at the door along with the other attendants, breathed in very deeply and clenched her jaw tightly.

"So, Virion is interested, hm? And the Plegian too?" Though her tone was supposed to be of curiosity, the way the peach-haired girl raked her eyes over Olivia and the slightest curl of her lip indicated that her mood was decidedly negative. Olivia, her neck hot and prickly, said nothing.

The Valmese woman with the pince-nez from before scoffed. "How is it that he has been here for a few days at most, yet the rumour mill is already churning out nonsense?"

"But it's not nonsense." This time the speaker was Fabiana, a Feroxi noblewoman who, for some reason or another, had always had some sort of grudge against Olivia. She wore a smile like a cat who just found a canary just as easily as she wore the kohl that the newly rich of Ferox seemed to favour. "We all saw him coming 'round for an audience with her in the early hours of the morning some time ago."

The whispering increased. The atmosphere shifted once more; some of the women looked to Olivia with curiosity in their eyes; others, with stony-faced disapproval; and yet another part with envy and suspicion. The heat migrated from her neck to the rest of her body, and Olivia suddenly felt cholicky and faint.

Social events were never her forté—worse were the ones where she was put on display as the centre of attention, like when her parents would host lavish birthday parties for her and her brother as children, or when she was the star attraction of a performance. But memories of hiding behind her mother's skirts as wealthy strangers presented her with piles of gifts and sweets or being applauded onstage were infinitely preferable to the discomfort of being sized up by a room of distrustful elites whose gossip could potentially ruin her reputation.

Olivia had to tread very, very carefully unless she wanted to suffer the consequences of incurring their ire.

"You are a dancer, yes?" the peach-haired Rosannois questioned her again.

"Y-yes."

"That must be why. Virion was always very much a man of the arts." The way she phrased it made it seem as though she was talking less of noble entertainment and more of something disreputable—Olivia could not tell if her antagonism was purely towards Virion, or if she was also looking down on her dancing, as she had heard that, while the arts were widely patronised in Rosanne, the people who produced them were not considered with the same appreciation.

"As a dancer, I'm sure she loves the thought of entertaining two men at once!" Fabiana remarked snidely. "It must be so nice for them to enjoy a performance during peacetime instead of needing to be constantly refreshed on the battlefield."

Feroxi were supposed to stand their ground and challenge those who would dare to antagonise them. Theirs was a warrior culture that strongly valued confidence and personal strength—but Olivia had neither of those. She was best characterised as a timid, shrinking violet whose level of courage amounted to only being able to make direct, sustained eye contact with close family members and servants. Anything more challenging than that was usually enough to force her to flee.

And so she did, Fabiana's nastiness having been the final straw. She silently picked up her skirts and made her way to the door with her head held low and her neck burning in shame, the women's whispering chasing her out the door and adding heat to the fire. The refreshing air in the gardens did little to dispel it.

"Those bitches." Sully, loyal as ever, was right on Olivia's heels from the moment she saw the young woman stand up. "They'll whine and moan about how much they hate being at court 'cause everyone is so catty and mean, and then they'll turn right around and stab you in the back if they're feeling bored." She spat out a glob that landed in the flowerbed they had been contemplating.

Olivia said nothing. She was still mentally torturing herself over her cowardice back at the ladies' gathering, over Fabiana's smugness, and over the certainty that rumours of her involvement with Prince Daraen would be all over the castle by now. Equal parts of dread and shame filled her to the brim. No doubt she would be treated to another one of Basilio's "pep talks" at supper, and it would end as they always did: with his words falling on deaf ears, Basilio most likely thinking she was a disappointment to the Feroxi way, her internalising it, and everyone coming away feeling worse for it. Olivia wanted nothing more at the moment than to run back to her parent's villa on the coach and hide there for the rest of her days.

Then she remembered that her parents were dead, and she slipped further into her melancholy gloom.

Suddenly, a flash of white caught her eye.

The men had let themselves out for their recess from the summit, and their voices grew louder as they streamed out into the gardens for a brief stretch before returning inside for dinner in a private hall. Olivia pulled Sully with her and hid behind a column, nervous of making her presence known.

But if the men were out, that meant Daraen was there, too.

Her curiosity outweighing her fears, Olivia dared to peek out from the safety of the column.

Daraen's clothes were obviously borrowed and of a too big fit on him, yet his posture was easy and relaxed as he leaned on the balustrade of the arcade and watched the others. His calm expression betrayed no hint of his inner thoughts—Olivia wondered if he felt any trepidation whatsoever, given his precarious situation in Chrom's court, and if he was ever lonely, being the sole Plegian in the castle.

A few Ylissean men strolled out and gave Daraen some very dirty looks before retreating back inside. Olivia's curiosity was further piqued, and she wondered just what had happened (besides the obvious) for such animosity to be displayed so openly. Had he offended them in some way? Perhaps he won another concession like the one Basilio had told her about before?

Chrom emerged from the castle, immediately homing in on Daraen and heading straight to him. He clapped his hand on the Plegian's shoulder, and Daraen's face changed from serious and contemplative to having a smile stretch out on his lips. Chrom seemed to be asking him a few things, to which Daraen replied with a rather wry smirk. The Ylissean prince threw his head back and laughed heartily, attracting the attention of the men out in the gardens, and wiped a tear from his eye with a chuckle. They bowed their heads together in close conversation. Basilio and a red-haired man who Olivia recognised as Sully's father appeared and joined the pair, with the conversation turning down a distinct direction that was very typical of being in her uncle's company as she recognised the reactions—eye rolls, blushing, and groaning in annoyance—as he told what was no doubt a crude joke. Exchanging a few last words, Basilio left first, Sully's father left second, and Chrom and Daraen lingered for just a bit longer. Chrom whispered something to Daraen, and the much shorter man punched him lightly in the chest before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Beaming, Chrom looped his arm around his white-haired companion. Surprise and an obvious bloom of colour spread across Daraen's face, but he allowed it in the end, and the two left like that for dinner. The gardens were quiet again.

Sucking in a shaky breath, Olivia realised that her heart was pounding in her ears as she tried to process the scene that played out before her. Sully's talking sounded so vague and distant for some reason.

"I-I'm sorry—what were you saying?" Olivia finally managed to say.

Sully frowned. "Isaid," her phrasing was slow and cross, "why the hell did you go and hide like that? Skulking around like Gaius now, are we?"

Olivia was, once again, at a loss for words.

Supper was normally just her, the female companions of the Feroxi delegates, and Sully in attendance, but this time Olivia was having sharing a meal with her uncle and Sully; her uncle had excused himself from the usual leaders' supper to spend time together. The trio supped in a private room of their guesthouse, as Olivia still felt too discomfited over Fabiana to stomach being in her presence. The food was the result of the Feroxi bringing their own cooks to prepare their national foods while away in Ylisse: a thick slab of roasted fish, usually served in Regna Ferox once the rivers had thawed in their brief spring; beetroot sprinkled with salt and thyme; pickled onions and carrots; and their traditional smoked ox, served on enormous silver tray with a sweet glaze of rare mountain honey and horseradish.

Basilio, of course, did most of the talking and eating, sometimes at the same time. Sully gladly joined in and traded highly opinionated words with the enormous Khan over everything from sporting events to vulgar jokes. Olivia quietly excluded herself from their boisterous conversation, as she was still absorbed by what she had seen in the garden.

Chrom was different around Daraen, she thought. All smiles and friendly touches and banter, with a bit of sheepishness, perhaps—nothing like the awkward, stuttering, bumbling mess he became on the disastrous few occasions they were around one another.

What was it that Daraen saw in Chrom? And Chrom in Daraen? Olivia wondered. Mortal enemies just last year, and now acting as though they were dear old friends, catching up with each other and simply happy to enjoy each others' presence. Why, had Daraen been part of Chrom's court since the beginning, or at least not a Plegian, she was sure that he would have been called a king's favourite.

But there was a catch: while their interactions were undoubtedly full of warmth, Daraen had told her that he was acting as his intermediary because he was deeply indebted to Chrom, and ever since that day, Olivia had wracked her brain trying to figure out what exactly it was that he owed the Exalt-to-be. Was he friendly simply because of that debt? Was he afraid that not acting that way would affect him adversely, and so he had to constantly curry favour in order to stay afloat? No, that could not be, Daraen most certainly did not strike her as such a manipulative type, and their interactions were not those typical to court sycophants. But if such kindness and goodwill were genuine, then why cite his debt to Chrom as his reason for seeking her out?

And just what was that debt, anyways?

"You all right, Livvy? You've been rather quiet tonight." Basilio was genuinely concerned for his niece, pausing his meal to make sure she was alright. Sully had stopped as well, and watched her intently over trencher.

Olivia started. She had been so engrossed with her thinking that she very nearly forgot she was not alone. "I–I'm f-fine, uncle Basilio."

"You sure? You've hardly touched your food since supper started."

Sure enough, her trencher looked as though the maidservants had just served her. Olivia felt rather foolish for having been caught in the middle of her speculations. "O-oh! I'm sorry. I must have been lost in my thoughts."

"Lost in thoughts about that Plegian, I'll bet." Sully rolled her eyes as she shoved another forkful of meath in her mouth.

To Olivia's deep embarrassment, a cat-like smile appeared on her uncle's face, and the Khan guffawed loudly. "Oh ho! The Plegian, you say? Little Daraen?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"It's n-not like that, uncle," Olivia protested. She buried her face in her hands as the inevitable wave of obnoxious ribbing began, and she could only hope to get a word in edgewise as Basilio kept going on and on and on…and on and on and on as the colour in Olivia's face grew steadily redder and brighter. She loved Basilio dearly, but it was so difficult to think that her patient, sensitive father had been raised alongside a brother who had, frankly, turned out so boorish and loud.

Sully, initially amused, soon tired of the Khan's aggravating display. "OY! Knock it off already!"

"Sully, Sully," Basilio looked aggrieved. "My Livvy is finally interested in a man. Why shouldn't I comment on it?"

"I am NOT interested!" Olivia, in a rare outburst, threw down her fork with a loud clatter. "Every time I mention things like this you always jump straight to assumptions and then you want to embarrass me!"

Basilio was properly taken aback. "Okay, Okay—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that. But you can't fault me for thinking that after all the rumours I heard today. Not that they're true, because they're rumours, but—ah, y'know what I mean, Livvy."

Olivia, sighing, sipped gingerly at her wine. "It's just…today, at the ladies' gathering…a woman brought him up and it spiralled from there." She swished the drink in her cup morosely. "They were saying awful things about him…and then Fabiana…she–she said that because he had that meeting with him, then it must mean that I'm…"

Basilio's face darkened for the slightest second, but the change was gone in the blink of an eye. "We were at war not too long ago. It's normal that nasty gossip happens."

"But it was still so unkind to hear…"

"Livvy, while I agree that those kinds of words are bunk more often than not, the unfortunate thing is that a lot of them are based on little kernels of truth. And yeah, the kid's alright, but I can't say I blame a lot of people for still being angry at him. He did a lot of damage on the battlefield."

Exhaling, Olivia rolled a piece of pickled onion around on her trencher, thinking carefully about his words. "Can you tell me what you know about Daraen, then? Something that isn't gossip? What kind of person he is?"

"Well…he's got really bad table manners—"

"Oh, like you're one to talk," Sully snorted.

"––and he really likes to eat. He looks tiny, but I've seen him put away a decent amount of food in record time. Heard he grew up with Kandaari nomads, so I guess it makes sense. Times can get lean for 'em." Basilio tapped his chin with his fork thoughtfully, smearing food on his goatee. "He's a little bookworm who can go fast through a text, he's good at taking notes but his handwriting is atrocious, and he can get defensive about a lot of things if you know how to rile him up well enough, like his parents."

A pensive silence befell the little table as Basilio contemplated the most controversial guest of Ylisstol castle.

"I've seen him do things that shouldn't be possible without tomes. And I've seen him smash open men's heads like ripe pumpkins," he said quietly. "But I've also seen him play with Chrom's nephew and take lessons in table manners from Lissa. And he's been nothing but polite to us since he stepped foot in here." Basilio sighed and rubbed his temple, his jollity gone; he now looked and sounded his age. "What I'm trying to say, Livvy, is that he's a complex person who's done a lot of bad, but he can probably do a lot of good, too; I'm hoping he can, and that's why I'm on speaking terms with him, but what I think of him might not necessarily be the same for you—you're the one who has to decide what the gossip and the rumours and you personally meeting all mean to you, and if that's enough for you to decide to keep talking with him."

Olivia was wide awake. She had been tossing and turning for the better part of the night, Basilio's advice to her tumbling around in her head like a pair of heavy river rocks swept away by the current. Daraen was a curiosity, yes, and the mystery of his relationship with Chrom an intriguing puzzle to crack…

…but should she even try?

She sighed and tossed herself back into a prone position. She stared at the canopy of her bed, its delicate floral pattern hard to discern in the darkness, and revisited the conversation at supper again.

Daraen was in a tight position: having to battle infuriated foes who were most certainly out for his blood, yet also facing being held accountable for his actions…and running Chrom's matchmaking ploys on the side.

Did she really want to involve herself in that?

Her bedroom was quiet save for the faint rustling of the trees outside her window and the steady ticking of the clock. Olivia turned to face her nightstand where the clock was placed, and wondered.

She could save herself a world of trouble if she simply chose to walk away, to tell Daraen and Chrom that their efforts were best focused on their summit instead of expending additional energy on trying to woo a woman whose previous refusals had been very clear. She could avoid the nastiness and petiness of the ladies whose own interest in Daraen ran the gamut from eyeing a profitable courtship to wishing he would drop dead. And perhaps there were men—nobility, clergy, politicians and the like—who would see her as a nuisance for becoming close to Daraen. Or perhaps even a threat.

There were so many things that she did not know about Daraen, or even the circ*mstances that brought him here. She recognised that she was most likely in over her head.

And yet…there wassomethingabout him.

Groaning in defeat, Olivia gave in to her ill-advised, sleep-deprived ideas, and marched herself down the stairs.

Sully and Basilio had stayed where she left them: at the table in their private dining room, sleeping off the copious amounts of wine they had imbibed after Olivia decided she wanted to turn in early. Sully at least had the sense (or as much sense as any drunk could have) to at least sleep on the little divan tucked into a corner; Basilio slept right on the table, his cheek cushioned by a half-eaten roll, and his snores echoing loudly in the silence of the night. Olivia tsked disapprovingly. She feared that his drinking habits would get the better of him sooner than latter, and wished that he would listen to her, if at least once, and take his health more seriously. She sighed and returned to her quarters for blankets, draping them over the sleeping pair, and left to resume her search for Gaius.

The Feroxi guesthouse was silent. The guards on the night shift were the only ones currently awake, yet were wise to stay mum at the sight of Basilio's niece wandering about with her hair loose and in her nightdress. First she peeked into the parlour, then she looked into the alcove under the stairs where Gaius sometimes liked to hide to eat his ill-gotten gains; then the second parlour, then outside her uncle's room, then the kitchen and the dining room and the little library. Olivia checked the larder twice and was considering searching the gardens, until a sudden thought gave her the idea to look up.

Though Gaius had seemingly mastered the arcane skill of sleeping anywhere, Olivia had no idea why he decided the ceiling beams above the kitchen made for an ideal sleeping place. The rogue had thrown his cape carelessly over him and cradled the empty wax-paper wrapper of a since eaten pastry, his legs dangling freely, and his head wedged uncomfortably between two intersecting beams. Olivia selected the sturdy broom used to sweep the place every morning and evening, and poked Gaius in the foot three times with it.

In the blink of an eye, the previously sleeping man had shot up higher into rafters and drawn his dagger. His glittering eyes and black clothing reminded Olivia of a frightened cat.

"Yeesh." He sheathed his knife with a sigh and picked his way down to his previous position. "Would it kill you to maybe learn how to wake people up normally?"

Olivia pouted peevishly. "Not untilyoulearn how to sleep like a normal person."

Gaius yawned. "Touché." He jumped down from the beam right before Olivia, surprising her and forcing her two steps back. "But I think you would have learned by now, babe, that I don't exactly count as a 'normal person.' So!" He seemingly produced a match out of nowhere, struck it against the sole of his boot, and flicked it onto the table, the dangerous manoeuvre somehow lighting the half-finished candle on it rather than setting the whole place on fire. He yanked a chair out from where it was tucked under the table, twirled it, and finished his odd performance by sitting down backwards on it. "What's a normal person like you doing looking for weird ol' me so late at night?"

Flabbergasted, Olivia forgot how to speak for a few moments, until she was able to collect herself and cleared her throat expectantly. "W-well…I was hoping you could…do me a favour."

"Ahhhh, of course. I take it that it's a certain kind of favour, else you wouldn't have woken me up so rudely."

"I'm not ru—" Olivia began to protest. She cut herself off with a sigh. "Yes, it's a…special sort of favour."

"Well, spit it out then. I've already lost enough sleep as it is." Gaius yawned annoyingly to emphasise his point. "And you do realise this is highly inappropriate,young miss?Skulking around in the dead of night with naught but your nightie, why, someone would think you were off for a secret tryst—"

Olivia, blushing a fierce scarlet, shushed him furiously. "I had to do this at night, else I wouldn't have been able to get ahold of you during the day!" she admonished. "A-and I couldn't sleep, alright? Satisfied?"

"Maybe." He regarded her semi-curiously from under the sleepy lids of his eyes. "So? What's this favour?"

"Well I—"

"Ah, hold on just a second. We haven't discussed my payment yet."

"Your what?"

He raised an eyebrow and spoke in a rather patronising manner to her, as though she were a half-wit. "Babe, you know I don't do anything for free—I mean, I love free things, but I don't do free things myself, so I have to be guaranteed my payment first if you're ever gonna get me to do something."

"B-but—"

He interrupted her with a raised finger. Olivia was disgusted by his dirty fingernail, sticky with dried remnants of a past snack. "Ah, ah, ah," he wagged his finger in her face. "Less small talk, more payment plans. We good on that?"

"Fine," she huffed in annoyance. "A year—no, two year's worth of sweets, guaranteed at the end of every day." She pursed her lips in concentration, thinking of an additional incentive to sweeten the deal for the gluttonous miscreant. "A-and I promise I'll find a way to be around the stables more often so that you can have an excuse to talk to Cordelia."

Gaius was in shock, so impressed with the enticing award Olivia had just offered, that his mouth dropped open and a half-eaten lozenge he had somehow kept inside his mouth while asleep fell out. Olivia chose not to comment on her distaste. "How did you—must've been Sully. Figures she'd blab about my personal crap," he muttered under his breath, then refocused his attention on Olivia. "Babe! You talk a good game. We've got ourselves' a deal."

Had Olivia known what was coming, she would have attempted a sidestep, but it was too late; Gaius seized her hand for a good, firm shake, and she internally recoiled at the sticky, warm sensation of his skin on hers. "T-that's good to hear."

"So what's the job? A locked vault? A hidden treasure? Anyone who's been talking too much? You need somebody assassinated?"

"Well, today Fabia—what? No! Nothing of the sort!" Olivia hissed.

"No? I mean, the payout's pretty sweet, so I'm guessing it's not justanykind of job."

Mentally steeling herself for the inevitable outpouring of mockery on the jester's part, Olivia inhaled, exhaled, and laid out her request as simply as she could. "I-I-I want you to gather information on the P-Prince of Plegia."

Dead silence. Then, to her horror, a slow, toothy, knowing grin spread out on Gaius' face from ear to ear. "You liiiiiiike h—"

"I do NOT," Olivia whined and hid her red face with her hands. "And please stop—"

"Livvy's in looooooooove," Gaius crooned. "Livvy's got thehots—"

"Gaius."Olivia tried to apply as much force and authority as she could to her command. "I can revoke your payment at any moment. Do you want me to do that?"

Gaius rolled his eyes condescendingly. "Sheesh. Can't take a joke, can you? Fine. I'll stop making fun of you for just because you've got a flaming hot passion for a boy who's younger than—"

"GAIUS."

"Fine, fine. I'm stopping now." He waved his hands as airily as he waved away her complaints, and then dipped into a low, mocking bow. "Your wish is my command, your ladyship."

"Thank you." Olivia glanced around awkwardly. How much time had passed since she entered the kitchen? She could not see the clock very clearly from her standpoint. And she was, finally, feeling rather sleepy. "W-well, since that's been settled…I-I guess I should leave now…"

"Ah, wait just a sec there." Gaius stopped her short of the doorway. "I'm real happy with my payment and all, but can I ask what this is all about?"

Olivia had no answer. She could not for the life of her say why exactly she wanted this done.

What was it about Daraen that made her resort to this?

Gaius, sensing her inner turmoil, sighed and relented. "Look. I'm not gonna ask anymore about this until you know yourself. All I'm sayin' is that this is too big of an assignment to be anything less than just a passing interest."

"Is that how this looks like?" she murmured.

"Just–get some sleep, Babe." He vaulted back up to the rafters and settled himself back into his unfathomably uncomfortable sleeping position. "We're both gonna need some shut-eye if we wanna get this show on the road. And I do like getting an early start on a job."

Saying nothing, Olivia hoped he could see her tiny, grateful smile as she exited the kitchen and returned to her quarters for the night.

Chapter 10: I Extend my Hand to Him

Chapter Text

He sat and stared incomprehensibly at the scene laid out before him.

There was absolutely nothing princely about the boy: his face was too young, too soft, and his womanly features did not inspire confidence the way Chrom's defined jawline and steely gaze did. His borrowed clothes merely emphasised how small and scrawny he was in comparison to Chrom's well-tailored garb and strapping physique. Everything about him was what a prince should not look like.

And yet, he was able to command the attention of the room; he was far more well-spoken than Chrom, and had a talent with languages evidenced by when he was overheard conversing in fluent Chon'sinese to an attendant of the Valmese delegation; his skills on the battlefield were hard to match; and his shrewd, strategic thinking netted him two important wins at the summit so far.

All was noted with dismay. Acknowledging the boy's talents was nothing short of tortuous, and the mere sight of him was enough to send his blood into a hard boil. Talented or not, that—thatthingwas a murderous, bloodthirsty savage, and no amount of education could ever change that.

Chrom and Lissa seemed not to care at all, and instead afforded the little bloodmouth a place of honour at the table.A place normally given to me,he thought. The food he was chewing on acquired a bitter taste as he watched the royal pair laugh over some nonsense the boy prattled on about, and then turned into a fibrous, flavourless lump in his mouth as that imbecilic lout Eschmann and Urquhart joined the conversation.

How had it come to this? How had that beastly creature managed to turn not one, but two meetings in his favour? Not only had every attempt to stop him from putting forth a proposal failed, but the filthy thing had somehow acquired an Ylissean ally—one of Chrom's former Shepherds, even—to execute a plan of moving grain to Ylisse. A tantalising total of 5,000 bushels of wheat were promised at least by the end of the year, with some 446 destined for western Themis in a month. As the most stricken, most ravaged of Ylisse's territories, those bushels would be enough to feed more than a few of the villages that made up the bulk of its territory. And with even more grain promised in the coming two years, not to mention any other products they were sure to demand of Plegia, many lives would be saved from starvation.

He should have been happy to hear that. But, due to the Plegian having been promised a reestablishment of commercial ties with his country in exchange, all he felt instead was a deep despair.

Worst still was the friendship the two had seemingly struck. It was completely incomprehensible—the heir to Naga's blood and the Falchion's bearerconsortingwith their sworn enemy. Chrom had greeted the Plegian with open arms, had given him a place in his castle, a seat at his table, and even theclothesoff his back. What if that winning streak continued? It would mean that Chrom would practically be handing the Halidom away on a silver platter!

He needed Chrom and Lissa—he needed everyone—to open their eyes and see the truth: that their guest was not only an insult to Naga Herself, but a danger to them all.

After supper, he set off for his nightly walk. The weather maintained its mild disposition, so the gardens, while still cool, were not cold, and the chirping of insects hiding in the bushes filled the air. He greeted the others also out for a round. Yet, no matter how many times he circled the mausoleum, the ache in his breast only intensified.

Feeling very sorry for himself, he searched for a place where he could nurse his sorrows alone. The gardens were far too public a place for a person of his stature to be found moping. But where could he find privacy?

Ah, yes. There was a little grotto built under one of the staircase landings, an often overlooked space shaded by a small grove of trees and facing a small fountain. His thick robes, as he preferred to keep using his winter wardrobe in the early months of spring, protected his bottom from the icy bite of the stone seats as he settled in for another long night of lost sleep.

"Pleasant out here, isn't it?"

No sooner had he sat down had the familiar, sibilant voice echoed in the grotto. But how? He made sure to check that he was completely alone!

Those awful, knowing eyes glittered from the darkness, taking much pleasure at his startled reaction. He shrank back into the cold stone as a hand searched deep inside red robes, allowing himself to show his relief as it drew back with a small pouch of odd fruit.

"Care for a kumquat? They're not found in these parts."

He blinked, temporarily dazed. "I…n-no, thank you…"

"Suit yourself."

He swallowed. The sound of casual munching filled him with dread, and he wondered if escaping was possible. No, nevermind possible—was it even wise to contemplate such thoughts?

"W-what are you doing here?" he finally managed to grind out.

A heavily pencilled brow lifted, amused. "Why, commiserating of course. It's just such a shame, seeing you skulk about in the shadows…when your position demands that you serve as the light to your people." A slow smile exposed very white square teeth. "Truly a shame!"

He was thankful for the sound of the fountain's gurgling masking the slight echo of the grotto; having him be discovered like this at night, in the company of a character of more than questionable provenance and very murky intentions, would surely ruin him. Anxiety gripped him as he prayed to all the gods that no one would suddenly be struck with a desire to cross this way.

"My offer still stands, you know."

He sprang up immediately. "I—no! I-I cannot—Imustnot—there is no telling what could happen should I accept!"

"Other than finally getting rid of the Plegian that is such a thorn in your side? The one responsible for your sorry state?"

"You—you do not understand. That boy possesses dark magic unparalleled by any other mage. I have heard that his power is so great that he can not only see out of the back of his head, but that he can split his body and be found in two places simultaneously. Should he get wind of this—"

"Oh please, as if he would, and even if he did—"

"A-a-and furthermore!" He was babbling now, full of fear and panic and an overwhelming desire to escape the ambush he walked into. "I am not going to risk my position—my life!—over some scheme whose effectiveness carries no guarantee of success. I am not going to even consider such an offer, not when the Halidom is still so fragile after such a deep loss—"

"Now see here—"

"S-so you are simply wasting your time here and any further attempts on your part will still be refused! My principles will not waver! I shall not committreasonagainst the Exalt!" He began to flee the scene as fast as his robes would permit.

"Why? Because you were so loyal and principled towards Emmeryn?"

The abrupt transition—from a silky smooth almost purr to a guttural snarl—halted him in his tracks. A terrible, cold sweat broke out against his skin and chilled him to the very bone.

How did…?

"I…I don't know what you are talking about…" he gasped.

"Ohyesyou do." Those glittering eyes apparated right before his face, and whereas their previous look was a smirking, secretive smugness, the light in them was now of deep, contemptuous anger. He quailed in place at the darkness before him. "You talk ofloyaltyandprinciplesnow? Don't make me laugh!" And yet the sentence was punctuated with a throaty cackle that disturbed the fairies lighting up a distant bush so much that he feared someone would be attracted by the commotion. "Everyone with at least half a brain in the underworld still talks about that slimy, rat-facedtraitorwho sold his Exalt out to the Plegians, hoping he'd get a nice reward for it, only to fail miserably and get that idiot brother of hers placed on the throne!"

"T-that's not what happened—"

"Keep telling yourself that, dear."

"A-and Chrom—Chrom is not an idiot, how could you say that—"

Long, lacquered nails shone briefly in the dim light of the fairy bushes as they were thrown back with a flourish. "Please! As if the court loved Emmeryn soooo much when she was still alive…oh yes, you fawned, and you simpered, and you smiled to her face and sung her praises like the rest of the country bumpkins who could only dream of kissing her rear end as though the damned sun shone out from there—ha! But I have ears in places you couldn't even begin to imagine. And I heard plenty: about how you all hated those reforms of hers; how you were all just itching to ditch that silly preaching forpeaceandloveand finish what her father started. And what luck for you all when it turns out that the middle son, the most recent of the Falchion's wielders, is next in line for the throne!"

"But Chrom is—"

"A jackass who was barely educated in statecraft and politics, and who now has to manage a country in crisis while his dearly beloved sister had years of preparation? I heard that too." That painted face grinned nastily at him. "You'd think that such a pea-brain would be easier to mould and manipulate to your wishes, but imagine my surprise when I learned of suchcomplaints—" a powdered hand opened and closed in a mocking, talking motion—"that your precious male heir was not as stupid as you all hoped for, and that him inheriting that fancy toothpick somehow didn't mean that he would turn out just like his father. To the contrary…even the lowliest Valmese dung sweeper has heard of just how much he hates daddy dearest. How he would never, ever,everwant to be like him, even if his life depended on it."

Silence descended upon the pair. In retrospect, it felt far worse than when he was being held captive by that barrage of damning words; the quiet now meant that he had to absorb the brunt of their weight as they sunk deep into the recesses of his very soul. His most well-kept secrets had spilled out of that rouged mouth as easily as pouring milk out of a jug. His hidden shame was hidden no longer.

If this person knew, then it was a step closer to having it revealed to the rest of the world when he had worked so hard to bury it with Emmeryn's corpse. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He hung his head in defeat.

"So!" Hands clapped together in evident satisfaction. "You have two options: you can continue to stew in your self pity and whine about that Plegian succeeding in this summit, or you can actually help me to get rid of him instead. Even if you're so put out by my methods, I'm not so cruel as to not consider how this might be of benefit to you as well."

"Do I even have a choice?" he moaned in anguish.

"Ofcoursenot! Don't think for a second that I would have allowed you to even pick the first option—I have physical proof of your betrayal, and absolutely no reason not to blackmail you."

The abyss yawned before him, dark, endless. His sins stared him in the face along with the memory of Emmeryn's mutilated body, and of her siblings sobbing openly at her funeral. He remembered helping to bring her into this world as a screaming, red-skinned infant, and then seeing her out of it as she was interred in the mausoleum.

With tears clouding his vision and stinging his skin as they ran down his cheeks, he bowed deeply.

"Come on. You can do so much better than that."

He bowed down further until he was grovelling, and kissed his blackmailer's slippered foot.

Red lips stretched impossibly wide. "Oh, Ilovemaking deals."

Chapter 11: Faith in Eating and Drinking

Chapter Text

At first, Robin thought she was still dreaming, so the odd sensation of something brushing up against her face was waved aside.

But the feeling of her breath heating up against whatever was covering her mouth and nose became a touch too uncomfortable, and she blearily opened her eyes to see nothing but sepia.

Robin sat up with a groan. A piece of paper fell off her face with a rustle, and she blinked, still groggy, before picking it up. She scratched at the crustiness around her eyes as she read.

My Dearest Robin,a familiar, elegant script said.I am writing to inform you that the caravan should be arriving at any moment now! Your things are all there, as you've requested, and your lovely friends Tharja and Henry are en route to join you. Do keep in mind that the animals will need special care once they're stabled—gods know what that Ylissean castle is like, but their pegasi seem well-fed, at least. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to write back!

Love, Aversa.

Robin stared, stupefied, at the note. Her mouth hung open as her sleepy brain tried to process its contents. Then, quick as a flash, she flung her covers off, threw herself out of bed (tripping face-first into the floor with a loud smack), and ran to the desk to reply as fast as she could. She forgoed rooting around in the drawers for an inkpot and simply snatched a shard of charcoal from the hearth to use.

Where have you been?Robin scribbled furiously.I wrote at least a dozen times! What do you mean 'the caravan should be arriving at any moment'?

She spelled the parchment to Aversa and tapped her toes anxiously as she waited for a response. Robin snatched the paper out of the air the moment it poofed into existence, scanning Aversa's writing with a sinking feeling in her gut.

When I say 'at any moment,' I mean 'at any moment,' you numbskull.Robin could practically see Aversa rolling her eyes in practiced annoyance. Even when insulting her, the sorceress' writing was as impeccable as usual.So you should get ready to receive them. Don't worry about their state—they're armed and they have the crossing papers that prince of yours so generously provided. And I have been very busy keeping this country from falling apart in your absence, thank you very much.

Robin spluttered. She wroteBUSY?!and underlined it several times, tearing the parchment in the process.

She sent that one on its way as well, but no reply came, and so, nearly hyperventilating, Robin threw on a blanket over her nightshirt and some slippers.

Her ruckus stirred the servants on their pallets. "Your Highness? What is it?" Mary mumbled sleepily.

"I need to see Chrom!" Robin offered no further explanation as she hurled the door open and ran.

Karel and Rood were hot on her heels as she practically flew to Chrom's rooms. The sight of a dishevelled and barely dressed Plegian surprised his guards, giving her the opportunity to rush his door and pound it so hard that Lissa and her own servants poked their heads out of their own quarters.

"Chrom! CHROM!" Robin screeched.

Frederick muscled his way through the threshold with a clearly displeased expression emphasising his customary scowl. Chrom, his sleep-lined face pulled into a half yawn as he answered Robin's call, came shortly after.

"Daraen? But it's so early—what's wrong? What happened?"

Robin's words came out in a rapid-fire jumble. "I need your help! It's urgent!"

"Wha—? What happened?" He pushed his way out from behind Frederick and placed his hands on her shoulders in an attempt to calm her.

"I just received word that my people are coming, and coming soon. We need to tell the others to let them through."

His blue brows knitted together, confused. "I've heard no news of this. Surely they're farther off than you think?"

At that very moment, a guard in full uniform skidded to a halt at the end of the hallway, regaining his posture and sprinting up to them panting. "Sire!" He bowed, ungainly in his sweaty armour. "Plegians! Spotted at the city gates!"

Chrom's mouth fell open. "Well, speak of the devil…" He turned to look at Robin with a critical eye. "They have their papers in order?"

"Yes," she affirmed.

"Good." He returned his gaze to the guard, all sleepiness gone from his voice as he assumed a commanding pose and a clear, strong intonation. "Ready the men! They are to be allowed through, but keep them closely guarded. Alert the gatekeepers and have the wardens stand down! They come in peace and they come as guests."

The guard saluted and ran back to his post.

Chrom shouted brief orders at Frederick and his servants, retreating to his room to emerge shortly in a fresh shirt and pair of trousers. Robin ignored the formality of dressing herself, to Chrom's surprise, and she sprinted away with him following closely.

"This is odd. Why didn't you hear from them sooner?" Chrom's query was a little too on the nose for Robin's comfort as they ran to the entrance. The castle's inhabitants were waking up due to the noise, all in a tizzy as a distorted game of 'he-said-she-said' gave them the impression that Plegians had invaded Ylisstol and were advancing upon them.

"I don't know! A-and anyways, shouldn't your border controls have alerted you, at least? Or anyone else?"

Now it was Chrom's turn to look abashed. "Communications have been really spotty ever since the war. I don't think we have a functioning mail service to speak of at the moment."

And speaking of mail! As thought Aversa heard them, a square of paper popped into Robin's face. She ripped it off and read Aversa's—finally!—reply, her irritation increasing with every letter.

Yes, 'busy.' Putting down rebellions and keeping everyone fed and stopping bandits from making off with everything is no easy task, I can assure you. Rulership is just so difficult, and you're not helping matters, my dear. I simply don't have the spare time to pay attention to you every moment you come crying for help. I've been so busy, in fact, that I'm starting to feel a bit envious over that little holiday of yours. You can make it up to me with a pay raise once you're done with your Ylissean jaunt!

PS—your handwriting is as atrocious as ever.

A kiss mark decorated the end of the postscript. Robin's face was as red as the rouge when she finished reading, and she crumpled the note and stuffed it down her front in a huff.

"Everything alright?" Chrom asked, baffled at the exchange, but thankfully not prying further.

Robin paid him no mind.You've been busy? So have I!she fumed.Aversa, you idiot!

Robin slid down a staircase bannister, scandalising some of the courtiers who had exited their apartments. Chrom had always been more gifted in the physical department, so he regulated his pace so as not to overtake her.

It was still dark out when the pair reached the castle entrance, Robin panting lightly as she wrapped her blanket tighter around her chest. Chrom signalled to the guards to lower their weapons. Gaggles of nobles and other castlefolk clustered around on the ramparts, the windows, the lawn, all wanting to see as much of the Plegians as their own fear would permit them. It was a sight that made Robin feel very self conscious.

Chrom's hand was warm when he grasped her shoulder firmly. She had to admit that it was very comforting whenever he did so, but she would never ever say that to his face.

"Don't worry," he said, with a smile just as nice as his gesture. "It'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."

Short of having everyone obviously dying to murder each other in the courtyard, then I'd have to agree with you. Robin mentally sighed as her intrusive thoughts ruined the moment once again.

A long time passed. The onlookers were beginning to show their restlessness—grumbling, mumbling, a few of them even turning back inside to catch some more sleep before the day officially started. Robin, tempted to chew on a hangnail to keep her apprehensiveness at bay, remembered that Chrom was right next to her and felt that it would look quite unattractive to start gnawing on her finger like a dog with a juicy bone.

Wait. Since when does it matter if something is unattractive to him or not? Especially with the way he dresses himself if Frederick doesn't help?

"Oh, look!" A shriek from the ramparts broke the uneasy lull over the courtyard. The guards confirmed that the caravan was wending its way up the bridge to the castle. The gatekeepers confirmed the authenticity of the caravan's travel documents and signalled the allowance of passage with a great screeching and clanking of chains and steel.

The Pegasus Knights, who had been summoned by Frederick, enclosed the duo in a defensive circle.

Robin allowed herself some pride despite her misgivings. The procession that marched through the gates was grand indeed, and as impressive as Robin expected of Aversa. Horses tossed their heads spiritedly as their riders guided their fanciful pacing around her and Chrom. Giant ibex, stately and composed, pulled massive covered wagons behind them; camels followed suit with a great deal of moaning and groaning along with mighty elephants bearing howdahs. It was a veritable zoo!

Robin smiled as the final spectacle of the parade arrived: wyverns soared over the walls, to the mixed horror and delight of the castle's occupants, twisting and tumbling in the air until they began circling in the sky and lowered themselves to a stop in an elegant finish.

For all the dazzle, the guards still had their hands poised on their weapons. Some of the castlefolk hid their eyes as the animals' riders dismounted. The display of such naked distrust was hurtful to Robin, and she swallowed a hard lump in her throat in disappointment.

Chrom placed his hand on her shoulder.That's the third time today,Robin mused. He shook it comfortingly, that winning smile of his so transparently reassuring, and pushed her to walk with him to receive the Plegians. Cordelia's expression was openly shocked as he bade her step aside.

"Greetings, friends!" Chrom's tone, though perfectly rehearsed, was enthusiastic and friendly. "We hope that you faced no hardship on your journey. Allow us to formally welcome you to the castle—we hope to provide you with a restful stay and a taste of what Ylisstol has to offer."

There was no response from the Plegians. A discontented frisson ran through the crowd of Ylisseans, murmurs of distrust and disapproval at what they thought was disrespect, ungraciousness, impudence…and just when they had arrived, too.

Chrom's smile faltered ever so slightly. He turned his eyes to Robin as subtly as he could, questioning.

One of the elephant mahouts tapped the largest bull's knee with a sturdy rod, and the massive beast kneeled. A jewel-clad foot emerged from the howdah; a long, slim leg followed, bare up to the thigh, eliciting gasps; and it ended with the curvaceous figure of the sorceress Tharja, wearing nothing but a sheer black body mesh under a golden loincloth and breast band. Robin was hyper aware of the stares following the woman—shocked, uneasy, lustful—with every hip swinging step she took closer.

"Greetings, Prince Chrom." Tharja's eyes, dark and intense, never strayed from the pair as she bowed before them. "We are so grateful to you for taking our beloved Daraen under your wing. Ylisse is truly magnanimous, to shelter him in such a precarious time. The very thought of staying apart from him brought anguish to our hearts!"

Tharja then strode forward, completely unprompted, and gathered up Robin in a lung crushing hug whilst smothering her face in kisses that made Robin feel as though Tharja was attempting to break her face as well. She heaved and coughed when she was released.

The display was simply too much for the sensibilities of Ylisstol's court, it seemed. A collective gasp from the crowd pulled Chrom out of his own surprised reaction to shush them, rather loudly, before turning to address Tharja. "I–uh–we are very happy to have him in our company. He is a wonderful guest and a formidable presence at the summit table."

Robin beamed at such kind compliments. Tharja raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Yes, our prince is such a gifted man. We are blessed to have him as our future king," she said, showing off perfectly straight teeth.

Chrom winced, as though in pain. And yet the gesture was so minute, so brief, that Robin thought she had imagined it. "You must be exhausted after such a long journey. I can't imagine that crossing a desert is an easy task, even to those who call it home." He waved some servants over and began directing them to take the newest visitors' belongings. "Allow us to have some proper accommodation fixed up for you and your animals stabled properly."

"Your generosity is most gracious. Truly, our relations are in good hands indeed," Tharja replied with that curious toothy look again.

Suddenly, a blond man rushed up to them and threw a great black cloak over Tharja. Chrom and Robin sputtered as he fastened it hastily over her bosom. Tharja's expression changed from charmingly diplomatic to murderous in the blink of an eye.

The Plegians were offended—they thought the Ylisseans disapproved of her clothing.

"Pray tell," she demanded lowly, a hint of her true voice trickling out, "what you think you're doing, putting your hands on me like that."

"I am SO sorry—" Chrom apologised.

"No, it is I who should be sorry." The man's tone was soft and compunctious. Robin suddenly remembered him as one of the custodians of Emmeryn's tomb. "But I simply couldn't bear to hear a lady's dignity being called into question by a pack of boorish oafs. I told them they should bite their tongues for such awful words, yet I was mocked for it. Perhaps I cannot force them to stop thinking evil thoughts, but, at the very least, I can try to shield you from their sinful gazes."

Tharja stared stonily at the man for a tense few seconds. Chrom and Robin exchanged apprehensive glances. The stiffness finally broke after Tharja granted her unexpected gallant a sweet smile. "And they said chivalry was dead. What is your name, brave knight?"

"Libra, milady." He bowed deeply. "I am afraid to say I am no knight, but a humble monk in Lord Chrom's service."

"A man of the faith who practices what he preaches! My oh my, I have found myself a rare specimen indeed. And you, Prince Chrom, must feel quite lucky to have him in your possession."

"Y-yes I am." Chrom stammered in amazement at the abrupt turn of events. It was a little too much to handle, and they had not even had breakfast yet. "Libra is—Libra was one of my Shepherds. I can personally vouch for his impeccable character."

"You flatter me, milord," Libra murmured.

Tharja snaked her arms up Libra's and pulled him close enough to press into her breast. A low chorus of envious men was angrily hushed by their wives. "Then you won't mind if I steal him for a little while then? Just so he can escort me to my prince's quarters."

Chrom gaped, taken aback at such boldness, and on one of his former Shepherds to boot. "Uh—I-I believe there's no issue…?"

"Thank you." Tharja grinned and dragged her captive behind her with surprising speed as she took her leave.

"Milord Chrom, shouldn't I have a say in this?" Libra called back uselessly.

Robin shrugged at Chrom and hastily excused herself to catch up to Tharja.

The sorceress played the part of a coquettish tease so obnoxiously that it was a wonder Libra had not fled in terror yet…partly due to the vice grip Tharja still had over the poor man's arm. She pestered him over his life in the castle, his monkish duties, and some personal details as she batted her eyelashes and giggled and fawned. Libra was taking it all in stride, to Robin's amazement, gamely fielding Tharja's line of questioning and allowing her to cut off the circulation in his limb as Robin led them to her rooms. He was the envy of every man who crossed paths with them.

When they finally arrived, Tharja made loud exclamations of sadness over Libra's departure. Once he had assured her enough times of promising to be available to her, her cries turned to ones of pleasure and she ended their exchange with a face breaking kiss on his cheek.

Robin, bemused, could do nothing more than raise an eyebrow as she allowed Tharja inside and closed the door.

"I'm terribly sorry, ladies," Tharja said to Robin's astonished servants. "But I'm afraid I need some time alone with my lord, so it's best you all leave us for now."

Robin cringed as she saw the cogs in their heads turning to the erroneous assumption that she and Tharja were lovers requesting some privacy. Mary tsked disapprovingly at Tharja's wardrobe, but said nothing else, as the women and men vacated Robin's guest room in a single file.

"Thanks a lot for that. Now they think I'm some promiscuous freak wanting a romp in the sheets," Robin groaned. "And you can drop the act now. It's just us here…and Henry."

Tharja's true self was revealed instantly: not the hip-swinging seductress who flirted with Ylissean monks in front of an audience, but a withdrawn, moody woman given to frequent bouts of irritability and a razor-sharp tongue. She kicked off her undoubtedly uncomfortable high-heeled sandals and threw herself onto Robin's bed. What seemed like an innocent pile of sheets was actually masking an invisibility spell; a white-haired young man uttered a loudoofand laughed when Tharja landed on him.

"Move," she hissed.

"Aw, but I was so comfy! These Ylissean beds are nice," Henry grinned. "And how'd you know I was here? I thought I did a pretty good job with my spell—"

"I'm not asking you," Tharja shoved him off the bed with a snarl.

Robin, rolling her eyes, sank into a couch with another groan. "Do you always have to bicker like that with him?"

Tharja ignored her. "I hate men," she growled in her real voice, a low, cynical rasp. "You could practically hear those nasty dogs drooling from the moment they saw me in this. And you know what? I hate this stupid outfit too. Can't believe Aversa made me wear this damn thing, I spent the entire trip with this thong digging into my arse, and these abominations are murder on my feet."

"You didn't seem to hate Libra though," Robin pointed out rather caustically.

"Oh, him? Mister Goody Two-Shoes is tolerable enough." Tharja waved the observation away. "But as foryouract, 'Daraen?' You're doing a terrible job of it."

Robin spluttered. "What do you mean by that?"

"The only reason you're getting away with pretending to be your brother is because these dumb Ylisseans don't know him well enough. And they certainly don't know he has a twin sister running around."

"Tharja's right," Henry agreed, seemingly uncaring of the sorceress's harsh treatment as he sidled up to Robin and put an arm around her. "You two are pretty different: he's a whole head taller, for starters. His voice is also deeper, he's quieter, more sensitive, he's got better control over his temper, better social skills, more patience—"

"Are you here to help me or insult me?" Robin snapped, flushing at the accuracy of Henry's assessment (not that she was unaware of her shortcomings, butstill).

"Then again, he's also a huge pushover and a weaker fighter, but both of you are workaholic self-conscious perfectionists who can't cook worth a—"

"I GET IT."She took a deep, calming breath and rubbed her temples exasperatedly. Gods were these two a handful. "I'm just trying to keep it all together without being found out, alright? I'm already running ragged over putting on a farce and sitting at a table with men who hate me, want me dead, and the ones who somehow do like me have weird hang-ups over my skin colour."

She was absolutely not telling them about the Olivia mess under any circ*mstance.

"And that's why we're here to help you! Gods know what you'd do without us," Tharja drawled. She rose to answer a knock at the door, revealing Ylissean and Plegian servants bearing armloads of baggage and heavy trunks. Herthank youdid not sound very thankful at all, and she barely gave them a chance to unload the hefty cargo into the room before shooing them out.

"That was rude of you," Robin admonished her, yet was unsurprised over her attitude.

"Hm. Don't care."

"Icare," Robin scolded testily. "They've been very helpful to me here and took care of my needs. And they're working on Chrom's direct orders, you know? I'm not throwing his generosity back in his face like that, and I don't want us to look ungrateful, so you need to behave yourself."

"Yes,mother dearest." Tharja rolled her eyes and began throwing out garments at random. There were silks, linens, fresh cotton shirts, and colourful patterned kaftans and şalvars and jubbas and slippers. The sorceress began sorting them into piles and picking some out seemingly at random.

Henry was fascinated by the room's decor. He selected a puzzle box from the desk with a delighted chirp and threw himself back onto the bed as he worked on it. "I'm starving. When do you think they'll have the feast ready?"

"Well, breakfast is barely getting served right about now, dinner is at noon, and then supper is right around sundown," Robin said.

"Oh no, I'm talking aboutourfeast."

"What do you mean?"

"Aversa sent some cooks over because she said that you shouldn't have to live off gross Ylissean gruel while you're here. And she told them that the first thing they should do is make this big huge fancy feast and put on a party. 'Blow their puny little minds away with our superior tastes,'" Henry mimicked Aversa in a sing-song voice that would have resulted in him being strangled by the real Aversa.

Robin's mouth fell slightly open. "And when was I going to find out about this?"

Henry shrugged, sticking out his tongue as he focused on a particularly difficult puzzle turn. "Eventually."

"Which is why you need to start choosing what you're going to wear tonight," Tharja added, seizing Robin's wrist and dragging her bodily to the centre of the room. She stripped off her blanket and nightshirt in one go and Robin shrieked at the audacity, covering herself.

Tharja clicked her tongue. "Oh please, as though we haven't all seen each other naked and taken baths together. You haven't been here for long and already those prudish Ylissean sensibilities are rubbing off on you."

Outraged, all Robin could do was stutter and splutter and struggle to keep her red face in check. "It's not that—! You should warn me first!" she protested. "It hasn't been easy having to sneak around constantly just to get changed and you come here acting so casual about it."

"Don't care." Tharja's flippancy changed abruptly. Frowning, she did a double take. She raised Robin's arms away from her body.

"What? You missed my breasts or something?" Robin grumbled snippily.

"You've been binding, haven't you?"

"Uhhhhh." Robin deflated, meek, and pulled her head into her shoulders sheepishly. "No…?" She thought guiltily back to the bandages she had been stealing from the infirmary ward.

Tharja scoffed in complete exasperation. "Ugh! You're hopeless. Don't you realise how bad that is for you?"

"What was I supposed to do? Let them hang out carelessly so everyone will know I'm not who I say I am?"

"You use magic, what else? You are one of Plegia's best mages. You've solved bigger problems than this. You're our leader and yet the moment your body is concerned you become dumber than arock."

"That issorich coming from the woman who thought she was dying when her first blood came."

Tharja's eyes narrowing was the only warning Robin had before the sorceress snapped her perfectly manicured fingers. Robin's breasts suddenly flattened themselves against her body with a loud smack, and Henry roared with laughter as Robin doubled over, wheezing, from the pain.

"You're not seriously saying this is the solution?" Robin gasped.

Tharja, smirking, dumped a pile of clothes on the bed. "No, but that's what you get for being smart with me. We'll just cast an illusion over your chest. Now start picking out what you're going to wear. We have a very long day ahead: we have to get you in the bath quick, because you've been neglecting your skin and itshows, your elbows are so ashy; then we have to do your hair, because it looks like a rat's nest; then some jewellery—"

"Your concern is noted," Robin muttered sarcastically as the sorceress marched her to the washroom.

"So-o-o-o." Henry perched himself at the tub's lip as Tharja mercilessly dunked Robin in scented water and soaps, almost to the point of drowning. "What about that Chrom guy?"

Robin, spitting out suds, held on to the edge of the basin for dear mercy. "You mean Prince Chrom? What about him?"

"You seem to really really like him."

"Why wouldn't I? He's been very kind to me. I'm surprised he'd even host me at all."

"No, I mean like really really like like. You think he's cute? Is it the blue hair?"

Robin choked on a mouthful of water and coughed up half a lung, howling as Tharja's rough hands got soap in her eyes. Of all the times to be asking that—! "I donot'like like' him," she ground out.

"You seemed to be pretty relaxed around him," Henry said. "And you obviously liked it when he said those nice things about you."

"Like a dog wagging its tail when praised by its master," Tharja snickered, pouring a generous amount of soap onto Robin's nape.

Robin, instantly fed up with their questioning, pushed Tharja's hands away. "I am NOT discussing these sort of things with you two, alright? I don't like him that way. He's a very kind man, and he's done a lot for me, but that doesn't mean I find him handsome or anything of the sort. Understood?"

Her nosy attendants shared a look and barely suppressed snorts. "I didn't call him handsome—you did," Henry giggled.

The bathroom echoed with shrieks and cackles of laughter as Henry ran in circles, avoiding a sudsy Robin chasing him around the tub with a bar of soap.

Robin surveyed the organised chaos from the landings. It seemed as though Plegia had conquered Ylisstol Castle, as the entire place was awash in Plegian colours and banners: purples, golds, and rich reds draped across columns and balconies, and Tharja barked orders at servants, Plegians and Ylisseans alike. The air was thick with the scent of cooking and spices.

Robin was unsure of whether to feel excited or afraid over what would come next.

"Feel ready?" Henry asked. He was dressed in golden sandals, a sandy tunic, and a black cape and şalvar along with a purple cobra hood ruff. Heavy gold cuffs and a collar completed the ensemble and gave him a much more formal appearance compared to his easygoing attitude. Robin wished she felt as confident as he looked.

"Not really," she gulped. "Let's just get this over with."

The two descended the stairs to great pomp and fanfare, horn blasts nearly deafening them and ostrich feather fans threatening to muss their hair. Tharja had spent hours combing them to achieve a look that was simultaneously effortless and painstaking and would not be pleased if they undid her work. Robin was, to put it mildly, completely uninterested in the aesthetic side of things. But alas! Her station required her to submit to the rigours of fastidious grooming.

She had to admit that Tharja did an excellent job. Her body felt free and refreshed in Plegian garb. No longer did she have to stuff her Ylissean trousers, or close her vests and doublets restrictively tight over a bound chest; instead, an illusory spell gave the impression of a male body underneath a wonderfully loose cotton tunic, with a deep purple kaftan stitched in gold over it and Henry holding up its train. A braided leather and gold belt held it together, golden cuffs adorned her wrists, a gold earring hung in her right earlobe, and a golden thorned circlet crowned her head. In spite of herself, Robin was quietly amazed at how royal she looked.

(Though Tharja had insisted on her tunic being cut low down to her sternum to show off her thick necklace…and the fake pectorals the sorceress included in the spell)

The Ylisseans were awed. They watched raptly in a mix of fascination and fear as the "prince" of Plegia walked the length of the throne room down to the dais where she and the other ambassadors paid their respects to Chrom on the day of her arrival. The prince of Ylisse and his sister were waiting, just like before, to receive her.

Only this time it was she who was expected to deliver a speech. She was rather terrified.

Robin smiled wanly at Chrom's appreciative and encouraging grin.You look good!he mouthed, and she lightly tapped his shoulder in thanks before turning to the massive audience waiting for her.

Right. No pressure. Just…talking. You're good at that…right?

She gulped audibly. Lissa shot her a sympathetic glance.

"My countrymen," she began tremulously. She mentally cursed. "And my Ylissean hosts. I thank you all for coming to hear my words."

Oh good gods, can you sound any more boring? Okay, think. Don't make it too long—keep it nice and sweet. Be thankful and polite and uhhhhh…no, just keep it short and then go on to the presents. Everyone loves presents.

"These are difficult times we live in. Not long ago we were mortal enemies who only saw each other on the battlefield instead of sharing a meal at a table. It is my hope that we can come together and change that, so that all our interactions may be as f-friends."

Robin gulped hard. She was stuck on the next few words.

But then Chrom gave her another smile, and she relaxed. It was very comforting to know that he had her back. Whatever blunder she might commit onstage, he would not hold it against her; in fact, he would probably have a laugh with her over it, and all her embarrassment would be forgotten in that moment with him. And so her doubts faded.

"In fact," Robin said, and she had to bite her lip to fight off the rush of warmth colouring her pale skin, "despite only being here for a short while, I would gladly count Prince Chrom as a dear friend. In the time I've known him, he has been nothing but kind, welcoming, and understanding. And it is precisely that kindness of his that gives me hope for our countries; that we may build powerful bonds that will take us to a brighter future for all."

The Plegians were absolutely taken with her speech and applauded rapturously. The Ylissean reception was more mixed, with some pleased, some lukewarm, and the results were similar across the Valmese, Feroxi, and Rosannois audiences.

But it was Chrom's touched expression that made it worthwhile.

"To celebrate our friendships and our futures, I would very much like to present you all with some gifts from Plegia." Robin started down the stairs and signalled Chrom and Lissa to follow. The entire crowd followed suit.

First, Robin presented the Plegian menagerie in the courtyard. The vast majority of the people had never seen the native fauna of Plegia before, save for perhaps in books and paintings, and even the most hard-headed courtier was astonished at such sights. Trained keepers stood guard to protect the onlookers from the beasts shown to them: the elephants, trumpeting loudly as they tossed their trunks; skittish fallow deer; the giant ibex whose massive horns rivalled even the tallest men in size; and the camels, whose spitting and groaning provoked much laughter.

Robin gifted a number of these animals to the royal siblings: outrageously coloured parrots and storks and cranes, destined for a new aviary in the gardens; swift desert horses and dogs whose beautiful spotted and striped coats elicited much admiration (and in Lissa's case, tears of joy over receiving their kisses); deer for the hunt; and a handsome pair of cheetahs that used to be hers and Daraen's. She felt a twinge of sadness as she handed their golden leads to Chrom, but felt reassured that they were in good hands.

For the next presentation, Robin led them all to the great dining hall. The show of wealth and colour was incredible, though unsurprising, as Robin had expected nothing less from Aversa. The entirety of the room looked like the interior of a desert tent and had been outfitted in sumptuous silks and braziers and carpets and cushions. She bade everyone to take their shoes off and sit cross legged as the next round of gifts was laid out.

Now the next items were luxuries indeed…partly why the war had been waged, in fact. It was no secret that Ylisse had long been envious over Plegia's material wealth and trade with Chon'sin. With no direct eastern maritime route to the Valmese continent, they had been forced to depend on Plegia as a middleman, and there was ferocious dispute as to whether their sales practices were fair. But Robin hoped to change that, at least by placating the nobility with a gesture of friendship…and a sort of bribe.

She gave them beautiful silks and cottons and linens for their clothes and decorations. Copper and bronze for their tools and lamps; damascened steel and silver and gold for their jewellery and weapons. She gave them perfumes in whimsical glass bottles, and exotic flowers for their gardens. She gave them rugs, spices (cinnamon, pepper, nutmeg, cumin), ivory, furs, sweets (sugar, vanilla, and cacao from Plegia's island territories), jewels, tea, and fruits (oranges, lemons, pomegranates, dates).

Would it ever be enough?Robin fretted as the people oohed and ahhed over the products. Would it convince the people of Ylisse that her intentions were genuine?

Perhaps not. Already the atmosphere was suffused thickly with greed, as the nobility carded over the gifts and admired their quality. The eyes of many were alight not with appreciation, but avarice.

In an attempt to clear the air, Robin called for the feast to be served and for their entertainment to show off their skills.

"This is wonderful, Daraen!" Chrom marvelled at the huge spread laid out before them. Plegian cuisine was served all at once, and not in courses, as the Ylisseans and Rosannois preferred. The smell of dishes such as kushari, dolma, and yoghurt sprinkled with mint invigorated their appetites tremendously. Chrom served himself a heap of everything but was puzzled over the lack of utensils.

Robin shook her head with a grin. "You're supposed to eat with your hands, but there's a spoon for the yoghurt."

"Ah. Thanks."

As she coached him through the intricacies of folding rice and meat into flatbread, their entertainers dazzled them with their daring and finesse. There were fire-breathers, magicians, and dancers who performed all sorts of marvels and tricks to the breathless delight of their audience.

Chrom, it seemed, was especially captivated by the dancers. "Just look at them," he sighed wistfully. Food was falling carelessly from his limp hand as he watched the beautiful men and women twirling and jumping in their red costumes. "They're like Olivia. Granted, I've only seen her dance once, but it's similar…they've got those disks and silks she throws around…but they're not as beautiful or graceful." He sighed again as a handful of rice plopped into his lap.

Robin was peeved. She had nothing personal against Olivia, but she was rather hoping to simply enjoy the feast and not have to think about the Feroxi, the war, her possibly dead brother, or anything else related to the constant stress she was usually subjected to. Henry's personality assessment was a dead-ringer that hurt her more than she cared to admit, and she hoped to try and prove him at least somewhat wrong by attempting to let loose a bit. Chrom was certainly not helping matters with his lovelorn mooning.

"Have an orange. You haven't tried them yet," she ground out, handing him a particularly fat and heavy one.

Thankfully, that seemed to do the trick. "I've never seen this type of fruit before." He inspected its pebbled peel and sniffed it curiously.

"They're juicy and sweet. I think you'll like them. There's nothing more refreshing than having some fruit on a hot summer's day, especially when there's an orange in the mix."

"Thank you." His expression fell into pensiveness. He rolled the orange absently around in his hands, staring hard at it, pursing his lips. The gesture was uncharacteristic of him and it worried Robin. "When you…" Chrom finally spoke after a long pause. "When you said that in your speech…did you really mean it?"

"Mean what?"

There was something odd in Chrom's eyes that tugged unexpectedly at her heart when he raised his head to look into her own. Something nakedly frightened and vulnerable…yet also profoundly sincere and hopeful. "About you considering me a friend."

Robin had been punched in the gut many, many times before; somehow, Chrom's quiet words were comparable. Was this an admission of sorts?

Was he honestly saying hewantedthem to be friends?

The thought was daunting. The concept of friendship was not one that Robin was intimately acquainted with, nor even casually knowledgeable of. Yes, there were people she got along with, and people she loved, like her brother (she was not even touching the Say'ri incident), butfriends?Robin was unsure if anyone fit in that category—even Tharja and Henry, despite their banter and mutual trust. They were simply assigned to her as servants ever since Validar brought her and Daraen down from the mountains. But now, six words from Chrom was all it took for her to reevaluate the basis of their relationship beyond master and servants.

Especially difficult was Chrom's indirect gesture of friendship.

Robin turned to look at the rest of the Plegians in attendance. Henry was performing neat little spells for a gaggle of children surrounding him, and Tharja, in an even skimpier outfit than before, had chosen to sit next to Libra and make increasingly explicit overtures to the befuddled monk (to the jealousy of many staring men) for her own entertainment. Then Robin forced herself to meet Chrom's blue eyes.

A rush of affection for those three overtook her; those who had stuck by her during extremely difficult times, who had made her feel welcomed and wanted, and who helped her during the dangerous and difficult journey she had to take to even be in Ylisstol.

"I did mean it," Robin declared resolutely.

A brilliant smile shone on Chrom's face, as though a sunbeam was focused on him. Those blue eyes crinkled delightfully at the corners and his cheeks dimpled, and the warmth invading Robin's very skin prompted a smile of her own, genuinely happy at the sight.

Thought they now ate in silence, they did so with a newfound sense of companionship. Chrom was still smiling even as he bit into the orange, skin and all, and spat out a pulpy bitter mess.

"I thought you said oranges are juicy and sweet!"

"They are!" Robin guffawed uncontrollably. "Y-you just have to peel them first."

Chapter 12: Methinks I Feel this Youth's Perfections

Chapter Text

Olivia was never much for parties; the crush of people, the heady din of laughter and merrymaking, the stench of wine-soaked garments often proved too much for her sensibilities. Staying in with a good book and curled up next to a roaring fire was more to her liking. So when a great hue and cry was raised at the most ungodly hour, with everyone rushing out of the guesthouse to gawp at the new arrivals and coming back running with news of a grand feast planned for later, Olivia decided that barricading herself in her room was in order. Not the least because Chrom was obviously going to be attending and she had no desire to run into him or even let him catch a glimpse of her.

(He had sent her more love letters and gifts via Basilio, traitorous uncle that he was. The presents were regifted whilst the letters were consigned to the fireplace)

But these newcomers were Plegians…Prince Daraen's people. Meaning he was, presumably, to preside over the event.

Should I go?she asked herself, hand paused over the doorknob.Is it worth the risk?

Olivia's curiosity over Daraen had not waned in the slightest—the latest news only stoked it further, burning hotter and brighter. What would it be like, to see him amongst his own kind? Would he come dressed in Plegian finery? Was he to give a speech? What were Plegians outside of battle like, anyways?

Her eagerness to avoid Chrom's presence warred with her fascination over the young prince. It was a difficult, nerve-wracking thought process, but the latter won out in the end, and Olivia found herself coaxing a skeptical Sully into dressing her for the feast.

Just a quick peek won't hurt…

She was wearing an Ylissean gown in an attempt to blend in and hide from Chrom's gaze. She even had Sully hide her long pink hair under a white coif as though she was an old-fashioned married woman. Sweat dampened her nape as she wove between the people, nervously shrinking away from making eye contact with anyone, and pushed herself into a space that would allow her a good enough view of the proceedings while keeping her inconspicuous.

What a marvelous sight it was! Richly coloured banners were hung all over the place, and a delicious smoky incense burned in burnished censers laid out in strategically placed intervals along the audience hall. Servants fanned the scent further, as well as the people, with enormous ostrich feather fans. But Daraen—

Her eyes widened when a loud fanfare of trumpets announced his presence.

Gone were the ill-fitting trousers, the baggy hose, the weirdly tight vests and doublets; in their place was a gorgeous ensemble of purple cotton and gold jewellery that favoured the prince's pale complexion. His boyishly messy hair was now carefully combed into place beneath a golden thorned circlet. Every inch of him looked appropriately princely…and the biggest surprise of all was the muscular, toned physique exposed by a deeply plunging neckline in his tunic. Olivia's mind dispelled the previously held image of youthful softness and replaced it with a mental picture of manly sturdiness and strength.

Her mouth suddenly went dry.

She stared at him for the entirety of the feast. Olivia cared little for the exhibition of the menagerie, the presentation of expensive gifts, or the entertainment put on by Plegian dancers and magicians; she only had eyes for Daraen, and the relaxed, confident way he held himself as he directed the event. As risky as it was to position herself so close to where Daraen sat—which was right next to Chrom—, Olivia could not bear losing sight of him even for a second.

The two princes, thick as thieves, laughed and ate and talked easily throughout the night. Olivia slunk away before Basilio got back to the guest house to avoid running into him.

She replied half-heartedly to her maids' chit-chat as they disrobed her. She responded to Sully's questions with soft grunts as she soaked in a hot bath before bed. Basilio's soused 'good night' was only barely acknowledge before the Feroxi delegation turned in for the night.

Despite her tired body, Olivia's mind raced frantically through the memories of the feast. Her heart pounded over the images of Daraen walking down the staircase, his face serene and composed, his muscles well-defined under his tunic. He looked so different from the youth she remembered.

How strange I'm feeling!She thought as she tossed and turned for the hundredth time. The next few nights were spent in a similarly sleepless fashion.

Duke Virion paid a visit one morning. He paid her compliments as flowery and fine as his costly silken clothes over their fruit and oatmeal—Basilio talked her into sharing a private breakfast with the Rosannois noble. At the very least, he made for interesting conversation, and shared her interests in music and the arts.

Even so, she was too distracted to pay much attention.

"I say!" He wiped his mouth after a delicate spoonful of food. The action had Sully snorting in derision, but he seemed to not have noticed. "Is something amiss, my dear?"

Olivia started. She blinked, confused. "I-I'm sorry…did you say something?"

"You seem to be quite preoccupied over your thoughts. Is something wrong? Anything I can do to help?"

She set down her cup with a sigh. She grimaced once she realised she had accidentally spilled some of her drink on the skirt of her dress. "N-no, thank you. It's just…" she sighed again. "I was wondering about yesterday…"

"The Plegian banquet?"

"Yes. I…I hope I'm not too much of a bother, asking this…but how much do you know about Plegia?"

Virion set his spoon down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well…it's the smallest of this continent's countries, but quite rich in terms of resources. Most know it due to the vast desert in its centre, but it has grasslands and mountains bordering Ylisse, then more mountains to the west, jungles and forests, and a rather large lake separating it from Regna Ferox and Ylisse. Then there are its island territories. It has quite a different number of peoples as well: nomads that travel between the mountains and the desert, the Telmak Gush, headhunters in the jungles—"

"Goodness, Duke Virion! You know so much. H-have you ever been there?"

"Heavens no! It hasn't been the most welcoming to foreigners, really. I simply read what I can. Though I suppose that, with its change in rulership, a trip is in order. Young Prince Daraen looks like a capable enough man and I believe he's got what it takes to restore a measure of peace in his country."

Now was Olivia's chance to get to the real meat of her question. Since Virion brought him up, and not her, she could broach the subject without seeming too obvious about it.

"And…w-what do you think about Da—the prince of Plegia?"

Virion, raising a questioning brow, reaching for his drink. "Well. Not to seem rude, my dear Olivia, but surely you've heard something from your lord uncle? He is far more active than I am in the summit, after all. Or is his testimony not enough to satisfy?"

"No, i-it's not t-that," Olivia protested lightly, a blush spreading out across her face. "I just want to hear y-your thoughts on the m-matter."

Pensive silence befell them as Virion carefully considered his words. "He seems like a fine young man. I do admit that my exposure to Plegians was restricted to books or anecdotes of Ylisseans facing enemy soldiers on the battlefield—not the best way to make acquaintances, so my views were rather skewed, at first. But meeting him has certainly been quite the eye-opener. He has a ways to go in terms of grooming and etiquette, but his mind is quite sharp, and his tongue equally so. I had heard of the exploits of Plegia's master tactician, so seeing him in the flesh was rather intriguing. I do wonder if he'd be up for a quick game of chess one day…"

"Thank you, Your Grace," Olivia said, and she lapsed into quietude as Virion droned on and on about chess and other board games. She was quite relieved to see him go, despite vastly preferring his company to Chrom's.

"I shan't believe a word anyone says about that arrogant little peascod," Excellus vowed, fuming, as Olivia's maids reapplied her makeup after breakfast. He kept a certain distance from the vanity, as he disliked cosmetics and claimed them to be a display of pridefulness that marred one's natural beauty (the scents also made him feel ill). "Intelligence is not mutually exclusive to having manners."

"Why, because you're such an expert?" Sully sneered at the toadlike eunuch, and the room soon devolved into noisy bickering that Olivia tuned out with thoughts of Daraen.

She snuck into the kitchen well after dark and when Basilio's snores were loudest. Taking up the broom from its usual position, she poked a sleeping Gaius in the foot to wake him up.

"Babe, you've gotta stop doing that," he grumbled sleepily as he jumped down from the rafters. "You want me to fall and hit my head or somethin'?"

Olivia rolled her eyes slightly at the jester's dramatic tone. "You'd never fall. You always land on your feet—like a cat."

"I prefer being called 'foxy,'" Gaius said with a grin, in spite of himself.

"A-anyways…what have you found out?"

Tapping his foot in a quickfire rhythm, the rogue hummed exaggeratedly and rubbed the back of his head, mussing his already tousled hair. Olivia noticed distastefully that he had a lozenge stuck close to his ear. "Well. Bubble's a slippery little eel, I'm give him that. He's done something weird to his room with whatever enchantment or hex 'cause I can't pick the locks. The window's a no-go since it's so high up and Chrom's got it pretty heavily guarded."

"He's not a criminal, Gaius. You don't need to break into his room."

"Babe, let me remind you that you're paying me to stalk him—"

"I-I-I'm doing no such thing—!"

"—and rooms are where you put your important stuff, but I digress. I've been able to kinda follow him around—"

"What do you mean, 'kinda?'"

The jester scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Means half-done, sweetheart. You gotta stop interrupting and let me finish! Didn't they teach you manners at whatever fancy school you nobles go to?"

Olivia, spluttering and red-faced, felt the immediate urge to retort, but kept her mouth shut lest she prove him right.

"As I was saying. I don't have access to where he and all the rest of the bigwigs are having their meetings either, but I've been able to keep an eye on him when he's eating, working in the library, or out for a stroll in the gardens. It's been pretty boring."

"But what have you seen?"

"He's a right little bookworm, he is. Got his nose half-buried in a book and taking notes for a good part of the day. Bubbles should really get glasses or something, 'cause he sticks his face so far in to the page," Gaius laughed. "It's kinda cute! Maybe that's why his handwriting is so sh*tty. I mean, I'm not super literate, but his writing basically amounts to squiggles."

Olivia smiled to herself as she imagined Daraen scribbling inanities with his face in a book at the library. It was a very sweet image.

"He's also really paranoid. Granted, I know they called him 'Six-Eyes,' but damn if he wasn't turning around constantly. Caught me a few times, too."

Olivia groaned exasperatedly. "Aren't you supposed to be stealthy?"

"Babe, Iam, butyoutry stalking a war strategist. Guys like that don't survive without being paranoid."

"It's not stalking," Olivia mumbled, still red-faced.

"Yes it is," Gaius retorted. "Lessee, what else…he likes kids. Princess, Stumbles, and Twinkles bring their brats over to him and he tires 'em out. Lets them whack him all over with their toys and crap. Don't get me wrong, they're cute, but I wouldn't be able to handle more than one at a time, and this guy just takes it all in stride. But he's always got an audience during playtime—the castle ladies lose their damn marbles over it. You'd think he was some sort of angel, the way they look at him."

Something unpleasant and hot rose, rather like bile, at the back of Olivia's throat. This was old news to her—she remembered her disastrous tea-time with the noblewomen—, but hearing Gaius describe it was…offensive, somehow. "Go on," she said, trying hard to swallow.

"He also has a really, really weird taste in food. No, scratch that; I'd call it disgusting. Bubbles said he was feeling peckish once, and Sunshine personally made him this absolutelyabominableeel and liver pie—"

"Who's 'Sunshine?'" Olivia interrupted once more.

"Babe!" Gaius growled and rolled his eyes. "Stop interrupting! And Sunshine is that Plegian lady with thehugeboo—"

"I'd rather not hear those particular details," Olivia muttered, rubbing her temples. "Is that all so far?"

"Well, I can dig up more, per our contract, but I'd like to be paid for it first."

The khatun handed him a fat, sticky honey roll she had hidden in a satchel in her room, and thanked him before retreating back upstairs.

That night, she was too energised up to even toss in bed. She spent her time pacing madly around the four poster bed as her heart and mind raced in a thousand directions.

To her horror, Olivia recognised the awful feeling caging her heart asjealousy. But what on earth was there to be jealous about? She already knew that Prince Daraen had his fair share of admirers. It was to be expected that his retinue would include attractive men and women. So why now, after the recent arrival of the rest of the Plegians, would she feel this way? Was she really so desperate for companionship that the sight of bare flesh was enough to send her in a tizzy?

Calm down. You barely know him. And yet, that just makes you want to know more about him, doesn't it? If only Chrom were like him…even if the others say he's coarse and rude, Daraen was thoughtful, and witty, and understanding when we first met. Another meeting with him wouldn't be so bad, even if he's doing it for Chrom. Will he wear that tunic again? Ah, no, calm down, calm down.

"Excellus," Olivia called out to the steward the next morning as her toilette was being prepared.

"Yes, mistress?" he simpered at her summons.

She withdrew a beautiful filigree bracelet with the Ylissean iris etched in gold from her drawer. "It seems that Prince Daraen forgot one of Chrom's gifts on his last visit. Would you be so kind as to inform him and give it back?"

"Well, that I can, but isn't this part of the jewellery Prince Chrom sent yesterday? Shouldn't I simply regift this?"

"No, I remember every single thing Chrom sends, and he sends quite a lot of stuff. I just don't think it'd be very polite of me to throw Daraen's gesture back in his face. It's not his fault Chrom's that way, is it?"

"No, milady," Excellus said, clearly displeased with having to interact with the Plegian again.

Olivia had long given in to her burning curiosity and desire to see Daraen again. However, she wanted it to be on her own terms, instead of hoping that Chrom would send the prince to her in another one of his ill-thought matchmaking attempts. Whether it worked, however, was completely out of her hands…but at this point, Olivia was willing to make that gamble.

Elsewhere in the castle, another member of the nobility also had his thoughts constantly turning to the prince of Plegia.

Chrom was currently dealing with a mass outbreak of hysteria in his court. The very sight of Plegians in Ylisstol—inside the castle!—was apparently enough to send some of his people into a panicked frenzy.

"If only their prince is allowed in the summit, then why have the rest here at all?"

"Their heathen ways are going to corrupt my children!"

"Our countries were at war a year ago; what makes Prince Chrom think they come in peace now?"

So on and so forth. Some of the most vociferous complaints came from his own cabinet, and having to constantly meet with them was enough to make him want to rip his hair out.

"Lord Oswynn, if Prince Daraen has been snoring soundly but a few doors down from me, then I can assure you that it's highly unlikely that a random Plegian will come to slit your throat in your sleep." Chrom rubbed his temples tiredly.

Tobias Falstaff had called an impromptu meeting after the feast; though he was clearly within his rights as a Minister, it was highly irritating to be pulled out of merrymaking. Chrom thought back to the delicious food and wonderful entertainment at the feast sourly, unhappy that he was now stuck at work.

He remembered Daraen's disappointed look as he left the party.

"If I may speak, sire," Anton Kospa spoke up timidly. "I was told they came armed."

"A clear violation of the terms set in the agreement," Falstaff pointed out.

Chrom was feeling the onset of a headache beginning to creep up on him. "Bandits are everywhere these days. With the cargo they were carrying, they needed to have weapons."

"Be as it may, it would be wise of us to confiscate them. No bandits are to be found within these walls, Your Highness."

O'Fearghial hacked and coughed drily, spitting a thick glob of phlegm to the side, and adjusted his robes around him as though he was chilled. "What of his attendants? What are we to do with them?" he rasped.

"They stay with their prince, of course," Chrom said.

"Unacceptable. They're most likely spies!" Oswynn panted, wringing his hands anxiously. "They might be reporting on our every move as we speak!"

"Lord Oswynn, that'sabsurd—"

Falstaff interrupted; though with the expertise with which he handled his words, he often made it seem as though he was incapable of such a thing. Chrom knew better. "I wouldn't call it an absurdity, I'm afraid. Perhaps their activities might not be as nefarious as some think…but I still believe it would be prudent of us to exercise caution."

The room echoed with agreements. Falstaff was an expert debater who had an uncanny ability to express points that made it almost impossible to disagree with him. Chrom respected that Maribelle had a good relationship with her uncle, especially considering her strained bonds with her parents, but Falstaff still gave him pause.

Not helping matters was that he used to be a close friend of his father.

Chrom steepled his fingers, regarding his cabinet carefully. "What do you suggest I do about it, then?"

Falstaff gave him a little smile. Something about it always felt…offto Chrom. He could not quite pinpoint the exact reason why. "We keep them under close watch. Though they come in peace…well. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,' I've heard some say."

"They're not here as enemies, Lord Falstaff. They're our guests."

"It does not erase the events of the past year, nor the millennia of bad blood between our nations. You are a noble man for wanting to see the best in them, milord, but I cannot vouch the same for our…guests. It stands to reason that the best course of action is to have them watched. Prince Daraen did sign an agreement submitting to our terms, after all."

Chrom, swallowing, gauged the reactions of the rest of his cabinet. Valentine, Urquhart, Kospa and Oswynn were firmly in Falstaff's corner. Trengrouse and O'Feargihal looked indifferent. Eschmann, always a firm supporter of his, was clearly in disagreeance, yet said nothing.

"I guess I don't have much of a choice in this, do I?" Chrom sighed. "Fine. I'll double the guards around Daraen's quarters and have the Plegian retinue's weaponry confiscated. But his attendants stay with him."

"Your Highness, I must disagree—!" Oswynn protested.

Falstaff interrupted again. "The woman and that boy who sat with him at the feast should be allowed. They seem to be close. The rest should stay in separate quarters, and the Ylissean servants assigned to him will discuss their findings with us."

"You've no authority to decide that," Chrom said testily. "Mary and her staff report directly to me. I chose them personally for the job, and that job doesn't includespying."

Falstaff regarded him coolly. His eyes were so like Maribelle's—a rich, ruby red—and yet so different, possessing none of her warmth.

It was unwise of Chrom to challenge his ministers on such matters, but he was not going to let them bully him. He was still the prince regnant, and as such, he had to be deferred to whether they liked it or not. He knew he needed their help to run the country…but lines had to be drawn somewhere.

"I apologise for being so forward, milord." Falstaff's smile was light and airy. "I forgot my place. Yet, I do believe that the rest of the Plegians ought to be housed elsewhere, if only to keep the peace. Prince Daraen's friends can stay with him in his guest quarters."

The room filled with soft vocalisations of support for Falstaff's proposal. Eschmann shot Chrom a questioning glance. He did not have a clear majority on his side.

"Fine then," Chrom conceded.

As the cabinet members filed out, eager to retire for the night, Chrom beckoned Frederick to his side. "Our own spies haven't reported any funny business on Falstaff's end, have they?"

"No, milord," the knight said.

"Let's hope it stays that way." Chrom yawned noisily, exhausted and nursing a bad headache, and made a straight beeline to his room with Frederick following closely. He had a poor night's sleep.

The next few days were no better, with the summit and his audiences and his…other preoccupations. But thoughts of Daraen helped take the edge off. Chrom discovered a newfound admiration for his Plegian counterpart after the feast, seeing him in a new light. Daraen looked so regal and sure of himself in his own clothes—a far cry from the awkward, scrawny thing in borrowed garments Chrom was used to seeing (then again, he rather missed lending clothes to Daraen). The prince of Plegia was relaxed and carried himself confidently at the feast. He smiled more easily. It was a change Chrom welcomed gladly.

He would never admit to anyone that he was rather shocked over Daraen's body. The prince's low-cut tunic had exposed surprisingly well-developed muscles, very unlike the impression he gave off when wearing loaned doublets and hose. Not to say that Chrom felt inadequate in comparison (he was taller than Daraen, and even though his days were mostly occupied with bureaucracy, he made sure to squeeze in a few hours of exercise), but it was rather jarring.

Then there was also the fact that Chrom had drunkenly praised Daraen's facial features as feminine that one night, so there was that additionally awkward layer.

What really made him jealous was how his retainers treated him. The way that woman—Tharja—fawned over Daraen, with kisses, and praises, the way the others looked at him during his speech. Chrom did not enjoy that kind of support. Although he was fully aware that achieving popularity with everyone was impossible for any monarch, Chrom knew that a good part of his court whispered behind his back, mocked him, or compared him unfavourably to Emmeryn. He could cope with that somewhat.

But never with the ones who compared him to his father.

Chrom did not begrudge Daraen for it; Ylissean court politics and intrigues were not his fault. After all, they were friends now.

Friends!The word made Chrom feel nice and warm inside. It put a smile on his face as he recalled the feast and Daraen's offer of friendship along with an orange. Their relationship had progressed far since that moment when they first started a chain of correspondence, and now, Daraen was calling him a friend. Chrom admitted to himself that he had been rather lonely as of late. He was still close to his Shepherds, but it was simply not the same anymore: everyone was preoccupied with their own duties, caring for children, enjoying marriage, and having adult lives beyond Shepherding. He missed his youth with them and their comparatively carefree days before the war and before Emmeryn died and he was saddled with a title and throne he felt overwhelmingly unprepared for. Now his life consisted of politics and being surrounded by people whose allegiances he was unsure of.

Not Daraen, though. He had been a wonderful guest, a formidable negotiator at the summit table, and a witty, interesting conversationalist. Chrom enjoyed spending time with him. He had no doubts over the prince's goals and could spy no hidden agenda on his part.

If only it were not so awkward given that he had involved the poor man in his pursuit of Olivia. He was confident that Daraen was the man for the job, but with all the stress that being at the summit entailed, as well as the restrictions imposed on him, it was quite a lot to ask for.

I owe him big time,Chrom thought as he burrowed farther inside his sheets.But I'm still feeling guilty over this.

It was certainly a fine mess they were both in. Perhaps they were being stupidly in over their heads and biting off more than they could chew. At the very least, Chrom was not feeling so alone in it now.

I hope we can still stay friends after this. I'd like that very much.

Chapter 13: As Dark as Ignorance

Chapter Text

One Plegian was bad enough to give him nightmares. Two more was past his breaking limit. The horde that had descended upon the castle trapped his mind within an endless loop of paranoid terror.

The castle was a sanctuary no longer; the city was sacred no more. Their arrival had tainted them irreparably.

First Themis was invaded, now Ylisstol. Is Mount Prism next?he fretted.

Even being in the same room as them was pure agony. His skin crawled uncontrollably as he witnessed, utterly dismayed, as the castle's occupants cooed and fawned over the animals and gifts on display. Nothing more than expensive bribes and baubles. Would the court really go as far as to forget their morals and principles over spices and silks?

Knowing them, it's likely,he thought darkly, downing his goblet of wine in a single gulp. It threatened to come back up in a rush of bile as a Plegian servant offered him a refill. He declined, naturally—the wine was now tainted as well.

He had to leave the feast before his disgust became too obvious. To tolerate the presence of Plegians in Ylisstol Castle would be to spit on the memory of Exalt Godric (may he rest in peace). The last straw was seeing how Chrom, innocent, hapless Chrom, delighted in the company of such godless heathens. That vile Plegian, garbed in devilish thorns and an absolutely indecent tunic, sat by his side: laughing, talking,touching him, feeding him—

Gasping for air as he finally escaped into the gardens, he immediately sought out his blackmailer.

"You're upset because of a couple of Plegians? Gods, you're hysterical. Come back to me when there's arealproblem to tackle." They rolled their eyes as they reclined leisurely on a ratty divan, munching away on a pouch of kumquats.

They had set up shop, so to speak, in an area so well hidden within the castle that even he had no idea of its existence; its only inhabitants were multitudes of spiders and their cobwebs. Centuries of discarded and forgotten furniture and trinkets had been gathered up and placed around the circular room in an attempt to make it more suitable for humans.

Not that it did any good.He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he touched the wall and, startled, withdrew it from the slimy, mouldy stone. "I-it's n-not just t-that…h-how are we to achieve anything with those i-infidels hanging about?"

"What, like it's hard? Good grief, are you expecting me to do all the work around here? Are you seriously whining about such trivialities so early in the game?"

"N-no," he protested, hurt over being belittled so. "I…I just think that their presence presents…difficulties to what we hope to achieve."

They scoffed. "That is the entire point of working from the shadows. What's a few more people to worry about? It's not as if they'll be able to sniff us out and ruin our plans. No one even knows that we're even acquainted. You're worrying about a minor inconsequence in the grander scheme of things."

"E-even so—"

"And besides…" they grinned, wickedly fierce, their square teeth uncannily white in the low light of the room. "We've more important things to discuss."

They withdrew a sheaf of papers from within their robes and threw it on the rickety table, scattering them across its rotting surface.

He stared, unsure.

"Are you daft? Go on and read them!"

He gathered them up shakily. All were written in the common script, mostly maps and permits allowing for free passage on the continent's roads—very hard to come by nowadays.

One of the notes, however, caught his eye:

"'This Writ is to be used as a Proof of my Authority…I am charged with organising a Search Party to locate His Highness Prince Daraen and bring him to Safety by the Power of The Theocracy of Plegia…'" he read aloud. The letter's authenticity was verified by the wax seal stamped at the bottom, an ugly, bruise purple six-eyed sigil.

Their blackmailer smiled as he trailed off.

"W…what on earth is this? Where did you get this from? What does it mean by 'search party?' Who would need a search party? And for P-P-Prince D-Daraen? But he's here in the castle! What is going on?"

They rose from the divan with an impossible fluidity, their steps simultaneously lazy and giddy as they circled him with that knowing, catty look in their eyes. "That's what we're about to find out, my dear. Just stand back and watch."

They stepped on a large stone embedded into the floor. To his amazement, the ground rumbled and groaned beneath them, the sound of grinding gears filling the room until a rocky set of stairs spiraling deep beneath the earth was revealed. A rush of musty cold air from below greeted them.

"After you," they said with a grin.

He gulped. He leaned forward into the yawning, looming dark. Then, with a frightened, hesitant first step, he descended the stairs into the consuming black. They followed after. Soon, the gears began to grind again and the stone moved back into place, with nothing left behind to suggest that they had been there.

Chapter 14: The Breach of the Sea

Chapter Text

He remembered falling into the icy, freezing sea. He remembered the waves rolling and throwing him mercilessly, swallowing frigid mouthfuls of water, and clawing fruitlessly at the air whenever he managed to surface. He remembered someone screaming his name as the water finally claimed him. Then, everything went gray and dark.

He thought he was going to die.

He choked himself awake as he vomited the contents of his stomach along with seawater onto the rocky shore. His throat was raw and sore, as though a thousand needles were taking turns jabbing into soft, vulnerable flesh; even groaning hurt too much. Though the rain and lightning had stopped a long time ago, his ears were still ringing from the powerful thunder that had rumbled across the sky. His eyelids were much too heavy to open.

He succumbed to unconsciousness and flitted between the waking world and sleep.

When he awoke once more, he became aware of a sharp, stabbing pain in his side. Then on his back. Then his knees. Soon, a terrible, agonising ache took over him, and he writhed in the throes of torment as his body trembled and throbbed, languishing.

He tried to focus on the sound of crashing waves in an attempt to calm himself. The sound of gulls crying. The stench of rotting seaweed thrown ashore only helped churn his gut, and he vomited again, only this time his stomach was too empty to muster anything else besides acrid yellow bile.

With a great deal of effort, he managed to roll onto his back. He yelled, pained, at the sensation of sharp rocks digging into him.

He took stock of himself: breathing hurt, so he mostly likely had some cracked or broken ribs; the burning in his side a possible open wound; the throbbing in his boots a definite broken toe or two. He wiggled and flexed his arms and hands next. Miraculously, no obvious harm had come to them. He braced his weight against them and his pelvis in an attempt to stand.

He fell back with a loud shout. His head swam and pulsed, dizziness blurring his eyes, agony rendering him defenseless and overwhelmed. He was too battered to do much except stay sprawled there on the beach.

What on earth was he to do in such a state? he thought, panicking.

He lay there for a long time. He was parched and hungry and weak. Now with the sun climbing higher in the sky, and no obvious human presence, he feared that he would die there, alone.

Suddenly, a dark shadow shielded his face from the light.

"Are…are you alright, sir?"

Chapter 15: Pleasure Will be Paid One Time or Another

Chapter Text

The return to the boardroom was an unwelcome change. Gone was the wine, the food, the music and merrymaking of the feast; it was back to an atmosphere of tension and sideways glances towards men of dubious character sitting together at the same table. Robin preferred to stake her chances against lions and tigers and bears, which, though bloodthirsty creatures to be sure, were at least quite upfront about it.

And speaking of dubious characters…

Robin snuck a look towards Valentine. The Minister wore quite the petulant expression on his painted face, only offering grunts and noncommittal mumblings anytime others questioned him. A childish, churlish attitude to be sure, but it was far more manageable than his previous defiance of Chrom and jabs against her and Miriel. It was obvious, however, that his newfound restraint was far from voluntary or self-imposed.

She then turned her eyes to Tobias Falstaff.

The little Robin had accomplished in the short time she had spent in Ylisstol was still significant; not only had she managed to enlist Miriel to her side, but having the mage's help now meant a reliable way to arrange the transport of the goods expected of Plegia. It was difficult to weigh the little options she did have, what with wanting—needing—to alleviate the suffering of starving people, and having to keep her counterparts from imposing crippling demands on her to do so. They had initially wanted 6,000 bushels of wheat; Plegia's richest farmlands could procure more than that amount for a year, so all that would be left to do would be to redistribute the bulk of domestic production to other areas to keep the country from needing to ration too heavily. Robin still managed to talk them down to 5,000.

But that was entirely the point, wasn't it?Robin thought to herself. Falstaff had predicted that line of reasoning. And he used it to push his suggestion so casually, with such an easy nonchalance, that one would have thought it had just occurred to him.

Eastern Ylisse is still struggling to keep up under the strain,he said, concerned.We've lost several villages to starvation over the winter. Spring has offered a brief respite, but who knows how many are still running on borrowed time?

And from there the floodgates opened. Now they felt free to ask for more and more until their demands had reached astronomically impossible heights.

Falstaff is right. Ylisse needs more than that to make it through the year, especially our westernmost territories.

Six thousand won't be enough when we consider the sorry state Themis is in.

You saw all those gifts they brought with them…all that fruit and meat…Plegia clearly has more than enough to spare. Why should we have to bear with hungry bellies to fill when Plegia dares to taunt us with its wealth?

The worst part was that Robin was in no position to argue. Falstaff's observations and his fellow Ministers' statements were based in truth—she had seen, firsthand, the results of hunger when travelling to Ylisstol. The hollow, empty eyed expressions on potbellied children who scavenged for scraps of grain in the midst of ruined fields. The starkness of ribs pulling against paper-thin skin as villagers and townsfolk tried to return to their everyday routines.

Granted, Robin witnessed few examples of such extremity when riding with Gregor. And the people of Ylisstol, packed as the city was with refugees, seemed relatively well-fed.

But that was still one example too many.

"What are you suggesting, then?" Robin said as calmly as she could manage.

The outline of several very square, very white teeth was barely discernible behind Falstaff's lips as they formed a mild smile. "Merely a slight increase in the order of wheat. I assure that won't be too difficult for your Highness."

"And fruit!" Minister Oswynn was practically salivating. "Those oranges were wonderful! Think of their tast—I mean, the way they can supplement the wheat!"

Yes, the fruit had made quite the impression during the feast. Chrom attempted to offer Robin a grin, certainly remembering biting into an unpeeled orange, but Robin's expression was wan in return. Fruit was more difficult to cultivate than wheat in Plegia. It required more water and temperatures that did not exceed or fall below a certain threshold. Aside from other concerns such as being far easier to steal than cereals, the preservation of fruit was the most daunting. Wheat could be bound easily enough without worrying about bushels succumbing to rusting diseases and rodents, provided they were protected with the proper handling. Fruit, on the other hand, could rot and spoil even on short journeys. Insects were prone to swarming in the presence of the scent of juice even with spells to ward them off. Despite the assurance of Miriel's assistance with warp magic, there was no stopping the effects of nature.

(She ignored the Rosannois and Valmese grumbling that their continent was the birthplace of oranges—but tellingly did not offer to transport some of their own to Ylisse)

"Fruit and wheat won't be enough. Ylissean farms might be ruined if we just depend on prepared foodstuffs for the year. What we need more of are seeds, fertiliser, and cattle. Especially cattle." That was Fabian Trengrouse, the Minister of Lands and Waters. Robin scrutinised him carefully over her page as she wrote. She was still unsure of whether his position was of active hostility towards Plegia, indifference, or perhaps something that could be turned toward supportive, as in Eschmann's case. It would be too bold to test the waters while in the boardroom…but perhaps she could poke and prod Chrom to reveal some useful details.

Falstaff immediately pivoted to Trengrouse with an ingratiatingly calm smile. "That is an excellent point to make. How much would you estimate Ylisse needs of each for before winter?"

Tapping the table with the inkstained point of his quill, Trengrouse rubbed his chin thoughtfully and hummed in a low, gravelly voice. "I would say…some 6,000 steers…30,000 twenty-pound sacks of manure…and around 11,000 bags of wheat seed."

Robin sucked a barely discernible breath between her clenched teeth. The initial 5,000 fee was certainly no easy feat, but now they were also asking that Plegia surrender more than a year's production of staple foodstuffs. She ran through some calculations in her head as quickly as she could: the 446 bushels destined for Themis next month would yield approximately 40,140 one-pound loaves of bread, while 5,000 bushels in total meant 450,000. The bulk of Ylisse's population was spread out between Ylisstol, Themis, and the southern regions of Tullaghan and Faircliff, with approximately 23 million (if Robin remembered the hastily conducted post-war census correctly) people counted as citizens.

That meant Plegia would have to squeeze in at least some four (five?) year's worth of farming to be able to feed Ylisse alone.

As hard as she tried to hide it, the weight of the matter was heavy on her shoulders, and everyone else at the table could tell. Valentine in particular sported an ill-disguised smirk. Gods, such blatant smugness was irritating enough, but to display it so openly at her expense when she had to tread as carefully as possible…

All eyes were on her now. Falstaff said nothing, but the calm, easy cut of his posture proved to be as big a nuisance as Valentine's face.

"Thankfully, we've Miriel to help with this," Robin said carefully. Valentine's thunderous expression alleviated her stomach ache somewhat. "Though, considering the size of the order—"

Oswynn coughed loudly and unsubtly.

"—it would be far more efficient to discuss installments. I would also like to propose the addition, or perhaps even a substitution of sorts, with goats—"

"Well." Surprisingly, it was Eschmann who interrupted this time. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he tried to find the right words to articulate his point. "Goats are fine, but…"

"It might take the people some time to adjust to them." Falstaff nodded.

What does he mean by that exactly? Theyjustate goat at the feast and they seemed to like it just fine.Robin frowned as she scribbled down annoyed, unintelligible notes in the margins of her parchment, half her attention on the table's assorted mumblings and murmurings and silences.

Trengrouse stroked his chin again. "Goats are hardy though. And they can be fed on a budget…on roughage that sheep and cattle won't touch."

"That they are," a Feroxi councilman agreed, and began to wax poetic on the different varieties of goats domesticated in his frigid, mountainous homeland, and of their skill in navigating the rocky environment far better than humans and horses. But, as expected, it soon devolved into an argument with the Valmese—the table rang out with calls for Valm to supply Ferox with their own goats, the Valmese retorted on the difficulties on maintaining live animals on a sea voyage, then on how Valmese goats would not survive the harsh climate of the Feroxi tundra and mountains, and so on and so forth until Chrom shouted them down with sharp bangs of his gavel.

Eschmann seemed to change his views once Trengrouse brought up costs. She would ask him later at supper about it. Perhaps goat was rather gamey for upper-class Ylisseans…but it was more likely that it was too associated with Plegian cuisine to hold much appeal for all but the poorest tenant farmers and villagers. Trengrouse was obviously very knowledgeable about agriculture and animal husbandry; Robin deduced that he himself came from decidedly more lower-class stock due to his deeply tanned leathery skin, rough hands, and from a curious sunken scar on his neck she recognised as a healed animal bite.

If he could be swayed to her side like Eschmann was, then Robin would have a much more solid base to work from. The Ministry of Lands and Waters oversaw the landowning system that outlined Ylisse's structure. Though its power had been severely downgraded and its ranks fractured under the previous Exalt, who seized control of its management to finance his crusades in Plegia, it still held some importance. The question was how to assess Trengrouse's influence within Chrom's cabinet in a way that could guarantee a reliable answer. Eschmann's position as the Minister of Finance was very useful indeed, especially given the undoubtedly high reparations Robin would be expected to pay, but liking her personally was not a good enough assurance of keeping Plegia's coffers safe from Ylissean zealousness. And even if Eschmann was willing to play the part of an ally, one out of Chrom's entire cabinet was hardly good enough.

And so Robin pivoted to Trengrouse during their dinner break. Today the cooks had prepared them a delicious pheasant roast with apples and a big wheel of sharp yellow cheese. She placed a heap of meat and cheese between two slices of bread and washed it down with a hearty swig of beer.

"I don't mean to be rude," Robin called out to Trengrouse from her seat closer up to the head of the table. "But was that from a dog or a wolf?" She jerked her chin to the scar on his neck.

He raised a thick, hairy eyebrow at her boldness. It seemed, however, that the disapproving mutters from the others irked him more. "Wolf."

"You're lucky it didn't bite down any deeper. I've been told Ylissean wolves are much larger than Plegian ones."

"You people have lions and panthers to worry about. And the desert."

Robin shook her head and stood up from her stool, pulling up the edge of her loose tunic (she thanked Tharja silently for her magicks) ever so slightly to show her own scar sitting at the edge of her hip. Oswynn spat out his drink, aghast, at such casual impropriety.

Trengrouse's brow traveled higher up into his hairline. "Dog or wolf?"

"Dog." Robin's mouth quirked into a smile when she registered his lighter tone. "A hungry stray was trying to pick off some stragglers from our flock, and I, very stupidly, thought I was big enough to try and swing a stick at it."

"Your family are herders?"

"We manage goats and cattle. We head up into the mountains in the spring, and we go down to the valleys and lowlands in the autumn."

"I thought you said you were raised in a village?" Chrom's interruption was not unwelcome; Robin rather liked talking to him, and his overt presence usually meant the others would be more discreet, or at least disguise their dislike of her with platitudes. In any case, he was a friend now.

A friend!Robin felt all fizzy and warm inside. It was a very long time since she had a friend—a friend friend, she still was unsure of whether Tharja and Henry counted—and having a friend meant someone to confide in, to have fun with…

When was the last time she had fun?

"I was, for the part of the year when we weren't in the mountains," Robin clarified.

Chrom smiled as he chewed on his meat and speared another mouthful of pheasant with his fork. "So you're a semi-nomad? I wouldn't have thought…what's it like?"

"Oh, it's hard work, but it's good living. I can't say I don't miss the fresh mountain air, the smell of dried hay, the songs we sing when we're bringing in the flock from pasture for the night…our village wasn't so big, but we're part of a bigger confederation of tribes."

Trengrouse moved his stool closer to them, uncaring of Oswynn as he made to fully integrate himself into the conversation. Robin suppressed a snicker as the other Minister squawked indignantly. "You're Kandaari then, I take it."

Now that was a surprise. "How could you tell?"

Trengrouse shrugged. "You mentioned the mountains—I'm guessing they're part of the chain that borders Regna Ferox. And the Kandaari and the Monaari are the two largest tribes of that area, but the Kandaari are far more common." He paused. "And you eating your food like that…it's common for you herdsmen to have meals that way."

"It's not every day I hear an Ylissean being so knowledgeable about Plegian tribes."

"I've some contacts up north and in Ferox. We discuss things on occasion: rearing techniques, the state of the year's harvest…they told me your people know their way around their animals. And I had a Kandaari guide when I was travelling around southern Ferox when I saw younger."

"I never knew you were so well-travelled, Lord Trengrouse," Valentine interjected obnoxiously. "And to think the Prince of Plegia came from such humble beginnings! It must be quite the change, going from goat herder to ruler, is it not?"

Robin wanted her gaze to burn holes into Valentine's abrasively pink, poofy hair and the brightly patterned doublet under his minister's gown.What on earth is his damn problem?She knew that it was unrealistic to expect everyone to tolerate her, but the way that man took constant opportunities for jabs and snide remarks was beginning to wear her patience thin. She was dying to retort with an equally passive aggressive remark and comment on his seeming inability to restrain himself.

"Now now, Lord Valentine." Falstaff beat her to it. That perpetually mild yet stern look on his face unsettled Robin. She knew, from the first moment she saw him, that he was not to be trusted, that something was deeplyoffabout him…and she still could not say what. By all accounts, his actions were very proper and befitting a man of his station. In fact, he seemed to be the peacemaker of Chrom's cabinet, acting with due precaution, yet capable of reining even Valentine in with a few words. "We should always be open to hearing of others' experiences."

That's it. Robin fought to keep her eyes from narrowing too obviously.Valentine is taking cues from Falstaff and behaving when Falstaff calls him out. But why?She watched her pink-haired bully fuss before settling back into his seat obediently.What is it about him that makes the others listen? Does he have something on them? Or are they just loyal to him? With either option…what or why?

Falstaff's cold red eyes did not match his smile as he turned the conversation to Basilio, evidently under the pretense of keeping a civil conversation going. "Khan Basilio, I understand Regna Ferox houses a great many tribes as well. Are you familiar with Prince Daraen's people?"

"Ehhhhh—kinda." Basilio slurped down a goblet of rich red wine before continuing. "Kandaari are somewhat reclusive folk. They mostly keep to themselves on the Plegian side of the mountains. Usually I've seen some when they're hired out as extra farm hands and mountain guides, sometimes we get news of bandits getting a Kandaari or two to help them rustle cattle—"

Robin wanted to shrink in her stool when that particular tidbit came up.

"—but it's always a treat to see them during market festivals. They bring some excellent cheeses, milk, sausages, jerky, these funny little bread things, and woven stuff Flavia goes crazy for. They don't get angry if you haggle with them, which is great because I never seem to bring enough money," Basilio laughed. "And the shows they put on are very entertaining, but I personally don't think they're as impressive as the fire-breathers from Solen Gard."

"I resent that. We practice very hard for the horse dances," Robin grumbled and pouted.

"Oh, tell me more about those!" Chrom's eyes practically sparkled at the mention of horses, and he pressed closer to Robin in delighted anticipation. She gulped at the sensation of his strong forearm underneath his clothes, and obliged his request with a weird feeling in her gut. It was rather difficult to get through her grand tale of red tassels, belled bridles, and noble steeds stepping and prancing to the sound of music with that sensation, but Chrom's amazed expression made it worth it. It helped to have Trengrouse's polite attention; she was hoping to reel him in at least a little that day.

But she certainly felt more pleased over Chrom.

After an animated discussion over the differences between Ylissean and Feroxi market festivals, Basilio cleared his throat loudly. "Hey Daraen, I know this is probably just a rumour and all, but I heard Kandaari women pop out a lot of twins. Why is that?"

It took several seconds of breathless choking for Robin's breathing to settle after she spewed out her drink.

The torchlights in the hallway flickered for the briefest moment as a gust blew through, but thankfully, they cast no suspicious shadow over Robin's figure as she tread across the stone floor. The only ones present were the guards standing by Chrom's door, and their only reaction to her appearance was a quick glance between them that Robin had a hunch about but ultimately decided to ignore.

As if on cue, Frederick opened the door for her. He looked as cross as ever and the bags beneath his eyes seemed darker in the firelight.

"Good night Sir Frederick. I hope this means you'll go back to Sumia and Cynthia soon," she said politely.

Frederick scoffed. "And have you in there to risk milord's sleep, and ruin his wakefulness for tomorrow's audiences? I think not, Your Highness. You both have exactly fifteen minutes for your fun and games before I march you straight back to your quarters."

"You're joking, right?"

"I will have you know that I never joke."

"You're not my mother. And I definitely outrank you bymiles. You can't just order me around and impose a bedtime on me like that!"

"Your Highness," he spluttered indignantly,"if I do not set acurfew, then Chrom will let himself be carried away by your presence and stay up all night. He needs all the rest he can get, and I will not allow you to disrupt that, ranking or not."

"Why not just tell me that in the first place instead of treating me like a child? Do you talk to Cynthia the same way? Because now I can see where she gets that rebellious spirit from," Robin sneered.

Frederick went very pink in the face and drew in a deep breath to deliver what was sure to be a blistering retort, but the door opened right when he was about to open his mouth.

"Daraen! I'm glad to see you made it!" Chrom was smiling brightly and there was a distinctly rosy flush to his cheeks that definitely had nothing to do with the weather or the torches. Robin's suspicion was confirmed when a bubbly hiccup escaped his lips and he laughed at the sudden noise. "Come right on in! It's a bit drafty out in the hall and I'd hate for you to get cold." He made a clumsy sweeping motion with his arm and pushed Robin past his threshold and into his room.

"You'll lecture me about keeping Chrom up and ruining his sleep, but you won't scold him for drinking so late at night?" Robin hissed sharply between her teeth to Frederick, craning her head back to fix the man with a reproachful stare.

"Your Highness—" Frederick started, but the door closed right in his face and shut Robin out from the outside world.

Chrom's room looked very cozy and warm with the enormous fire roaring in the hearth, bathing everything in a soft golden light and keeping things at a nice, toasty temperature. Robin shucked her coat off, grateful that she no longer had to wear badly fitting clothes to disguise her body. Why, she could even take her shirt off right there and then, and Chrom would be none the wiser—

Ahhh, don't have those kinds of thoughts when you're in his room! Don't make things weirder than they have to be!Robin screamed to herself. She jumped when Chrom took her hand and pulled her to the game table holding a game set of chess, draughts, and backgammon. One of his dogs came up to rest his head on her lap the moment she sat down and immediately soaked her clothes with drool.

"I wasn't sure what kind of games you like so I just thought I'd get them all out." Chrom scratched the back of his head with a sheepish, earnest boyishness that Robin now instantly associated with him; her previous irritation towards Frederick was forgotten with the sweet, endearing gesture.

"Thank you," she said as her hand briefly ghosted over the game set. The box was of a handsome chestnut inlaid with bronze, and opening it revealed smaller boxes with the requisite kits for the other games. Chess was ebony and ivory, backgammon was yew, and draughts a lovely imported cherry. Robin idly traced the designs on the sets as she waited for Chrom to pick which one to start with. The prince squirmed as he picked up on her silence.

"Are…aren't you going to choose one?"

"Well…since you're my host and all, I thought you'd like to do that."

"O-oh…okay." The tip of Chrom's tongue stuck out from the corner of his mouth as his hand floated hesitantly over the boxes, pausing, before settling uncertainly on the chess set. "D-do you play chess?"

Robin's only reply was a raised brow.

"Right, right, you're a strategist and everything…" Chrom scowled and smacked her arm when she snickered at him, his cheeks blooming pink from the teasing. "Don't be mean. I'm not dumb. I just sometimes have these moments where I can't think straight."

The alcohol doesn't help,Robin thought. "I never said you were dumb," she said gently. "You're clearly not. I'll stop the ribbing if you don't like it."

His eyes widened. In the fire's backlight, their bright blueness darkened to a rich cobalt, like his hair, and flecks of warm gold drew out their colour further. "Um…no…it's fine. You're my friend now, and friends do that, a-and it's alright since it's you."

It still felt so odd for him to say that, much less think it herself, but gods be damned if that didn't send a delighted little spark down her skin. A friend was someone you could trust, someone you could let loose around and be yourself with and tell your troubles to and lean on and give a shoulder to lean on.

But it's not like I can really do all that. I can't just tell him that I'm not really Daraen and expect him to be casual about it,came the sobering realisation.She sat in reticent silence as she helped Chrom set up the game board and divvied up the pieces between them—he chose white, she got black. After a beat of silence, Robin spoke up. "Even if you say it's alright, tell me where your limits are. I don't want to risk offending you or anything like that."

"You're talking like one of my Ministers," Chrom laughed uneasily, the knuckles on his hand clenching for the slightest moment as he picked up a pawn and moved it forward. "You can ease up around me, it's fine! Then again, being around them is pretty exhausting, so I can understand where's it's rubbing off from."

An idea occurred to Robin…certainly not the most altruistic, especially in light of their recent declarations of friendship, but an idea nonetheless. Chrom was not stupid, but there was a certain element of guilelessness and candour to him that could be useful. And he had been drinking. If she could find a way to exploit that, then—

Don't,she rebuked herself sharply.Look at you.Playing with a new friend and already cooking up schemes to use him to your benefit. You're no better than Validar.Her own inner voice mixed in with the nasty one she thought had gone dormant since her arrival, and a sudden cloud of gloom engulfed her as she contemplated her side of the board with a renewed sense of self-loathing and shame.

"Everything all right?"

Robin looked up. Chrom was obviously concerned and had picked up on her distress, a gesture that surprised Robin. It was strange to think this was the same person Maribelle and Sumia had described as romantically dense when it was clear he had at least some level of emotional intelligence.

"Yeah. Just…" she bit her lip.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Actually…is there someone I should be worried about from them?"

Chrom mirrored Robin's pawn placement as he blinked at her. "Who?"

"Your Ministers. I mean…Eschmann obviously doesn't seem to have a personal issue with me, but Valentine can't seem to control himself from taking a jab or two. And there's somethingoffabout Falstaff, but I don't know what exactly. Are they just being catty, or am I in serious danger of being stabbed in my sleep while I'm here?"

Chrom, still blinking, put down his rook (which Robin thought was unintentionally smart, as moving it would have developed it too early), steepled his fingers, and exhaled loudly. His dogs whined at the noise. "First off, as my guest, under my protection, I solemnly swear that anyone who tries anything of the sort gets immediate passage to the chopping block. I don't take the rules of hospitality lightly."

Robin gulped.

"Secondly…" he sighed and rubbed his temples tiredly. "Valentine has always been a lout. I've known him since I was a boy and I can honestly say he hasn't changed a bit. It's in his nature to be an insufferable, bratty toad of a man and one of his favourite things to do is bully others just because he can."

"Wow, so that's no love lost between you two, I take it."

"None at all. He has a perfectly nice wife and a daughter, but I don't see how someone as sweet and kind as them choose to associate with something likethat. I still remember the time Emmeryn made me a scarf for Yule, and he tossed it into the river behind the castle and I was forced to wade in to get it back. Then there was that other time he stole my new shoes, the time he threw ink in my face, the time he tricked me into touching poison oak…" Chrom groaned and dragged his hands across his face.

Robin, aghast, moved her knight to take one of Chrom's pawns. "If he's such a nuisance, then why's he on your council?"

"It's not like I had much of a choice in the matter. His father was on my father's council, and when Emmeryn became Exalt, he was put there because of her own advisors, and then I justinheritedhim like one of the worst heirlooms ever."

Robin burst into laughter at the description, forgetting their chess game momentarily. Chrom started laughing too, and then the dogs joined in, andthatmade them laugh louder until their stomachs hurt.

A sharp rapping at the door reminded them that Frederick was keeping watch on the time.

"But you're the Exalt now. Why not just sack him? You're within your rights." Robin let her breathing even out and took another pawn with her knight.

"'Exalt-to-be,'" Chrom corrected. Humming thoughtfully, he moved his bishop to capture her knight, which looked like a good way to block her from controlling the centrefield, but crucially left a huge gap for her own bishop to check his queen from. He noticed, and soon a merry chase across the board commenced as he frantically tried to protect his queen. But it was too late; he had been ignoring a pawn of hers and it reached his end of the board, and Robin was able to promote it to a king and checkmate him. "And it's not exactly as if I have absolute power over them. It's tempting, but…" he sighed. "Absolute power is a dangerous blade to wield."

Robin's mind flashed back to Validar, and she swallowed. Silence befell the pair as they readied the board for another match, and it continued through their first few plays.

"Even so…I can't help but notice that they give you a lot of trouble," she responded after some time. "I—I mean, I don't want to be nosy, but you don't exactly seem to see eye-to-eye."

When he squinted suspiciously at her, Robin was afraid that she had committed some faux pas, or misspoke, or otherwise committed a huge mistake that would end the match and sour Chrom's attitude towards her. She cursed her big mouth, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But he scrubbed his face and sighed again instead. "You're not wrong. I know it's natural for people to have differences of opinions, but I can't get as much done as I'd like because they're sodisagreeable. They want to veto practically every idea I have before it even leaves my brain, and I can't just force them to start behaving because they have money and influence that the crown needs."

"Yeah, I understand how that feels. But, uh, I guess you already know how it ended in my case."

"And inmycase, sometimes I'm just itching to follow your example and see who'll want to try my patience next."

Robin laughed uneasily, torn between genuinely wanting to enjoy Chrom's company and not wanting to revisit that particular scene from her past, but Chrom continued, apparently quite nonchalant over sharing such things.

"As for Falstaff…" he bit his lower lip, and his brows knit together in a twist of dark hairs and hard thinking. The only sound besides the crackle of the fire and the dogs' panting was of the heavy silence that stretched out from him as he contemplated what to say over his Minister. Robin would go as far as to call it deafening, inasmuch as her suddenly rapid heartbeat was concerned.

She wanted to pour herself a drink from the sideboard to lubricate her dry mouth but remembered his greeting at the door and refrained.

"He's been a close friend of my father's for his entire life. They grew up together here in the castle, they went to college together, wrote to each other every day whenever Falstaff was away in Themis; they went to each other's weddings and my father was very generous with his appointments for Falstaff. Why, Falstaff was present at mine and Emmeryn's births, and my father visited him when Maribelle came along." Chrom sighed deeply before he captured a rook in a surprisingly well-calculated move. "You want to know if he's going to actively try to sabotage you during the summit like Valentine is."

Robin froze up.Well…it's not like my question wasn't super obvious."Is he?"

"I don't think so. At least, I want to think he won't…but I can never tell with him. He was nice enough before…before my father died, but after, he changed. And now something just feels off about him—"

"So I'mnotthe only one who felt that," Robin interrupted.

"Apparently," Chrom said, eyebrows raised. "He's polite enough, and he's very good at his job, but whenever certain subjects come up, I get the feeling that he tries to steer me in directions that he prefers. I don't know. He's very subtle about it and I almost go crazy trying to analyse him and then I end up second-guessing myself. But I haven't heard him say anything prejudiced about Plegians, if that's what you're wondering."

"Well, that's good to know at least…" Robin checked him (again) and then promoted another pawn he had been ignoring (again) in favour of her dangerously placed king, and beat him (again).

"I give up!" He laughed at got up to pour himself a stiff drink as Robin frowned, disapproving, from her seat. "You're too good at this game, but I don't know what I was expecting. Do you mind if we change to backgammon?"

"Not at all. And I think we'd do better with a change in subject, too. Talk's getting a bit too heavy for a night of gaming," Robin agreed.

"I second that," Chrom said with a crooked smile on his face. There was something very nice about the way his lower teeth showed from the corner of his mouth that had Robin smiling, too. The pair were certainly very smiley together as they cleared the chess board, put it away, and prepared the backgammon set.

"Why don't you tell me about your progress with Olivia instead?" The prince took another sip from his goblet as he organised the red and white pieces on the board.

Robin, uncharacteristically for her, began groaning and moaning and pushing her chair away to lean back in her seat and groan and moan some more. She was most certainly not in the mood to talk about Olivia or Chrom's amorous troubles, and just when they had changed the subject too.

Chrom, characteristically for him, turned very red and spluttered. "Oh–oh come off it, you don't have to be such a dog in the manger. You agreed to help me over this!"

"You said we'd change the subject to something lighter, and then you spring this on me," Robin scoffed. "And if you must insist, she's still not interested in you."

Now it was Chrom's turn to groan. He reached for his goblet again but Robin grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"Why her? Of all the eligible ladies in your kingdom, or the continent, why the one who doesn't want you?"

"Don't phrase it like that—you make it sound like if if I've got the plague or something."

"You might as well with the way she's so desperate to avoid you."

"HA HA, very funny! D'you want to replace Gaius as the court jester so you can have another jab at me?"

"No, I'm good enough saying it as it is while beating you several times over at board games." Robin stuck her tongue out impishly at him as she rolled the dice and moved her first checker, feeling very smug indeed as he turned even redder but could not, for the life of him, manage a retort.

Ah. Where's this coming from? I know he's a friend now, but it's not like I'm talking to Tharja or Henry. I know he said it's fine but maybe it's still too soon for this.

Still…it's pretty damn funny seeing him act like that.

Chrom growled in frustration as he doubled the stakes on the marker, and rather deftly moved his checker twice to an open point. "If you must know, then you have to promise me that you won't laugh and call me a sap."

"I won't—unless it's too funny to not laugh at."

"Daraen, I'm warning you—"

"Fine, fine, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I won't be cheeky. I promise."

Chrom sighed. They lapsed into a companionable quiet as they focused more on their game. The prince, interestingly, was far better at backgammon than he was chess, and put up a fair fight as the stakes were redoubled twice more and he dominated the board for a fair amount of turns. Last time Robin checked, she lost turns three times and he lost turns four times. It was actually much more entertaining to be up against him at a more advanced level.

She wondered what it would be like to spar together, given his renowned martial prowess and dragon-given strength. Could she perhaps find a way to arrange a quick match one day? Would they have the time, and would Frederick put up some resistance the same way he did when Chrom proposed this night?

"She and Basilio rescued us from the Midmire after…after Emm," Chrom finally said, very softly. "And they sheltered us while we made our escape from Plegia." He hit one of her blots and sent it out to the bar, and prepared to assemble his checkers into his home court. His fingers came up to scratch his chin contemplatively as the other rubbed Toby's ears. "I wasn't at my best during that time. It was a really low point in my life."

Robin swallowed guiltily as a burning log cracked and popped loudly in the hearth.

"I wasn't eating or sleeping or doing much of anything except let my sadness overpower me, and it was completely dragging the rest of the Shepherds down, not to mention the other troops. I was selfish and didn't consider that everyone else was hurting, too."

"I don't really think you were," Robin interrupted impulsively. "I—I mean—when you're feeling like that…when you have that kind of pain, you…you can't just magick it away. Gods know I've tried. But you can't, and it's nigh impossible to function when all you can focus on is how much everything hurts."

The pair shared a weighty, long-suffering sigh, and left the game alone for a moment to drown their sorrows in a drink. At least she had the sense to dilute his to the point of water—no need to see him any more tipsy than he already was.

Sadness and alcohol were a terrible combination to begin with.

"But Olivia and Basilio were working tirelessly to keep all of us comfortable, fed, making sure our injuries were being treated properly…that really helped to get me out of my rut, so to speak, seeing them work so hard in spite of their own tiredness. Olivia was a godsend with her dancing. Like a real angel. And after Sumia, well…I thought that she'd be the type of person who could heal the rest of my pain, too," Chrom finished with a mopey gulp from his goblet. He peeked at Robin from under his fringe and waited, anxiously, for a reply.

And reply Robin did, after dragging her hands down her face in complete exasperation. "That's a very heartwarming story, Chrom, but you're not being very smart about it."

"W–what? W-what do you mean?"

"It's nice that you feel happier around her, but you can't expect her to fix you. She's not here to play nurse for you, and I'm pretty sure you're not going to endear her to you anytime soon if you tell it to her like that."

"B-but I'm not saying she should play nurse for me—"

"Then focus on the happiness part. Or, and you really should consider this, find a woman who's actually willing to marry you. Marriage is a big commitment, you know."

"Which is why Olivia is perfect! She's patient, she's kind, it helps that she's so beautiful, and I know she's not interested in my wealth or my position. She'd be a wonderful queen!"

Robin carefully scrutinised the game board as she went over Chrom's earnest assertion, so obviously besotted with the idea of Olivia instead of the reality of her disinterest. It was not fair to push her towards an engagement as difficult and complicated as a relationship with a prince (and future monarch to boot). Her intent to stay far away from Chrom's amorous advances had been communicated as loud and as clearly as possible. Under any other circ*mstance, Robin would have laughed in Chrom's face and called him a lovestruck idiot, blinded by his own infatuation instead of taking advantage of his incredibly privileged position to go wife-hunting elsewhere.

And yet…

"Look: I did promise I'd help you with this. So that's what I'm going to do. But you're going about it all wrong, and you're being incredibly dense about it too. You have to stop thinking that just waiting for her to magically fall in love with you will happen, because maybe that's good stuff for a fairy tale, but not for real life. What you need to do is to consider what she likes, what she finds attractive, and use that to woo her properly."

Chrom gulped and coughed on his drink, panicking. "B-but I can't just change myself like that—it's too difficult—"

"I never said that we're going to change you for her, though that could certainly help in a pinch. What I'm saying is that you need to tailor your approach to her specifically. But don't you worry, Chrom: as your humble matchmaker, I promise you that I'll do everything in my power to make you the most attractive man in the entire kingdom. And if Olivia still doesn't want you, then I guarantee you'll still have a wife before the end of the year," Robin declared confidently before assembling all her pieces on her home court and winning the match.

Chapter 16: A Stranger Skilless in These Parts

Chapter Text

Daraen stared, bemused, at the chipped cup of seafood broth in his hands. It smelled good. It warmed his skin well enough through his bandages. When he took a cautious sip, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself liking its strong, salty taste.

The dimly lit shack he was in was incredibly cramped. Wedged tightly between large boulders and tide pools in such a way that it was kept hidden from the shoreline, the tiny place was also filled to the brim with carved wooden knick-knacks, strings of seaweed and sponges hung up to dry, rescued driftwood and boxes helping to keep the whole precarious structure from falling apart, and other assorted bric-a-brac. The bed he was resting in was really more of a nest of blankets and a large misshapen pillow to prop his tired body up.

As for the man who rescued him…

"You…you want more soup?" a voice interrupted Daraen's thoughts.

He swallowed as he looked up at his unexpected benefactor's towering figure. Daraen felt rather sorry for him, with the way he had to squeeze himself just to get around, and the uncomfortable squatting position he took up in front of the makeshift hearth as he stirred a pot full of fish heads and mussels.

"Ah…" Daraen blinked. It was the first time he had spoken in a few days; his throat still felt a bit sore and scratchy, especially after all his screaming the night of the storm, and then regaining consciousness just to vomit and moan pathetically on the beach. "Y-yes, please."

The man's head brushed the ceiling as he barely stood, turtle-like, and reached for Daraen's cup. His hands were huge, but, like the rest of his body, had a soft, doughy look to them. It was a detail that felt oddly reassuring. He gave off the impression of someone who was very strong, yet also careful and considerate. The sound of soup being poured comforted Daraen and he let out a gusty sigh.

"You let me know if you need anything else," the gentle giant said as he handed Daraen more broth.

"Thank you." Daraen blew lightly on his cup and tipped it back, the wonderful fishy saltiness sating the hunger that had been gnawing at him since waking.

Now the man settled himself with his back to the door (which was really nothing more than a flimsy tarp) to whittle away at a set of spoons. Daraen was quietly amazed at how delicately he handled the slightly sea-damp branches he was using for the task. He was content to simply sit back and watch as the giant deftly manoeuvred a carving knife around the nooks and gnarls of wood to shape it into something useful.

As the hour went on, an increasing sense of discomfort began to creep up Daraen's neck, all hot and prickly. He tried to ignore it.

That is, until a sharp, stabbing pain in Daraen's side made him gasp aloud and start to cough and choke. The cup fell to the side, forgotten.

His rescuer was instantly with him. "D–don't worry! I—I'll go get Marion right away!"

All Daraen could register was the sound of running becoming increasingly faint as a terrible burning overtook him once more, leaving him a sweaty, shivering mess as the throbbing spread to the rest of his body. He wanted to cry, he wanted to vomit, he wanted the blinding agony to stop, he just wanted a few seconds of respite from all the unrelenting awfulness that had dogged him since his ill-fated departure from Chon'sin—

And suddenly a cool washcloth on his forehead helped abate the worst of his fever. Someone was rolling him over and stripping his sweat-soaked shirt off.

"Don't move," a female voice warned firmly. "This'll hurt more if you do."

Pain burst in his side and then Daraen saw black.

When he woke up again, he felt much better, though still tired. He blearily registered that the shack was darker than usual—he was unsure of what time it was. Early morning? Midnight? Daraen wanted to go out and see for himself. Maybe some fresh air would do him good, but he was still obviously too weak to do little more than roll around and groan in his blankets.

"How're you feeling?" came the giant's soft question.

Daraen moved his head on the pillow to find the other man sitting at the foot of the bed, observing him attentively. Had he been keeping watch all this time?

"Exhausted," Daraen croaked.

The man hummed and nodded, running a large hand through his dishevelled, though still short, brown hair. "You've been through a lot…it's normal." His voice lowered an octave, and his next words were spoken quietly. Fearfully. "You were really burning up when I found you on the beach, and you were pretty beat up too. I got Marion, the village doctor, to come and treat you. The day before yesterday she cleaned your wounds and bandaged you, and you looked fine enough after that, but…"

"But?"

"…Yesterday your fever came back worse. When Marion saw you again, she had to cut you open and drain your wound because it got infected. We…we thought you were going to die."

Silence stretched between them, taught and tense, as Daraen thought long and hard. He had almost died several times in the war, be it by arrow, sword, or spell. He had almost died escaping Plegia for Chon'sin and was shipwrecked on the way back. And now, he had almost died from an infection on some desolate beach with nothing but a stroke of luck to save him.

I just can't catch a break, can I?He exhaled heavily through his nose and coughed again.

The man was instantly at his side again. For his size, he was deceptively quick. He felt Daraen's forehead with the back of his hand. "Well…you seem alright for now, but I still need to keep a close eye on you, at least until Marion gets back. You hungry? Thirsty?"

Daraen's stomach growled loudly in response.

"Okay. That's a good sign. Having your appetite back means your body feels well enough to keep food down." The man stood up and moved to the pot, kept warm by banked ashes. "You ate well enough yesterday too, but uh…then you vomited it all back up when your fever returned…"

Daraen felt very ashamed to hear that. He hoped that he at least managed to not soil the bed and his clothes. The very obviously borrowed clothes, judging by how baggy they were on him, and the bed generously surrendered for his use. "I–I'm really sorry about all that…"

"Don't be. You're hurt, after all."

The prince of Plegia gratefully accepted another cup of broth and drank it down slowly. Though he was certain that the food would be digested this time, his anxiety over his weak state remained. "So…you're saying I've been here for two days?" Daraen asked quietly.

"Yeah, but Marion gave you a sleeping draught to keep you under for a little bit. She said your injuries were bad enough that you needed the extra rest." The man checked the pot briefly to make sure its contents were still fit for use. "The big gash on your side is the one that got infected, you've got two broken toes, your ear got torn up a little, and you've also got bad bruises everywhere. Not the worst shipwreck victim I've seen, but…definitely close. You're lucky you survived."

An awkward silence unfolded as Daraen gloomily took the time to examine his bandages and bruising while his caretaker watched over the hearth and did some light sweeping, glancing frequently at his unexpected guest, and looking away in the event that his eye contact could be misconstrued as nosiness.

"I'm sorry," Daraen said. "You've been taking care of me all this time and I haven't even asked you for your name."

Soft pink washed over the man's face. Swallowing, he bowed his face in embarrassment. "I-it's, uh…K-Kellam. My name's Kellam."

"Well Kellam, it's nice to meet you. I'm Daraen."

A hint of a tiny smile stretched Kellam's mouth even though he kept his head down.

The day passed calmly enough, with Daraen watching Kellam as he puttered around the shack and performed some more household chores: cleaning, closing up many holes in the leaky walls and roof, and putting some stored seaweed up to dry over the fire. Kellam suggested taking the prince out for some fresh air, and Daraen agreed to it. The cool sea breeze was a great relief after being cooped up in semi-darkness with the stench of his illness and sweat.

Hard to believe it was so awful outside before,Daraen thought as he munched on a strip of dried seaweed.

Kellam had brought out a basket of damp clothes and some of Daraen's sheets; he graciously wrapped his guest up in one, lest he catch a chill, and had leaned him up against a sun-warmed boulder as he attended to their laundry. "Marion said she'd be over today again to bring you some more medicine and give you a look over," Kellam remarked as he pinned a couple of shirts on the clothesline strung between the shack and some rocks.

"You said she lives in a village close by, yes?" Daraen asked.

"Yeah. It's a long walk, but she usually comes here on horse, especially since she's got all her equipment with her." Kellam finished with the shirts and moved on to the few towels and linens in the basket. Shaking out a sheet, he decided against hanging it on the clothesline, seeing as how it would crowd out the other cloths, and opted to spread it out on a boulder.

"Uh…and how far is it from here to Ylisstol?"

Kellam stiffened up. Daraen, fearing he had touched a nerve (and cursing himself for being so careless with his words, considering his current circ*mstances), shut up and allowed tension to stew between them.

"N…not too far, really," Kellam finally said after a long time. "It's about a week on horseback, but you can get there in about three, four days if you switch rides and don't stop." He chewed his lip. His thick eyebrows screwed up over his small, dark eyes, into little knots of concern that tugged weirdly at Daraen's chest. "You…y-you need to do something t-there?"

The prince wanted to reply but was wholly unsure of how. What exactly was the best way to describe the urgency of needing to attend a summit in Ylisstol, alone against Ylisse's lawmakers and nobles and grudges? Of the chain of events that led to him being washed up on the beach? Or—and he doubly cursed as the weight of the matter finally crashed into him—the fact that his white hair was a dead giveaway to his Plegianness?

Just as Daraen opened his mouth to attempt a plausible lie, he was saved from replying by the tell-tale sound of hoofbeats pounding on the surf.

"Ah. That'd be Marion," Kellam announced as he finished weighing down the sheet with a few pebbles.

A blonde village maiden sat astride a grizzled old piebald mare loaded down with bags that no doubt carried all sorts of medical paraphernalia. She certainly looked worse for wear, with distinctly dark circles underlining her eyes, stains of dubious origin smeared across her dirty olive dress and apron, and a bruise purpling the side of her jaw.

"Oh my goodness," Marion exclaimed. She hopped off her horse and ran to Daraen's side immediately. "That Kellam! Leaving you all alone out here when you're hurt—I ought to give 'im a piece of my mind, I can't believe he's done this—"

"I'm right here Marion," Kellam sighed tiredly.

The doctor, startled by his words, whipped her head around as she finally registered his presence. "Kellam!Don't scare me like that! Skulking around behind people's backs issucha suspicious thing to do, you'd think someone your size would know that—"

"Hello to you too," he mumbled, exasperated, as he scooped Daraen up and brought him back into the shack.

What does she mean, "skulking?"Daraen puzzled.He was literally right there. There's no way you can miss someone like him.

Marion followed closely behind and waited for Kellam to adjust Daraen on the bed before examining him. "I'm glad to see you're finally conscious. How're you feelin'?" she queried as she lifted Daraen's shirt up to inspect his sutured wound.

"I've been better," Daraen replied. He winced as her finger pressed lightly on the edges of the cut, and the pain, for some reason, was echoed by a twitch in his splinted toes. "I managed to keep some food down but everything else still hurts."

"That's good though. You've been here for less than three days and you're already showin' nice progress. Most shipwreck victims aren't so lucky around these here parts—the rocks off the coast tend to make sure of that."

With a heart wrenching pang, thoughts of the crew began to flood him. They were a frustratingly rag-tag bunch, to be sure, but they were knowledgeable enough on the high seas. Gregor, the captain, was especially gregarious; Daraen would go so far as to call him fatherly. He liked him quite a lot. In spite of his heavy drinking, Gregor often made time to talk, to show Daraen the finer points of navigating and oceanic astronomy, and made for cheerful motivation as his dubiously outfitted dhow carried the prince and his sister away from Chon'sin.

Robin!Daraen suddenly felt incredibly nauseous and dizzy. Was she safe? Was she unhurt?

Was she even alive?

"You're lookin' a little green around the gills again." Marion's concerned, freckled face swam into focus. Daraen realised, startled, that he had drifted off completely from her check up and hadn't even the faintest clue what she and Kellam had been talking about. "Need a bucket?"

"N-no…no thank you. I'm fine."

Her look told him she did not quite believe him, but the doctor dutifully continued her examination without another word. She spent quite a lot of time fussing over his stitched up side and splinted toes as a rather squished Kellam watched from a corner. It was uncomfortable to know that his benefactor was keeping such a close eye as Marion looked over his barely clothed body and performed some fairly disgusting tasks: she reopened the stitches, cleaned out some purulent buildup inside, packed the wound with gauze, and applied some sort of ointment before bandaging him up.

"Everythin' looks alright so far, but I'm still coming back in a few days. You need to take this woundwort paste and smear it over that cut after you've washed with warm salt water. Do that every four hours for six days, and keep your bandages loose enough to let it breathe. Don't get any water on that bit of gauze hangin' out of you. There's also some vineberry pills that you need to take with every meal, and then, before you go to sleep, bitter windroot powder dissolved in whatever drink or soup you fancy. You can have extract of mim if the pain gets too bad. Keep your weight off that foot, and you'll be back to normal in no time."

Kellam looked positively dizzy with confusion as he struggled to keep up with Marion's list and the medicines the blonde doctor started to pile up in his arms. It was inadvertently charming. "Ah, wait, Marion—" Kellam began.

"Now that my work here's all done, I gotta get back to the village quick. Remember to take your medicine!" She turned around to leave, only to crash into Kellam's broad chest with a small shriek. "Kellam! You gotta stop scarin' me like that—"

"I need to have a word," he said, almost too quietly for Daraen to hear.

Marion did not seem to particularly care for that. "Can't stick around for long, sorry. I have to get back to the Gibbs' place, what with the new baby and all. Mrs Gibbs kicked me in the face during the birth and she felt so bad about it, she's insisting that I take some honey from them to make it up."

"Surely the honey can wait? It's about Daraen."

"Who?"

"What do you mean 'who?' You just treated him!"

"Oh, so that's his name. Funny thing it is. But look here Kellam, I've got other patients to attend to—that honey's for the Sawyer girl. She burned herself badly on the stove and I need to treat her scarring right so that she can keep use of her hand. It's sweet of you to be so worried, but other people are hurt too."

"He asked about Ylisstol."

The temperature dropped in spite of the hearth's fire. Marion, glancing surreptitiously at Daraen, pressed her lips together in a thin, grim line. Daraen overheard everything, of course. He was very good at eavesdropping. And after that short conversation, he pretended that he was just resting, but felt like burrowing into the covers to hide from Marion's gaze.

She turned to Kellam. "Outside. Now."

Daraen swore to himself as the pair left the shack and out of his earshot; he considered getting up to press his ear to the tarp, but the sharp twinge in his side as he attempted to rise on his own told him otherwise. And so he stewed, fretful and anxious, as the night betrayed no hint of Kellam and Marion's talk, or why the doctor sounded so somber over the mere mention of Ylisstol.

Chapter 17: I'll Write Thee a Challenge

Chapter Text

Robin stared at the note, baffled.

Your Highness,it read in what she assumed was Olivia's writing.Forgive me for disturbing you, but it seems as though a favour of Prince Chrom's was left behind on your last visit. I do not wish to offend him by informing him that there is no intention of accepting his gift, as usual, though I beg you to please come and retrieve it, at least for the sake of easing me of its burden.

Postscript: Please do come in traditional Plegian garb. I do so wish to learn more of it.

Though Robin knew for a fact that she had left nothing of the sort in the Feroxi guesthouse, she resigned herself to the opportunity it presented in completing Chrom's task; however, she wondered what exactly did Olivia have in mind by deciding to basically invite her.

Why can't she just be straight and say she wants me over for a round of tea? Damn these nobles and their convoluted etiquette, Robin fumed as Tharja dressed her.And what's this about my clothes?

And so Robin presented herself right at noon, clad in an airy white tunic and cream coloured kaftan, as she knocked on the door and came face to face with Excellus again.

"Greetings, Your Highness," he said with all the enthusiasm of a wet piece of paper.

"Hello to you too," Robin replied flippantly. Considering how poorly she was treated last time, she decided to simply slip inside and wait at the bottom of the staircase, uncaring of Excellus' croaks and sputters.

She took the time to examine the foyer whilst Olivia readied herself. It really was quite a nice guesthouse, with its hardwood flooring, attractive decorative panelling, and a number of fashionable oil paintings of Ylissean and Feroxi figures, landscapes…well, it certainly would have been more impressive had evidence of the Feroxi's wild partying not been so obvious. Axes were buried in the wall from a forgotten game of darts, and an ominous odour was emanating faintly from a Chon'sinese vase. Crude graffiti was scrawled onto a panel with what looked like ink.

Wait a moment.Robin squinted up at the chandelier. Please tell me those aren't someone's smallclothes.

"I…I apologise for keeping you waiting…" a soft voice was heard from the top of the staircase.

Olivia's dress was a light pink with a square neckline, a simple pearl necklace resting on her collarbones, and her customary gauzy mourning veil draped loosely over her face. She descended the staircase at a pace that Robin would call trepidatory, but chose not to comment on as the lady of the house was finally before her. Sully kept close and glared daggers at Robin. Gaius, oddly enough, waved hello but chose to slip into the kitchen instead.

Robin bowed slightly at the waist. "Good day to you, Lady Olivia."

"G-good day to you as well, Your H-Highness."

"I was told you have something for me?"

Sully scoffed at Robin's rude straightforwardness, and Olivia subtly moved her hand behind her in a placating gesture. "Yes, I'm sorry to bother you with this…oh, I apologise, I mustn't keep you standing around, that would be terribly impolite. You came all this way for my silly little request, so the least I could do would be to offer you a refreshment."

There was something strange about that statement that Robin tried to discern. First there was that supposed gift of Chrom's that Olivia asked to be taken back. Now she was offering Robin a refreshment…it sounded awfully like she was trying to coax her into something.

But well, food was food. So Robin accepted cautiously and allowed herself to be led into the parlour.

"The castle has tea and ale, and they allow us to take a-anything we want, but we've also brought some of our own things," Olivia remarked as Sully helped to move the hemline of her dress out of the chair's way. "I-is there anything in particular that you'd like?"

Robin shrugged casually. "Anything you choose is fine by me. I'm not very picky about what I put in my mouth."

Red instantly bloomed across the young khatun's face, but Olivia managed to stammer out a request to her servants to fetch the appropriate snacks for the occasion. The grandfather clock on the mantelpiece seemed awfully loud in the silence that followed, and Robin thought back to her first meeting with Olivia, so similar yet even stranger now that they already discussed the seeming futility of Chrom's desires.

"Are you well?" Robin asked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Oh! Y-yes, thank you." Olivia chewed her lip and wrung the sleeve of her dress before falling into reticence once more, and Robin forced herself not to frown at the sight. What happened to the conversation they had that day? Olivia was much more open and willing to talk. Now she seemed very unsure of how to even start a conversation…as if she had been embarrassed by something, or seized by a sudden shyness.

The 'prince' of Plegia decided to ask Olivia, point-blank, over the supposedly forgotten favour. Robin absolutely had no recollection of any sort of present, and if it existed then its delivery was unrelated to her, though she wondered why Olivia insisted on her presence. The khatun had servants to carry out her bidding. Why write to ask her to come get it? If Olivia just wanted to chat or even share some tea then Robin would have come, Chrom notwithstanding, if at least to be polite.

Robin cleared her throat. "So what's this gift I keep hearing about?"

"A…" Olivia suddenly began to fiddle with her long pink braids, their charming little paintbrush ends flicking to and fro rather distractingly. "A bracelet. It's a very nice one…gold filigree. I'm sure it's very expensive, and it's f-flattering to have gotten it…but like I've said before, I simply can't accept any of his gifts. I-if you could do me the favour of returning it—"

"I certainly can, but I'm rather puzzled, milady. I distinctly remember not having brought any jewellery to you on our last meeting," Robin said, rather bluntly.

Olivia's face turned even redder than before. "Oh, really? Well, I remember you did…"

"And I'll have to respectfully rebut that. While I'm sure Chrom's been pestering you with all sorts of presents, I didn't come bearing any of those except the speech he asked me to memorise last time. Though I have to ask: why not just send them back with any of your servants? It's a little personal if you decide to come to me, isn't it?"

"You callin' her a liar, Whitey?" Sully growled from her position close to Olivia's chair.

"No." Robin raised an eyebrow at the nickname, meeting Sully's gaze steadily and evenly. "I'm just saying that if she wanted to have me over for a snack, then she could have simply said so instead of recurring to this whole charade about a bracelet that I most certainly had nothing to do with."

"Oh, you're a mouthy little one, ain't ya." Sully's red hair seemed to leech into her skin.

"Not as little as you."

Just as Sully seemed ready to leap forth and strangle Robin where she sat, the door burst open to reveal Gaius, arms laden with a gleaming assortment of pastries, sweets, and frothy drinks. "Thought I heard some commotion! Don't worry, I know just the thing to settle scores and tummies—dessert!" He proceeded to pile the spindly little tea table high with sugary confections of all shapes and sizes. Servants pushed a few more tables together to accommodate them all, and the ginger-haired rogue forced Sully into a chair to join them.

"You totally planned this on purpose," she hissed at him as he plopped a sticky honey roll onto her plate.

He grinned. "Yeah, I think that's the whole point of planning."

As amusing as it was to see Sully far too riled to formulate a coherent response, there was now the added awkwardness of an impromptu tea party on their hands, and Robin's desire to indulge in the high-end sweets warred with her sudden social discomfort. Ultimately, her sweet tooth won out, even if Sully was still glaring daggers over the rim of her teacup and Excellus gaped obnoxiously from the corner.

"So…" Robin began in an attempt to ease the atmosphere. "Since I'm staying for this, would you mind telling me what these are? I'd like to familiarise myself with Feroxi cuisine."

Olivia's relieved face helped to put everyone at ease, and the table listened attentively. "Yes, of course—this is an Illyrian honey roll, since our best honey comes from Illyria, and then we have candied fruits. Most of these we import from Plegia, like the figs, but the frost-grapes are entirely from Ferox. Then we have biscotti—here, dunk them in your wine like this—and they're rather nice on long trips since they keep so well. Pears in pine syrup are my uncle's favourite and he likes to add a cinnamon stick to the syrup before eating."

"Huh. Never would've thought that a man like…Basilio would be fond of such a dainty little dessert."

"Hee hee! He says it's the secret to his muscles, would you believe?"

It was certainly nice to see Olivia so relaxed, talking freely (even giggling!) without a nervous stutter to impede her, and it was quite obvious that she was well-suited to the role of a hostess. The khatun spoke knowledgeably of the various sweets on display, offering small facts on their preparation and origins as everyone else snacked.

"Now this one," she wrinkled her nose, "is pine needle tea. Our climate means we depend on quite a few types of conifers and pines, but it's just too bitter for my tastes."

"But Babe, it's the perfect palate cleanser! One sip and your taste buds are ready and primed for the next dessert!" Gaius piped up through a mouthful of honey cake.

"Well, then you can drink it for me, since you're so partial to it."

"And here we have a jester more refined than his lady," he said with a smirk, accepting her cup nonetheless.

Sully, ever the sour one, rolled her eyes. "As refined as someone can be spittin' out jokes with a whole bunch of crumbs like that."

"You guys keep giving me new material to work with every second of the day! I keep my job by being oh-so witty and clever and handsome, and I also get to watch you all stumble into pits of your own making. Isn't that right, Tiny?" Gaius guffawed.

"Oh, do behave yourselves!" Olivia admonished the pair of redheads as Sully made to get up from her seat. "I have company—the least you could do is keep propriety in mind."

"Sorry," Sully grumbled.

"Apology accepted." Gaius winked cheekily, and his grin grew wider when Sully remained seated and stewed in her ire.

Robin felt a guilty sort of pleasure, watching Sully being bested like that. Still, Sumia said that Sully knew of her matchmaking plans for Chrom…if so, then why the constant hostility? Was it something Robin had said? Something she had done?

Well, she does look like she fought on the front lines, Robin thought and then winced.Oooh. Yeah. That must be it.She swallowed nervously and reached for a cream puff, the urge to stress eat overcoming her.

"Oh!" Olivia suddenly smacked Robin's hand away; realising her mistake, a fierce shade of crimson drowned her cheeks. This certainly had the potential to become an enormous diplomatic scandal, if Robin were the vindictive type, but she was too surprised to really think of much other than the stinging sensation on her knuckles. Gaius amazingly stayed quiet for once.

"I'm sorry, it was terribly rude of me to grab the food like that." In retrospect, Robin mused that she really had no need to apologise…but Olivia seemed so shocked over her actions that it was pitiable.

The khatun shook her head, her braids mussed slightly under her veil, as her stutter resurfaced. "N-no, I should be the one…I—I really don't know what came over me. These were the only ones I made without help, you see, and I like sharing my baking with others, b-but—"

"Were you afraid that I'd find fault with them?"

Olivia's lip-gnawing silence was all the confirmation needed.

"Awww, don't you worry your pretty little head, Babe!" Gaius' usual cheer returned easily enough. "If anything, you should be flattered Bubbles wants to try your goods." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"T-That's not—!" Olivia sputtered.

"Look, if there's anyone here who's got the taste and flair to be a food critic, it's definitely me. And as an expert sweetsconnoisseuror whatever the word is, I say your stuff is absolutely worth it. Why, Bubbles oughta hear that you taught me everything I know about baking."

Well that was certainly a pleasant fact. Robin had the impression that most noblewomen in the castle had knowledge of cookery that extended to running a household; being actively involved in a kitchen was a job relegated to their cooks, scullions, and pot boys. Ladies were instead instructed to use their time reading or doing some form of needlepoint. Her knowledge on the social mores and general education of Ylissean aristocracy was certainly not as detailed as, say, their languages, modes of warfare, and diplomacy, but it was enough to get her by convincingly as she paraded about in a male disguise. As for Feroxi women, that was something that required further study—Robin knew they had more freedoms than Ylissean nobility (Khan Flavia being the norm compared to Emmeryn's exception) but not to which extent in terms of their household management. For example, Plegian women were generally expected to know how to cook before marriage, but men who were not clergy or of a military background could be thrown out if they refused to learn. Did Olivia prefer to busy herself with these beautiful desserts? Could she skin a buck and pluck a bird to roast as well as she could decorate her cakes with sugar paste?

Whatever questions Robin had vanished the second the first bite of cream puff hit her tongue—what a glorious flavour! The flaky, crunchy crust fell apart in her mouth to reveal a tender spongy interior. Then, thick, creamy sweetness burst to life, and she soon found herself reaching for two more puffs to ravenously stuff into her open maw.

"I dunno about you, but it seems like they're really good," Gaius chuckled.

Olivia said nothing; the small, genuinely happy smile crinkling the corners of her eyes spoke well enough (even Sully's face had softened considerably at the sight), and for the first time since taking on Chrom's absurd proposition, Robin felt that maybe her task had some merit to it.

"What a lovely spread! I do so enjoy tea and pastries at noon."

The new voice belonged to Duke Virion, and, judging from Olivia's surprised expression, it was clear that he was not expected at the moment. He was always very particular about the latest fashions and today he came dressed rather sportily—an overcoat lined with white fur was worn over a high-collared pinked and slashed leather jerkin, dyed a shade of duck blue, and he wore full trousers instead of hose along with sturdy leather boots. As the servants removed his coat, Robin saw that his left arm was protected by a peculiar fluted armoured arm guard that ran the length of his extremity and ended in a shoulder brace resembling a bunch of feathers.

"Duke Virion!" Olivia stood up to greet him. "I-I'm so sorry, I completely lost track of time and forgot y-you were visiting…"

An airy laugh was her response, and the duke tossed his cerulean hair. "Worry not, my dear! I can see that you were enjoying yourself; I have been quite rude in interrupting your fun, and I continue my rudeness in asking that I may join you all to partake of such wonderful treats."

"Y-you may…"

A chair was procured for Virion, and he gave his thanks as he tucked a napkin into his collar to avoid soiling his garments. Sully scoffed at the gesture and leaned aside to whisper to Excellus—Robin realised with a start that she had not been paying attention to the toad-like eunuch and had missed when he let Virion in.

"Why the hell couldn't you have just told him that we're busy right now?" Sully's harsh whisper was not immediately evident to everyone else, but Robin was good at eavesdropping, and so caught their conversation well enough.

Excellus sniffed. "Unlike yourself, I do not rid a party of unwanted guests by insulting them to their face. I have the tact to let more desirable company in and see to it that their presence fixes things, drowns out theundesirable."

"You didn't fixpegasus sh*t, Toady."

Besides the fact that Excellus was a bald-faced liar, Robin having been on the receiving end of his scorn, she was very satisfied in seeing Sully direct her ire towards him. Served him right for being so unpleasant all the time. Even Gaius kept his mouth shut to enjoy the additional treat and slurped his tea with obvious gusto.

"My my, the Prince of Plegia himself, in the flesh!" Virion looked positively ecstatic to see Robin. He reached across the small table to take her hand and kiss the ring she wore, a custom that never ceased to baffle her. "Though we've seen each other in the boardroom, I would like to introduce myself properly: Duke Virion of Rosanne, third of my name. It is quite exciting to finally talk face to face!"

"The pleasure is all mine. I'm, uh, R—Daraen of Plegia. First of my name." A bemused Robin shook Virion's hand but then wondered if that was just Ylissean etiquette inapplicable towards him.

"Fancy seeing you here! The last time I had spoken to fair Olivia, we had quite an in-depth conversation over Your Highness, and now we find each other with her as if by sheer luck."

Said lady did not seem to view that as optimistically as Virion did, and Robin recalled Sumia telling her that he was also interested in Olivia. Did Chrom know he was facing romantic competition? Was the fact that a duke and a prince were vying over the same woman's heart common knowledge?

Does Olivia reciprocate Virion's feelings?Robin wondered as she sipped her tea.

Gaius' noisy slurping pulled her out of her reflections, though the boorish display also managed to startle the duke. "So, Your Lordship, ya fancied a spot of tea after your archery practice?"

"I had a previous invitation," Virion replied cautiously. Gaius' nickname had clearly managed to perplex him, though he did not seem to find it offensive. "However, I must admit that a refreshment is quite nice after such taxation to my body."

Sully snorted contemptuously into her drink.

"Oh, pardon me! How careless and callous have I been to neglect the lovely Lady Sully's presence!" He made as if to take her hand as well, but her harsh bark of laughter stopped him in his tracks.

"Just how hard an effort," the redhead said, scornfully, "are we supposed to think you did when you come here all fresh and clean as if you stepped outta the powder room?"

"Well, I do try to tidy up after practice, goodness knows no one enjoys a guest marring their host's seats with sweat—"

Sully drowned out his words with a thunderous slurp of her own.

Robin frowned. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of Sully's treatment, but seeing her extend that to others (Excellus being the sole exception) felt wrong. Had Virion done or said something to incur Sully's wrath? He seemed like a flirt, and Robin knew that gentlemen flirts were often just a façade for entitlement, disrepute, and worse…but so far nothing about Virion indicated anything of the sort. Rather, she remembered his presence at the boardroom: he spoke little compared to the rest of the Rosannois, and when he did, his input was hardly registered.

No one cares what you have to say, Virion, she remembered du Berry pronounce harshly.

"Well, since you were wondering, Duke Virion, I was invited here because Lady Olivia was curious over my wardrobe," Robin mentioned as casually as she could. "These sorts of things can be educational; since we're representing our countries, surely we can take chances to build bonds in these trying times?"

Virion brightened considerably at being included. "Indeed! I've tried to read as much as I could on Plegian subjects, but there's really nothing like asking an actual Plegian. Goodness, you should have heard the ladies raving about your garments that day—purple is quite a luxury!"

Confusion flitted across Olivia's face for the briefest second, but she ultimately schooled her features into something more polite. Robin, however, spotted her body relaxing ever so slightly, and Robin guessed that her host felt more at ease now that a very awkward situation had been averted.

So she decided to continue. "Kaftans like these are very casual. They can come in many styles and materials, but this one is cotton for warmer days, and the embroidery is sparser than on more formal ones because I mostly use it for when I stay in to work and don't have any meetings."

They won't notice that this isn't technically a man's kaftan, right?

"I do have to ask, however," Virion remarked. "I've seen quite a few artworks showing men and women wearing kaftans—how curious that clothing is so similar between the sexes!"

"We think it's strange that most ofyourclothes have to be so different."

"Fair enough! Though—and I must ask your forgiveness if this is an additional display of rudeness on my part—I have seen that lighter colours are more common in depictions of women."

The 'prince' managed not to choke on her saliva, hoping that the twist of her lips came off as wry instead of pained. "I have many kaftans in many different colours. I don't particularly care which ones they are as long as they're not grey."

Gaius chortled as though she had told a very good joke, and Robin felt relieved that it was left at that.

"While your kaftans do look quite comfortable to lounge in," Virion said, "is it permissible to play chess whilst wearing one?"

"Now you just hold that thought right there, Prissy." Sully's interruption came as quite the shock; though her dislike of the duke was no secret, there was an odd gleam in her eye as she shot up from her seat, hands splayed firmly over the table and threatening to upset the tea set. "This guy here owes me a boutbeforehe owes you some chess."

Soft ticking from the clock filled the brief, stunned silence between them. Everyone had taken it as a jest at first. A bit of friendly banter. But then they remembered that Sully was most definitely not on friendly terms with 'Daraen,' nor was their relationship informal enough for jokes to be passed around.

"You mean like…now?" Robin realised a few crumbs had escaped when her mouth fell open out of astonishment. They were currently the least of her concerns and she ignored them.

"Yeah, now. I'm feelin' energised after all this food and I could use some exercise to burn it all off," Sully replied. The table trembled slightly, and Robin realised it was due to Sully's body, full of restless, shaky energy, resting its full weight on the table and transferring her movement to it.

As a 'prince,' Robin would have been fully within her rights to simply tell the redhead to piss off. Challenging nobility—royalty—way above one's station was highly improper anywhere. Olivia's face had gone stark white through the pallor of her veil, evidently fearful of her lady-in-waiting's impulsive declaration, obviously not wanting to witness the potential start of an international scandal. Virion looked quite unsure of the whole situation, Gaius bored, and Excellus downright gleeful.

The latter convinced Robin to accept Sully's challenge. Damn the Toad anyways, but perhaps this could be the opportunity she needed to talk to the fiery woman. Sumia said that Sully knew about the matchmaking scheme: ergo, Sully could be a valuable asset. Her warlike disposition gave off the impression of someone who valued strength and knew how to fight.

If she beat Sully at her own game, then Robin could not only gain the satisfaction of proving herself worthy of respect, but of getting to see Excellus' smug smirk wiped off his sallow face.

"Sure," Robin replied co*ckily. "Just let me have another cream puff first."

News of Olivia's maid confronting the Prince of Plegia travelled fast throughout the guesthouse. By the time the two combatants met in the courtyard behind the house, a good-sized crowd jostled and clamoured for space to view the spectacle.

Gaius appointed himself the match's arbiter ("it'll put Olivia's mind at ease," he claimed) and paced the length of the courtyard, making sure the gawkers stuck to the pillars in the colonnade well away from the participants.

"Alright everyone," he announced loud and clear. "This is gonna be a clean and fair fight, and we're gonna set some ground rules to avoid any problems later: no kicking, no punching, no biting, no hits below the belt. This is a strictly grappling affair and Olivia doesn't wanna see any bruising later, you hear? Ten seconds on the floor and you're done for."

"Sure. I'm still kicking this guy's arse today," Sully said.

Fool that she was, Robin let her co*ckiness get the best of her and delude her into thinking that some hare-brained fight was a good idea. Not that she was afraid of losing—far from it—but some second thoughts made her realise that she could have simply brushed Sully and Excellus off. Knowing when to walk away from provocations was just as much a valuable lesson as knowing how to keep one's pride intact.

Then there was also the fact that, despite being a good head shorter, Sully looked more like a bull than she did a person. Thick, corded muscles roped their way across her body under the tight tunic that was revealed when the redhead tore her shirt off beforehand. Well defined abdominals bunched and flexed as Sully circled around, waiting for Gaius to give the signal to start. Everything from her calves to her arms bulged with raw power, and Robin wondered just how well Sully would commit to not leaving any bruises.

Robin silently thanked Tharja for retouching the illusion cast over her own body as she carefully handed her kaftan to a waiting servant.

"On your marks!" Gaius raised his hand high in the air. A hush fell over the crowd, and eager tension rippled through them as they waited with bated breaths.

Olivia, of course, was nowhere to be found. Virion explained that the khatun detested the sight of violence…and she would certainly be having a word or two with her maid afterwards.

"Get set!"

Said maid looked positively eager to beat Robin to a pulp though, raking her foot over the flagstones three times in quick succession that had the crowd start to whisper excitedly.

"Go!"

Robin barely had any time to react as Sully shot forward with a shout. Blocking an incoming fist with her elbow, the disguised princess fell back, trying to assess her next move. Sully clearly favoured brute strength and knew how to use it, Robin thought, dismayed. While fighters who chose to rely solely on power were often easy to exploit, the muscular redhead's combat experience was readily apparent; this was no greenhorn recruit. The people surrounding them cheered and cried out for more as Sully circled her with a smirk.

"Did you fight on the front lines?" Robin murmured in such a way that her words were easily heard by her opponent, though not so much by their spectators.

Sully scoffed. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Well, I'm looking for anything that might explain your hostility towards me."

Those words instantly wiped any trace of a smile from the warrior's face. She practically stomped forth, bringing her fists up to try and grab Robin—playing into the correct assumption that she worked according to her emotions. It proved to be of great help as Robin was able to back out of her reach.

"That," Sully grunted, face beginning to turn as red as her locks, "is none of your damn business."

"It is considering I'm running back and forth between my duties at the summit and Chrom's matchmaking."

A nerve seemed to have been struck with the mere mention of the prince's name. A mistake, really, as it proved to be the motivation Sully needed to reach her and put her in an iron-tight headlock. The crowd yelled in approval as they watched Robin writhe against hard muscles holding her in place, fighting to keep her centre of weight down towards the ground.

"I lost two sisters in the war," Sully growled. Hurt and anger coloured her words. Her skin felt hot to the touch and taut with tension. "My father can't fight anymore, my friends are permanently crippled, and that's not even getting into the country's sorry state. It's all because of you. Now you're here livin' it up in the castle as if nothing happened, and to top the sh*t cake off, I find you runnin' around for Chrom and getting involved in his stupid matchmaking schemes as if you were suddenly best friends."

Now, Robin was no stranger to the animosity surrounding her circ*mstances, nor her past crimes (Vaike's face and his unkind words appeared in her mind). Finding the balance between sincere repentance and wanting others to be more understanding of her was a constant struggle. Only a precious few seemed willing to give her a chance. But Sully's incessant attacks, her scorn, and dismissive attitude were perilously close to pushing Robin past the threshold of her patience.

"You don't know anything about me," Robin replied. She let herself go limp in Sully's grasp, throwing her opponent off-balance by the sudden deadweight, and she used that opportunity to brace herself against her left leg while hooking her right ankle around Sully's. Nature did the rest as the bull was pulled backwards towards the ground with a resounding thud.

Rolling away, Robin took the chance to catch her breath, watching from a safe distance as Gaius started a countdown for the stunned Sully. Said woman recovered far too quickly for Robin's liking and was back on her feet soon enough. The pair circled each other warily in hopes of finding an opening to exploit.

Sully spat a faintly red glob off to the side—she had apparently fallen on her face hard enough to cut the inside of her mouth. "I know enough to say that I don't like you."

"Then don't." Robin shrugged, hoping that her feigned carelessness came across as confident as she hoped it would. "I'm not wanting anyone to. All I'm asking for is a fair shake and a pair of open ears, because let's face it: whether you like it or not, you don't know a thing about my circ*mstances, my own losses, and what I need to do to pay off my debts."

Sweat plastered red curls to Sully's face in a wet sheen, and the warrior faltered.

Robin took the chance to throw herself at the other woman's midsection in a lightning quick tackle.

"You rotten little cheater—!" Harsh breathing blew at the nape of Robin's neck as Sully curled over her body and wrapped her enormous arms around her middle in an attempt to pull her off.

"That wasn't cheating and you know it. You're just a sore loser," Robin panted back.

"Ha, as if! You just wait until I get you flat on your arse, and then we'll see who's the loser."

The women grunted and squirmed, locked in a tight embrace, barely managing to push one another back. The audience held its collective breath; then they gasped when the fighters pulled apart, only to come together with a crash. Their knuckles turned white as they grasped at each others' hands. Sweat poured down their skin and soaked into their clothing. Pained, exerted groans underscored the tremendous effort each one was making to try and topple the other, but neither managed to do much except have their feet scrape at the floor.

"Oh ho! I've always known Sully was a force to be reckoned with—but looks like she's havin' a bit of trouble! Does this mean she's met her match?" Gaius crowed.

The crowd surged and cried out, calling for their favourites in response. To Robin's lack of surprise, Sully was very popular…but it seemed as though there were some who chose to support the Plegian side.

Sully, however, seemed to think her strength was being called into question. And she apparently did not like that. Her attacks and lunges became far more frenzied and powerful, forcing Robin into a defensive stance as she kept blocking a flurry of attempted holds.

Robin gasped as she narrowly missed a swipe towards her neck. "You're—you're quite the formidable warrior."

"Heh." Sully looked as though she wanted to say something else, but opted to bare her fangs instead. Frustrated growls slipped past her lips as her opponent swatted her hands away, ducked a grab, and managed to sidestep her completely before twisting her arms behind her back and forcing them up, trapping her completely.

The crowd gained volume as they witnessed the Plegian hold the Ylissean, chest to back, and the latter was helpless to do much except thrash wildly.

Robin leaned in close to Sully's ear. "Do you yield?"

"Never," the redhead snarled, and she thrust the back of her head into Robin's face.

"OI!"Gaius immediately ran to the ring as he watched blood gush from Robin's nose, liquid red splattering all over the flagstones as she released Sully with a strangled gasp. "Are you out of your damn mind? That was totally illegal! I'm calling this match off right now before you do any worse!"

"You didn't say anything about headbutts, so fair is fair! If the sight of a little blood bothers you so much then you can sit this one out with Olivia!" Sully shouted, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. She watched warily as Robin tore a strip off her undershirt and pressed it tightly to her nose, blood spreading across the pale weave.

"That's fine by me," Robin wheezed through the cloth. "This match was going to be over soon anyways."

She threw the bloodied strip at Sully, and, taking advantage of the other woman's surprise, performed a backflip that launched her into the air. Robin had completely anticipated Sully catching her round the middle…but it left her legs free as she was thrown back into a suplex. She let the pain of her feet meeting the ground race up her legs and torso, wrapped her arms around Sully's stomach, and braced herself with shorter woman's body acting as a counterweight before she turned her adversary's move on her and sent her into the floor with a bang.

Gaius stared. The crowd stared. Robin merely squeezed Sully harder, fighting to keep her hold on the muscular warrior, until ten seconds had passed and the bull was beaten.

An astonished silence soon gave way to loud whoops and cheers, Robin staggering to a stand just as soon as her victory was assured. Sully scrambled to her feet soon after and glared with the fire of a thousand suns as she realised her defeat. But Robin was far too relieved to care much; not only was victory hers, but besting Sully (and showing up Excellus in the process) meant she had secured the approval of their Feroxi spectators. She let herself bask in the glow of her hard-earned win and the eager chants of the audience.

Virion, however, only had eyes for Sully. He had been watching the match closely and his gaze never wavered from the fiery redhead as the women grappled. Even now, he advanced towards her, with the single-minded goal of singing her praises.

"Marvelous! Simply marvelous!" The duke was positively enraptured. "What courage! What strength! Had I known of your gallantry before, why, I would have sought you out sooner!"

"Aw, shaddup Ruffles." Sully was not nearly as inclined to answer his attentions and stormed off towards the safety of the guesthouse.

Robin chuckled wetly through her bloodied nose. She was usually not one to let things go to her head, but she would be a liar if she refused to admit how good this felt. She anticipated Sully would not be so quick with her jibes and jabs the next time they met, nor would Excellus. Why, Robin even had a few of her own prepared for them, in the event that the two would try and be fresh with her.

As the crowd pulled in to give its congratulations, Robin hoped that her golden moment would extend to her next time at the summit.

Chapter 18: Never was Man Thus Wronged

Chapter Text

"My good sir! I would like to introduce you to a colleague of mine. Perhaps that might help expedite the process…you don't want to stay here longer than necessary, and neither do we…"

The man looked well, all things considered. He showed no signs of emaciation, and, apart from his dirty clothes, the shackles pinioning him to the wall, the difficulty he had adjusting to the spelled light illuminating his cell—the very thought of having aprisonerinvolved in all this suddenly made the situation far more frightening—he seemed to have all his faculties in order.

"I take it this doesn't actually mean I'm to be released any time soon?" The prisoner licked around his cracked lips. Stubble roughened his face, already craggy with years of sun, salt, and sweat.

"Of course not, but you're welcome to ask either way," was the mysterious Blackmailer's (they had to have a title at this point) flippant reply. They withdrew the sheaf of papers from within their gaudy silk robes and waved them in the captive's face. "First things first, sir—"

"Gregor. Won't have you calling me an 'it' or whatever."

"I don't really care, but thank you for being polite, I suppose. Now…Gregor. Whence you came by these? They look very important."

He had no idea how long Gregor had been kept down there; knowing the Blackmailer, however, it involved devious subterfuge, some awful secret or two held dangling over its victim. He wondered what exactly this Gregor was hiding to end up in…wherever they were. All he knew for certain was that this lay far below the known foundations of Ylisstol Castle. The stale air reeked of centuries of damp. Not even rats seemed to have braved these levels, dark and secluded as they were. A chilling atmosphere kept his breath bated, waiting, hoping not to find something else waiting in the gloom. But all he saw was Gregor, chained to the wall and staring back with a stubborn resolution.

The Blackmailer obviously did not like that, of course.

"Think about how strange your circ*mstances were when we met, yes?" They fanned their rouged face delicately. "We all know that it's far better to save yourself any futuredifficultiesrather than try to play the hero. I imagine you've got a wife and little girl waiting back home…don't you want to see them? Shouldn't that child get to see daddy again, safe and sound?"

They were threatening him? Oh no, no, he most certainly did not want to get mixed up in that sort of business. "N-now see here, you! What are you doing, skulking about in–in wherever we are, handling a p-p-prisoner of all things! What does that have to do with the Plegians?"

"If you'd have bothered to let me finish talking, then you would have learned in good time that this man here is responsible for having provided passage to that particular Plegian you spend so much time moaning over. Can't enjoy the simple pleasures of a preamble without a sermon," they scoffed, rolling their eyes.

The…Gregor broughthimto Ylisstol?

Coin was precious these days. Lucky as he was to stay within the castle's walls enjoying all the privileges that came with it, one would have to be wilfully ignorant to the poverty that war wrought: interrupted trade routes, fields lying fallow and rotten, marauders prowling the countryside on the hunt for the weak and vulnerable. That the need for money forced Ylisseans to stoop to taking onPlegians…had they no decency? No shame? At the very least any respectable man, or anyone calling themselves a man, ought to have a sense of patriotism, of piety, of love for home and country and the desire to stand against all that threatened it. Ylisse had barely come out of armed conflict that pitted it against her sworn enemies…yet this Gregor thought nothing of bowing and scraping to one of their highest enemies of all.

The Blackmailer knew his thought process, could read his expression as easily as a picture-book. Either he was far more transparent than he thought or they were simply very practiced schemers. Neither prospect did little to quell the burning in his heart.

"See how much more straightforward it is when I do most of the talking?" they laugh-hissed.

He could not find it in him to respond.

Gregor stared calmly from the wall, but the harsh little light swinging hostilely in his face brought out a stubbornness, a clear challenge in his eyes.

"Now then…back to the task at hand." The Blackmailer sorted through the documents until they found the writ bearing that ugly wax seal. They flipped it lazily, painted nails scratching softly over the parchment. "This was found on your person, Gregor. Its contents…well. They certainly paint a rather odd picture." They cleared their throat so ostentatiously that one might think they would actually cough. "'This Writ is to be proof of my Authority. I am charged with organising a Search Party to locate His Highness Prince Daraen and bring him to Safety by the Power of the Theocracy of Plegia.' My my! That certainly is a mouthful…"

"Oh, get on with it. What do you want?" Gregor sighed.

The Blackmailer frowned, so clearly unused to not having a scared audience—and one that talked back as well. Back-talk was never tolerated. "I'm not done. Let me finish."

"Gold? A favour? If you want something from the Plegian's t'ain't me who's the right one to ask."

"These were in your possession."

"Got them papers, found the lad, got shipwrecked together, brought him here, left to go back home. Nothing simpler to it. All that fuss, and clapping irons on me, all because you let some silly notions fly into your head."

"You are a journeyman of sorts, yes? Mercenary is much too crude a word, I think…but it's rather obvious to see that you know your way around a sword, and those instruments in your bag tell me sea-work is something you are familiar with. The Plegian hired you. If the job is done, then why keep a contract for a search party of all things?"

"I can be forgetful sometimes. War's confusing and the lad's people were worried for him. I did my job and got paid and that's it."

"And yet,"the Blackmailer drew out the word with relish, "the coin in your pouch is wholly Ylissean. Not a single Plegian samtar in sight. Odd enough for a Plegian to rely on the services of an Ylissean, but to pay an Ylissean in Ylissean gil is odder still."

Gregor started to laugh. It was a wheezy, salty old-dog sound, rough and cheerful in a way that spoke of many years of dealing with nonsense. "Ya daft? 'Course I'd want to get paid in gil! I've no interest in going all the way to Plegia right now, and the lad can't exactly go his way through Ylisse with Plegian money, can he? Come back and interrogate me when you've somethin' substantial to ask!"

The Blackmailer smiled serenely, seemingly unperturbed. He knew better than to trust first impressions though, and wavered between pitying Gregor's lack of forewarning or wondering what exactly they were planning now that their prisoner was laughing in their face.

Something told him they were actually rather good at interrogations.

"I think you're lying, Gregor. I think you're hiding something from us. Something suspicious enough about that Plegian. It's only natural to be curious, don't you think?" They kept smiling.

"What I think is that you're absolutely mad," Gregor said.

"From madness comes great visionary genius simpletons like you are incapable of ever understanding. I have ways of getting what I want. Knowing things I need to use. And you, smelly, wretched dog that you are, have no hope of hiding them from me. I know something is afoot with that boy," they hissed, terrifyingly cold and sharp and all pretense of congenial smugness gone. "Whatever it is, I will find out. And you will be very, very sorry for even thinking you could talk down to me."

There was something foreboding about seeing the Blackmailer lose their composure, drop their usual grinning act. Ah, they had been so careful about introducing themselves with airs of silvery secrecy. Of total control. But when a challenge arose to that image…

Not for the last time, he wondered if this was worth it.

Chapter 19: Alas the Day!

Chapter Text

"So, here's the thing," Marion said, agitation giving her words a higher pitch. "If you want to go to Ylisstol unseen, it'll be hard. The village is, well, boarding soldiers at the moment, so…"

"Why?" Daraen asked, but he chose to voice his question right at the moment he brought a spoonful of broth into his mouth. The liquid dribbled uselessly down his front. He grimaced and apologised to Kellam for ruining his borrowed shirt.

"Reserve troops to help out the ones stationed in Southtown. We're not far off from Plegia at this particular point, and everyone's on edge. And I also believe Kellam's exceptionally bad luck didn't do any favours," she said, sighing.

Kellam, wiping traces of soup off Daraen's face, nodded. "Uhhh…I'm kind of…wanted for desertion at the moment."

"Why,"Daraen asked again.

"…It's a long story."

Marion stood up to check the entrance; the sensitive nature of their meeting meant she came at night, and constantly made sure no one was approaching Kellam's shack. Daraen knew accomplished spies would have easily heard anything and everything that happened within its precariously thin walls, but the gesture proved her bravery and the dedication she put into helping them.

The men waited patiently as she stared off into the night until she returned with an unsatisfied grunt. The dim light from the cookfire scarcely amounted to much illumination, but it was better this way.

Marion cleared her throat. "I'll try to be brief: we don't like Plegians much here—"

"Sorry," Daraen grumbled.

"—but we don't got much love for the army, either. Much too disorganised. They're unhappy with the state of affairs and they're starting to get rough with the smallfolk. Sawyer's girl got burned at the stove since a soldier snapped at her to cook faster, and the poor thing startled. Doesn't make her father's position so enviable, having to keep ten of those louts entertained. Temper's are gonna boil over soon, and you don't wanna get caught up once they do, so you better scarper quick, tonight."

Kellam, sucking in a tiny breath, glanced worriedly at Daraen. "You meannow?"

"Yeah, now. S'almost been a week, so his wounds are better. Just be mindful of the toes and keep taking the medicine—I've got it all packed for you."

"Why tonight? Marion, what's going on?" Daraen murmured. His eyes flicked to the tarp covering the entrance. "If someone's been asking questions and following you—"

"—No, I haven't been followed or questioned, but I can tell the soldiers are getting suspicious. They've got some wounded veterans in their numbers and I'm the only healer in this area outside Southtown, and they don't like that I'm away so often," she replied.

"I'm sorry," came Daraen's automatic apology.

Marion looked him over, carefully taking in the slump of his shoulders. The thin slant of his body underneath Kellam's too-big shirt. "It ain't your fault. You and Kellam's luck just seemed to match up in the worst way possible—hopefully, it'll tide you over for getting out, at least."

"So, you have a plan?"

"Sort of."

"Don't worry. I'm rather good at making those up on the spot."

Marion explained that the village consisted of fifteen families spread out across thirteen homes, loosely organised around Headman Sawyer's place: a muddy little road which cut a path between them that twisted in a snake-like pattern. The possibility of using it was discarded on account of the heightened risk of being discovered. Kellam and Robin would have to take a wider arc behind the Gibbs family's goat shed if they wanted to avoid bringing a lamp.

"They keep some torches lit ever since them soldiers came," she pointed out. Weak fire sputtering slightly in the wind. "One for every three houses. Best stick to the Gibbs so you can get away without getting lost in the dark. Sharp rocks out there so close to the beach too…and not a lot of tree cover to keep you hidden."

"I'll be a burden on Kellam with my bad toe," Daraen muttered.

"Oh, I can carry you. It won't be any trouble at all," Kellam immediately offered.

"That's very kind of you, but how can you be so sure of that while we're sneaking around? What if we get caught? I can't be responsible for getting you into another mess when you've been so kind to me."

Pink spread across Kellam's doughy cheeks, and he looked away to cough. "It's no issue, really. I'm…I'm happy to help, and it's the right thing to do, anyways."

Mario cleared her throat testily. "When you two are done, remember to watch out for the patrol they've got posted. 'Course he's not much of a threat, really—his name's Brandon and he tends to only stick to one side of the village on account of the animals spooking him—but you can never be too careful, you hear? Kellam can't be caught, but the villagers like him well enough…but if they seeyou,Mister Daraen, there's no telling what kind of outroar'll spring up, so you best be extra cautious."

"We will. T-thank you for everything, Marion. I'd be long gone and dead if it were not for you and Kellam." Daraen dipped his head low in thanks. He would be truly missing her, and, should fate be kind enough, he would attempt to seek her out in the near future to fully convey his appreciation.

"That's sweet of you, but the pleasantries can wait. Go!"

The plan was organised in the following manner: Marion would enter the village, distract anyone who dared to venture outside for a few moments, and then immediately go back to her home under the pretense of weariness—it would help keep scrutiny off her for returning so late, should the patrol catch wind of her.

Meanwhile, Daraen and Kellam would skirt to the edges, sticking to the rear of the Mason's and Gibbs' houses. The key to success hinged on Daraen being wrapped up in Kellam's dirty laundry. His excuse, should a neighbour happen to wander out of bed for some reason or another, would be that he was secretly escorting Marion back along with some sheets and used bandages.

"Kellam, being Kellam, won't have a hard time passing unnoticed at least, so there's that," Marion explained nonchalantly.

Daraen still had no idea what she was talking about. Kellam, in spite of his deceptive softness, towered over them. His proportions simply did not lend themselves to the concept of stealth under any circ*mstance. Then again…there were more than a few occasions in which Marion had seemingly lost sight of him, or called him 'slippery.' Was it some sort of joke between them?

They watched Marion stroll into the village, leading her horse from the bridle. A mousy young man in light armour immediately sprang out from the shadows to question her; Brandon, apparently. Daraen hobbled along silently, leaning on Kellam for support, never taking his eyes off the soldier. They managed to pass the edge of the Mason's home before Brandon let Marion off, trudging back to his post.

The Gibbs had a large plot of land allocated to them for their animals. Apparently, few ventured this way, given the fact that the poverty of war meant they took on dung collection as an extra source of income. The strong scent of goat and excrement wrinkled their noses as Kellam, apologising profusely all the while, began to roll Daraen up in a sheet. He took the added precaution of loosely covering his face. While the temptation to peek out and have a look was very strong, Daraen remained limp in Kellam's grasp, staying still and trusting him to safely walk them over the minefield of droppings in the dark, away from Brandon the night patrol's eyes.

…Until Kellam stumbled over a rock.

"S-sorry!" Kellam whispered hurriedly.

Daraen bit his lip, willing his heart to stop pounding. "It's alright. Just be careful."

Kellam nearly lost his footing again, and it took all of Daraen's willpower not to groan aloud.

After that small hiccup, the walk ahead felt smoother. It certainly could have been more comfortable, given how (at his own insistence) Kellam slung him over his shoulder, but he was quite literally in no position to complain. A low hum rumbled through his rescuer as he stopped to consider the terrain.

"Uhhhh…might wanna…hold on." Kellam sounded much too unsure for Daraen's liking.

"My hands are currently indisposed at the moment but I can…try in spirit."

"Ah."

Then came a shuffling noise as they slowed. The light dimmed in this area, so Kellam had to mind his steps, watching out for any piles of dung he might encounter, lest they—

Kellam tripped on a small pebble and fumbled as Daraen came perilously close to falling.

"I swear I'm not doing this on purpose and I'm so so so sorry, please forgive me!" Kellam sounded close to tears.

Daraen sucked in a trembling breath, praying to whatever god out there that the night held no more surprises for them. He counted Kellam's steps. They seemed much more confident now, less clumsy. Good. As long as those first few almost-accidents stayed that way, then they could get this over with.

"I think I can sprint a little now, since there's grass here and the goats don't use this spot for, uh, relieving themselves," Kellam whispered.

A very bad feeling dropped a weight into the pit of Daraen's stomach. "Kellam, I'm not sure that's a good—"

Too late did he voice his doubts, as Kellam broke into a light jog, bouncing his charge slightly with each step. Hopefully his massive bulk meant bigger steps? Daraen held his breath, praying harder, pleading at this point, that the sudden wrench in his gut was nothing more than nervousness and not a hunch warning him about potential catastrophe.

Unfortunately for them, his hunches were usually spot on most of the time.

They slowed, Kellam panting slightly. He shifted Daraen onto his shoulder, spinning to and fro to gauge their position in the dark. "See? Nothing too bad. Now this part's where it gets a bit trickier—"

The spinning sent the back of Daraen's head straight into a pole of some kind. He bit his lip hard to muffle a pained scream.

"DARAEN! I'm so sorry! I thought the clothesline wasn't here, does it hurt badly?" Kellam lowered Daraen to the ground and unravelled the sheets to palm the back of his head.

Daraen groaned at the contact, blinking blearily. "Try…to be a little more careful," he ground out. "Let's not push our luck."

"O-ok…"

Wrapped up once more in the sheets, Kellam opted to cradle the bundle to his chest this time, if only as a protective measure against any more stray clothesline poles lurking in the night. Daraen breathed a quiet sigh of thanks at his more cautious pace, trying to focus on anything but the throbbing in his head. That would certainly leave a bump tomorrow. And no more Marion to treat his aches and pains either, but he had gone through worse and survived.

If I survive this night, that is…

So far, so good. Only Kellam's feet bounding softly against the ground and their breathing could be discerned against the faint noises of the beach and nocturnal insects, whirring away pleasantly. It would have been much easier to appreciate without Daraen's pain fuzzing up his senses, though he tried to mitigate it with calm, even-spaced breathing. It was a trick he and Robin learned from their mother, once upon a time, when they were safer tumbling around with their own goats and livestock. He prayed his sister was alive, alive to embrace and apologise to and go home with after the mess they found themselves in could finally be resolved.

But first came actually leaving the village, then following the road to Ylisstol, and hoping he and Kellam could get past the city walls to where the meetings were taking place…

They slipped.

"Oh no," Kellam gasped.

"What." Daraen's voice was completely flat.

"Minefield."

Their breathing seemed far louder now with the tension rocketing skywards. Of all things, their biggest threat were the goat droppings, but the insistent droning at the back of Daraen's skull reminded him of how deadly Kellam's missteps could be. If not another pole, then perhaps sliding into excrement, getting caught by a guard, running into some other obstacle like a log. Who was to say?

Kellam almost seemed to dance with the slow deliberation taken before each footstep. Daraen's head swam from the hurt and from holding his breath, fraught with anxiety over every single possible factor that could go wrong.

"Okay. Okay." Kellam exhaled. "That seemed to be the worst of it done. Not too terrible."

They gave a sudden, horrible lurch as Kellam exclaimed loudly, then fell to the ground in a crumpled heap with Daraen squashed right beneath the other man's larger bulk.

"GRIMA'S tit*!" Daraen bellowed.

"The hell's goin' on out there?" a man's voice answered right back.

Light washed over them. Even from under the sheets, Daraen had to squint his eyes shut, staying deathly still in the hopes that no one would notice him from beneath Kellam. But breathing was getting extremely difficult, his heart was going a thousand leagues a second, and, to his horror, he realised that his bare hand stuck out onto the grass. And the voices of men approached, closer and closer…

Wait! Maybe they can miss Kellam like Marion does all the time!Daraen prayed hard. It seemed to be working. The voices muttered a bit before growing slightly distant, as if walking away.

"Hey Mr. Gibbs…it's just me," Kellam squeaked weakly, and Daraen cursed internally as that hope was immediately dashed to pieces.

"Hoi, Kellam! What're ye doing all the way back here so late at night?"

Daraen assumed that voice belonged to the Gibbs patriarch. He sounded friendly enough to Kellam, if bemused, to find him sprawled out on the ground with a pile of sheets.

Kellam coughed. "Just trying to return Marion's laundry to her. Sorry, Mr. Gibbs, I didn't mean to cause such a ruckus."

"Ahhh, t'ain't nothin' to it, my boy. Don't you worry."

"What was that, Pa?"

Oh no. Another Gibbs? Were they that loud? Daraen's dread increased when he realised his incredibly crude swearing had been spoken in Plegian. And with the border not too far off, what were the odds that someone, if not the Gibbs, would recognise it? His vision started to pop with little spots of colour and hazy black patches from holding in his breath for so long. If he died, he hoped it would not be on the ground amongst goat dung.

"Kellam's bringing laundry back to Marion," Mr. Gibbs explained to his apparent son.

"Hey, Kellam. Didn't take ya as the type to be afraid of Little Brandon," the son said, laughing heartily.

Kellam's returning laugh carried an obvious trace of nervousness to it, but thankfully, the Gibbs men ignored it. "Oh, I'd just rather not cause any trouble. I–I didn't mean to come out here this late, but it was because I realised I forgot to return these to her, and since she'd been coming over so often lately to help me with my bad foot and everything."

"That's our Marion, selfless as always. And it's good to see that foot did nicely! Whaddaya say we take those sheets off yer hands and give 'em to her tomorrow?"

Daraen froze.

"Ha ha…thank you, Tom! But I'd rather not be a bother."

"Why a bother? You're a good friend to the village! There's no botherin' involved when it comes to you." The older Gibbs chuckled. "Why, if it weren't you, we'd be mighty suspicious over some large bloke skulkin' around behind the house in the dead of night, actin' like he needs to get rid of a body or summat."

"Hey, Pa…that actually kind of does look like a body." Tom's words prompted a long pause between them all.

Daraen froze again. He felt Kellam's body tense on top of him.

Then both of the Gibbs started to laugh uproariously.

"Oh, you real kidder, Kellam!" Tom's laughter turned into a high-pitched whistle as he slapped his knee and struggled for breath, incredibly tickled by the absurdity of the situation.

"I'll say! Imagine a lad likeKellamof all people, carryin' a body around!" his father said, chortling.

"You get yerself goin' to Marion's, Kellam. Try not to slip on any more poo, ya hear?"

"Yes, thank you," Kellam said weakly. "Have a good night. I'm so sorry for waking you up like this."

"Like we said, don't worry about it. The missus can have a good laugh over this come morning. It'll be your payment, since she ain't had some humour after these city blokes took over the place. Be more careful, though!"

Kellam offered a tepid hum in agreement as the light receded from view. After a few hair-raising minutes of waiting to see if the frackas had attracted Brandon's attention, he tore the sheets off Daraen's face in a panic, and the latter sucked in a huge, gasping breath.

"I'm SO, so sorry!" Kellam whispered.

"So poo, was it?" Daraen replied dryly.

"…And then a log."

"Of course."

Both marvelled how, miraculously, all their bumbling about only meant attracting the Gibbs—with the other men trusting Kellam enough to not give the 'sheets' a more thorough once-over. Daraen felt like thoroughly tenderised meat. He ached all over and dearly wished for one of Marion's tinctures to soothe the pounding in his head, the soreness in his chest, and the aggravating desperation for the night to end as quickly as possible. No one talked the rest of the way through. Finally(finally!)Kellam began to crest a small hill, the one Marion told them sat at the very edge of the village, signifying the end to their ordeal.

"I wouldn't blame you if you decide to beat me black and blue for all this, Daraen. I truly am very sorry for giving you such a hard time," Kellam apologised softly, patting the roll of sheets gently.

Daraen, still sore, sighed. "You've been a great help to me. Don't think about it too much."

"At least this means the road's close! All we have to do is follow it straight. All the roads only lead to Ylisstol from here, and we can find a horse tomorrow. But first, a good night's rest."

The end of his sentence was punctuated by Daraen being whacked in the face by what felt like a very old and very solid tree branch.

"I'M SORRY—" Kellam cried.

"I want to die," Daraen wheezed.