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He meets him first in Regna Ferox, after the khans’ dominance tournament. The Ylissean prince and his flock face off against Basilio’s new champion, the one who had so easily usurped his title under the West-Khan. (He would like to resent this new man, but his passion and his skill with the sword beget only respect and admiration.)
He watches in the stands of the coliseum, among thousands of Feroxi onlookers, watches as the opposing groups take their sides of the arena; Prince Chrom and a select group of his Shepherds on the east, Marth and his men on the west. The khans, together, commence the battle, with a long, deep blow on their battlehorn each.
It is over sooner than he expects it to be. He has seen many battles, fought many, in the dust and sweat of this very ring- it goes much the same every time, two wary groups facing one another down, laurels down one path, a warrior’s grave down the other. He has seen it go so that minutes pass before blows are exchanged, so that spectators must throw rocks and worse before either side will take the risk.
The Shepherds are not like this.
They gather, briefly, in the far end of the arena, and then they fan out and they advance upon Marth’s men, singly or in pairs. As Marth’s troops react, their tactician calls out orders, even as he strikes down an archer with a bolt from his tome. Lon’qu has never met a tactician who deals in blood as well as in strategy, and, secretly, he finds himself rooting for the strange mage’s victory even as he knows he ought to wish for Marth’s.
It is over in half the time that it has taken some others to bare their steel- together, the exalted and his tactician bring down Marth (not a fair fight, but a clever one, thinks Lon’qu), and they secure the East-Khan’s dominance.
Later, he finds out that it is for a cause greater than that of personal power. Basilio is griping over his loss, though not so passionately as he might- when Lon’qu asks why this is, he says that he can hardly be frustrated when he has been spared the laurel in a time when war looms. He says that the prince and his people have requested Feroxi aide, and were granted it through their victory over Marth, and Lon’qu understands.
“They need every man and woman who’s fit to hold a sword,” Basilio says, with a rueful sigh that suggests that he’d be more than happy to volunteer himself as one. “But for now I ought to stay here, as befits my station.” He pauses, and glances over at Lon’qu. “You, however,” He says, with a sly grin, the one that Lon’qu knows to mean mischief, “Well, you’ve always had a taste for battle, no? Would you care to help them? You’ve no title to defend now, after all, and I doubt you’ll be seeing much action behind these dusty walls.”
Lon’qu considers this. There is safety in the Longfort, but there is also the dull gnawing ache of boredom, in letting his talents languish as he sits idly by. And there is his curiosity as well. “I will fight where I am needed,” He says, and Basilio laughs his great laugh and claps him on the back.
“Wonderful,” Basilio says, grinning, “You’ll pardon me if I present you as spoils to the boy and his flock. Know that I mean you no humiliation.”
Lon’qu goes to the Shepherds not long before their departure back to Ylisse, to prepare for the war.
“My gift to you,” Basilio says, with a smile, and gestures to Lon’qu, who stands glaring and silent a few feet back. (There are women here. He must guard his tongue.)
The prince has an odd look to him. “I appreciate the gesture, Khan Basilio, but…”
“We don’t deal in chains,” Their tactician says, meets Lon’qu’s eyes with what might be concern but just as easily could be open appraisal.
Basilio laughs at that. “Well, of course not,” He agrees, “Lon’qu here has agreed to help of his own volition. He is a fine swordsman, one of the best in Regna Ferox- has the makings to be better than even myself one day! Not one for talking, but certainly a useful one to have by your side.”
“In that case, I would be glad to have him.” The prince meets his eyes. “Lon’qu, you have no objections?”
His gaze is as hard and unyielding as he can make it. He does not want anyone getting any wrong impressions of who he is. “He gives orders. I stab people. I think our roles are clear.”
He can see a little smile on the tactician’s face as he turns to murmur something to his prince.
Things are not so different with the Shepherds, he finds. Perhaps less of the comforts he found in the Longfort, less of the luxury of solitude, but the same basic dynamic- the tactician gives him his orders and he follows them, and when he’s performed his day’s duties he trains, until the moon is high and the camp is long asleep.
It’s during such a time that the tactician first approaches him for anything beyond tactics.
“It is difficult to train with you leering at me,” He says, loudly enough to carry to the tactician, tucked away behind the canvas of a nearby tent.
Robin laughs- as though something about it were funny- and he steps out from behind the tent and holds his palms face-up, a gesture of surrender.
“You have my apologies,” Says Robin, formal but not without humor, “I intended only to pass through, but I got distracted watching you train. Your style is exceptionally well-balanced- if you represent all of Regna Ferox, they certainly know what they’re doing.”
“If we did not we would be dead,” Lon’qu says, flatly, “Either you are strong or you fall behind. There is no tolerance for weakness.”
“If I didn’t know better I’d almost think that was aimed at me,” Robin says, but laughs to ease the sting of his words.
Lon’qu only lowers his brow and goes back to the log he’s hacking up.
Robin takes a step closer, pauses as the sword gouges a chunk of bark from the log’s side. “Do you think you could perhaps teach me a thing or two? I’d be interested to know how the Feroxi fight.”
“I am no teacher,” He says, takes a step back from his target and rolls his shoulders, loosens his arms. “And you are no Feroxi. You would be better served looking to Frederick for instruction. He can teach you better in the Ylissean style.”
“I am already,” Robin says, with a little half-smile that seems almost rueful. “He teaches… thoroughly,” He adds, and winces in remembered pain. “But it’s possible that a blend of styles may be stronger than any one alone.”
“It is naivety,” He tells him, derisive. He thinks on it a moment. “But even so it may be worth a try. Find a sword.”
Robin looks taken aback. “We… I hadn’t realized we’d jump straightaway into sparring.”
“I am no teacher,” He repeats, even as Robin digs among the sparring swords for a suitable blade. “To me there is no better way to learn than to do. Certainly you must understand, tactician. And you will not be the only one learning.”
“So be it,” Says Robin, and the weapon of his choice is short and broad and very unlike what Lon’qu has ever fought with. He finds a patch of grass clear of obstruction and brandishes his blade at him and smiles. “Show me how a Feroxi fights, then!”
This, too, is over quickly. Robin makes the first move, as Lon’qu supposes a tactician ought, makes an obvious feint to the right, jabs at the left and is met with a parry that numbs his arm. He steps back, sets his stance and tries again, is met with a block. He tries for a leg sweep, a blow to the ribs, to the arms, but Lon’qu dodges or parries or blocks and steps back and waits.
“Straightforward,” Says Lon’qu, who has by now devised a rough profile of Robin’s style, and lunges forward and delivers a concise stab to his chest.
Robin wheezes, staggers back and drops his sword and gasps for the wind the blow had knocked from him, and Lon’qu steps up to him and raises the blunted tip of the sword to his neck.
“You are dead,” Lon’qu says, and meets his eyes, a trace of amusement in his expression.
“It appears that I am,” Robin agrees, and gives a weak chuckle, accepts the hand that Lon’qu offers and pulls himself to his feet.
Lon’qu begins to walk away- certainly Robin understands now that they are not properly matched as combatants and there is little to be learned from him. He will go back to his practice for a while longer and then, when he has thoroughly tired himself, he will go back to his tent to retire for the night. He is with these Shepherds to fight, to champion a cause. Not to exchange idle pleasantries.
Robin has other plans.
“Now hold on,” Robin says, voice still half a wheeze, “That’s all, then? One round?”
“I have won. You are dead. Sleep well, tactician.”
“Well, that’s hardly fair!” Robin takes up his sword and runs up and slaps Lon’qu’s leg with the flat of the blade. “All I’ve learned is that the Feroxi way is to allow the other man to make a fool of himself and then steal his breath away. Not much of a fight, if you ask me.”
“And I have learned that the Ylissean way is to allow yourself to be made a fool and then yield. Yes?”
“No,” Says Robin, indignant, and points his sword at him. “Again, if you’re so sure of yourself!”
Despite himself, Lon’qu smiles, and turns back to the tactician with sword in hand.
Robin does not come back to the sparring field for a week at least, caught up as he is in tactical affairs. Lon’qu feels that this is just as well, for he has much training to keep pace with if he would ever call himself a warrior. The convoy travel is languorous at best, lends itself too easily to lethargy and inertness, and he cannot afford to slip into such a routine. He must maintain his edge and his skill if he is ever to rise to the rank he knows he is capable of attaining. (A few times, he finds himself wishing for Robin’s company. He attributes this to his desire to test himself against worthy opponents, and thinks nothing else of it.)
When Robin does return, however, it is not to spar. He finds one of the sandsacks that pass for arrow targets and sits on it and watches him work at his sweeps, and says nothing until he levels a look, half a glare, at him.
“Are you here for another round? Or just to observe?”
“Ah- I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m still recovering from our last.” Robin offers a weak smile, one that betrays his exhaustion. “In recent weeks I’ve come to appreciate more and more that I’m not on the opposite side of the battlefield from all of you. Especially the Feroxi.”
“I am hardly her strongest,” He says, uncomfortable with the compliment, however indirect, “I am still inexperienced. Raw.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Robin chuckles. “If you’re inexperienced, I’d hate to draw the ire of her most seasoned. But I suppose you don’t get as far as you have through complacency.”
“I am only honest with myself. If you have seen him fight then you know that I still have far too long a way to go.”
“Khan Basilio?” Robin is quiet for a moment. “No, I don’t believe that I’ve ever seen him in action. Only you, his champion, but I don’t doubt that he chose someone suitable to his own prowess.”
“His command of his weapon is… exceptional. He gives such a weight to it that I may as well be swinging a feather, no matter what I wield. Knowing him I dare not call myself strong.”
“But he’s given you something to strive for, yes? In that respect I’m envious.”
“If you are so keen on improving, find a paragon of your own to pursue,” He tells him, not unkindly. “Until such time you are welcome to spar with me.”
“I appreciate it.”
He goes back to his work, or tries to; he only nicks the target on one swing, misplaces his foot and nearly slips on another, and in his frustration he stabs the blade into the ground and goes for his waterskin.
“Something wrong, Lon’qu?”
“Must be getting tired,” He says, curtly, irritated and not quite sure why.
“Why don’t you head to bed, then,” Robin suggests, pats him on the shoulder and offers another smile.
“I could say the same to you,” He replies, drinks to quiet his pulse (he is not sure why it jumped as it did). “You look thoroughly exhausted.”
“I figured I’d stop by here first and see if you were still training. I’ll be heading to my own cot soon, though, don’t you worry.”
“What has been keeping you so often? Many a time I have caught you wandering the tent lines late at night.”
“Planning,” Robin answers, and though he grimaces he does so with good humor. “Tactics. The usual. Chrom and I have our work cut out for us, figuring out our next course of action. Even as we march our track may change.”
“This is why I have no aspirations to deal in strategy,” He says, wrinkles his nose. It is too complicated a business for him to want to involve himself in. “Far simpler to sort things out with steel, yes? Let us forgo these underhanded plans and settle these matters with a test of skill. Though,” He adds, after a pause, and glances at Robin, “If there are to be underhanded plans, I am glad to be the one executing them. I pity the scoundrel who must fall prey to Ylisse’s master tactician.”
Robin grins. “A compliment of the highest order, from you.” Absently, he pats the tome at his side. “I do agree with you, even if it’s the plans that keep me clothed and fed here. It’s much simpler to resolve things in combat, but there are always those that seek to tip the scales in one way or another. It’s my job to balance them.”
“Only balance them?” His smile is wry.
“Well,” Says Robin, slyly, “Maybe tip them just a bit. But if anyone questions me- they did it first, right?”
“If there is anyone left to question you.”
Robin stays only a few minutes longer and then, for fear of falling asleep there in the yard, bids farewell and good night and retires for the evening. He watches him go, watches until the black of his coat disappears behind the canvas and then kicks over his sword and wonders with mounting frustration what is wrong with him.
It seems that, as days and weeks pass, he sees more and more of Robin (he studiously rejects the notion that perhaps that is because he is seeking him out). It is incidental at first, an encounter walking among the convoy, a brush at mealtime in the mess tent; then it becomes deliberate, and Robin parts with Chrom and Lissa and Frederick to join his table to eat at, hangs around the training yard even when he ought to be out doing other things. He also, conveniently, puts himself directly in line to be approached, adjusts his schedule so that he catches Robin in his free time more often (strictly to enjoy his company as a comrade, of course. There is nothing more to it, and any accusations to the contrary are met with cold rebuttal).
Robin’s company becomes near constant, and a daily thing to be sure, something he finds himself looking forward to more earnestly than he perhaps should. It is an odd conflict of interests, for he cannot help the odd, almost painful feeling he gets around Robin, but neither does he enjoy the thought of returning to solitude.
However out of character it may seem for him, when Robin disappears entirely for several days, he finds himself going for a visit personally, unexpected and unannounced and unsure if he is even welcome.
The sight he is greeted with upon entering Robin’s tent is chaotic- there are books scattered everywhere, across the cot and the ground and the slab of wood that serves as a desk, and there are maps tacked to the thick canvas with sewing pins, all half-covered in ink markings. Robin, absorbed as he is, does not seem to notice his entrance, and in fact only realizes he is no longer alone when he goes to reach blindly for something and elbows him directly in the stomach.
Robin blinks, as though startled, and only then registers his presence there. “Lon’qu, you- I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized you were there- are you okay? I didn’t get you too hard, did I? ...You’re sure?” He sighs, rubs at his eyes and turns his chair halfway to face him. “Did you need something, Lon’qu? I’d offer you somewhere to sit, but-” And he makes a face- “As you can see, I haven’t much to offer at the moment.”
“I was only concerned for you,” He says. “I have not seen you around for several days now. I feared you had been neglecting yourself, but…” He gestures to the stack of empty mess tins piled by the cot, and leaves it at that. Absently, he picks up the book nearest him, flips through its pages; he has never been one to read much, but he recognizes the volume easily enough as one of many well-known treatises on warcraft. “These are all on war? This mountain of paper?”
Robin offers a wan smile. “Practice with the blade isn’t enough, I’m afraid. I’ve my tactics to keep pace with just as much as my physical training. As strong as we are, we’re a small force, you know. Brute force alone will not see us through this war.”
“I have always said that you are an odd one,” He says, but smiles even so. “I would say most men make a choice- strategist or soldier. They would not take up both mantles.”
“Then I’ll have to be the first, I suppose. Before anything else I want to keep the people I care for safe. I want to keep the townsfolk and the people of Ylisse safe. And maybe a sword can’t reach across a continent, but certainly a strategy can.”
He is quiet for a moment- both of them are. And then he nods, and places the book down gently. “A while ago you mentioned to me that you wished you had someone whose footsteps you could follow in. Perhaps it is because you are the one who will be making those footsteps. I do not think you are meant to follow.”
Robin thinks on that for a long moment. When he meets his eyes he looks at once anxious and grateful. “Is it really so revolutionary?”
“It is a tremendous undertaking,” He says, looks away under the guise of scanning the covers, “But a worthy one. And I do not doubt that you are up to the challenge.”
He leaves that evening with a newfound respect for Robin, and something else heavy in his chest that he does not want to examine.
Robin is back to his usual business in a few days, finally leaves the covered wagon that those of highest rank oft travel in and walks among the troops as they march.
He is near the back, stationed in defense of one of their vital supply wagons, and it is there that Robin stops him, pulls him aside even as Vaike and Virion (both people that in truth he cannot stand) shoot him looks for leaving his post.
“Lon’qu,” Says Robin, a hint of urgency in his voice, “Do you know where we march now?”
“I have been told nothing,” He replies, glances at Robin’s hand on his arm. “Do we approach danger? I will move to the front lines if necessary.”
“Soon,” Robin assures him, and sighs. “Not today, but soon. We’re returning to Plegia.”
“After Emmeryn?”
Robin bites his lip and says nothing. He could kick himself; he should have remembered that the failure is still fresh in Robin’s mind. In everyone’s.
“My apologies,” He says, his voice softer, “I suppose that was insensitive. But is it…”
“Wise? Perhaps not. But we’ve an opportunity now and I’d be loath to let it pass me by.”
“Is that what you have stopped me for?”
“I can explain more to you later. I don’t want this to be common knowledge- Frederick suspects spies. You’re willing to accompany us to the front lines, yes?”
“Of course.”
Robin claps him on the shoulder, smiles (it does not quite reach his eyes). “I’ll find you once we’ve stopped for the night,” He tells him. “There are a few details I have to hammer out.”
“No place for me at the front of the convoy, then? I see.”
“It’s a matter of confidentiality. I won’t be discussing our plans in front of everyone. But you’re more than welcome to join us so long as your charge is well-guarded.”
He glances back at the wagon he’s assigned to, at Vaike with his axe and his bravado and at Virion and his long eyes (and his insufferable habits, always bringing women to accompany their march. Of all people he could be assigned with, it had to be the one with the company that put him on edge). “They will suffice.”
“Are you just saying that to come up front?”
He eyes Virion; he is visibly distracted, that is plain to see even from this distance, and he is perhaps not the strongest candidate for guarding such important cargo. “To get away from him ,” He sneers, and Robin laughs.
“However irritating his mannerisms, he’s an incredible shot.”
“He can be an incredible shot away from me. I do not need distractions.”
“I’ll get Ricken to fill your spot for now.”
“The child?”
“ The child is gifted,” Robin insists, and swats him on the arm when he snorts. “One day I’m certain he’ll surpass me.”
“I believe one of the camp followers has just delivered. Perhaps you ought to have the babe cover for Ricken.”
“Stop that, Lon’qu,” Robin says, without much heat, and shoves him. “Be as cynical as you like, he’s a valuable ally.”
“I hear Sumia has a nephew, perhaps I shall recruit him. He has just learned to walk.”
“Ricken is almost a man grown,” Robin says, exasperated.
“I know of a Feroxi child recently weaned-”
“Lon’qu!”
A little reluctantly, he leaves off needling Robin- he wants nothing more than to stay in his good graces, for several reasons. He exchanges greetings with Frederick and Sully, nods to Chrom and Lissa (he pretends he does not notice the blotchiness of her cheeks, or the redness of his eyes).
The front of the convoy is arguably a nicer place than the back; among the higher ranks there is a sense of camaraderie that the more ragtag tailing lacks, and there is less of a need to watch his step following the horses and pegasi. He watches with bemused fascination as Frederick marches ahead, brushing aside obstacles in their path and stooping even to pick pebbles from the ground.
“Strange, I know,” Robin says with a grin, and nudges him in the side, “But you must admit he’s dedicated.”
“That is one word for it.”
They peel off, the six of them, once camp has been broken for the evening, go to a place secluded from the rest of the convoy to talk of this plan Robin has devised. Frederick, ever wary, stands guard over their small gathering, alert and vigilant, watching for any signs of unwelcome listeners.
“In light of recent events,” Chrom says, frowning, “Among many other things, we need a plan of action. We can’t let Plegia’s actions go unpunished.”
“I hear those bastards are already getting punished by their own,” Sully says, clearly worked up already. “There are deserters in unprecedented numbers. Isn’t that right, chatterbox?” The stare she levels at him is at once wry and challenging.
He glowers at her, and tries to push down the anxious knot in his chest. It is bad enough that he is dealing with uncertain feelings towards Robin; now he must face Sully, she-devil that she is, and though he holds her in the highest of regards as a warrior and as a person, he cannot stand to be around her for long.
“I have heard on the streets,” He says, slowly, deliberately, and wills himself not to stutter, not in front of Robin, “That Plegian troops are laying down their arms en masse. It seems that Emmeryn’s sacrifice has inspired a change of heart in many.”
“Just like her,” Lissa says, with a weak smile (and casts a furtive glance around the circle and rubs the tears from her cheeks).
“The only damn silver lining there is to all this.”
“Not the only one,” Robin says, and pauses to gauge their reactions. (None too favorable, Lon’qu observes.)
“Robin…” Chrom’s tone is warning.
“As Lon’qu said, it seems that a significant part of the Plegian army has refused to fight for the Mad King’s cause. In addition to this,” Robin pauses, and gets that gleam in his eye, “His personal detail on the castle has all but disintegrated, which leaves us an opportunity. One which we may never see the likes of again.”
“You suggest a direct march to Gangrel?” Chrom sounds incredulous. “As much as I’d like to think that such a thing is possible…”
“It is too good to be true.” He does not trust this sudden opening, and he has no reservations about making it known. “Even if things are as the rumors have them, Gangrel is no fool, mad though he may be. He will restructure his remaining troops as necessary.”
“Ah, but that’s where you come in,” Robin says, and grins at him. “Of course I anticipate a fight. This will be no simple duel, naturally, but what soldiers remain to him are blindly loyal and not necessarily his best. If we can reach his castle before he thinks to pull his entire force back in defense…”
“We’ll finish ‘em off there,” Sully says, firmly, and her smile is smug and eager. “Put our A-team up, yeah? We’ll kill that bastard for what he’s done!”
“Glad to see we’re understood.” Robin glances around the circle (Lon’qu likes to think that his gaze lingers on him a moment longer). “This will not be, of course, our full team, but I wanted to make this proposal to you all before anyone else. Can we count on your support in this?”
Their agreement is unanimous, and Robin, still grinning, stands and bows to them.
“I’ll get back to you with more details as soon as I’m able. I’m hoping to get our group together in the next few days, and get some better information from a town we’ll be passing through, but you’ll be hearing from me for certain by the end of the week. Lon’qu, would you be so kind as to join me?”
He tries not to let his surprise show as he gathers his things and, with a curt farewell to the rest, follows Robin back towards the convoy.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Robin assures him, and he thinks he ought to be relieved that he’s misinterpreted his tension. “I just wanted to… mention something to you, I suppose.”
“And what would that be?”
“I don’t anticipate a… clean fight, as it were,” Robin says, and grimaces. “For all his insanity, it is as you say- Gangrel is no fool. He’s sure to have some kind of trickery laid in place for us.”
“You seemed sure of yourself just a few moments ago. Now you hesitate?”
“I appreciate your skepticism, which is why I’m saying this to you. Be on your highest guard, for yourself and for the rest of us. We need every keen eye right now, and I know you to be among our best. When we get to that battlefield… just be careful, okay? You’re a valuable ally, and, more personally, you’re a good friend. I’d hate to lose you to Gangrel too.” Robin rests his hand on his shoulder for a moment, and then smiles to ease the mood and bids him good night and leaves to his own tent, and Lon’qu promptly marches to the yard and hacks at the target until the knot in his chest loosens its grip.
The battle, though ultimately successful, is devastating.
Though Gangrel’s forces are by no means at full strength, they are still in considerable number, and Gangrel’s personal detail is made entirely of his most seasoned warriors, fierce and determined and dedicated to their charge. They sustain far more casualties than they had anticipated, and many of their best are put out of action for weeks to come.
Robin is among those.
He is there when it happens; he is accompanying them, Robin and Chrom, to Gangrel, to help them fend off the kingsguard as they go for the critical strike. Robin stands beside Chrom, one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other on his tome, and prepares a spell; at the same moment, Lon’qu sees a mounted spearman take aim from the left, and though he calls a warning he is not quite fast enough. Robin has barely loosed his magic when the javelin catches him through the side, tearing through cloth and flesh alike. Chrom shouts something as he catches Robin- there is no need to, though, as Lon’qu is already upon the spearman, disposes of him before he can even unsheathe his belt knife. He turns to see Chrom kneeling, Robin laid across his lap, pressing a wad of cloth against the wound.
Lon’qu rushes to them, as fast as his legs can carry him. “The king is dead?”
“Incapacitated,” Chrom says, sounding panicked. “Robin-”
“I saw,” He cuts him off, hoarsely. “You- take care of Gangrel. I will bring him to Lissa.”
“I thought she…”
“She is well enough to stabilize him. Libra will take him from there.”
Chrom nods, and gingerly they help Robin to his feet. Lon’qu pulls Robin’s arm across his shoulders, straightens to balance Robin’s slump, and slowly he leads Robin to back behind the lines where the healers wait.
“What happened?” Lissa demands as he carefully helps Robin lay onto one of the litters (he does not want to think about how full they all are).
“A spearman threw a javelin,” He says, and presses the cloth firmly onto Robin’s side when his grip starts to falter. “It got him through the side. And I assure you that the man responsible has been taken care of.”
“Good,” Says Lissa with more heat than he would’ve thought her capable of. “Where’s the shaft?”
“Chrom removed it, as far as I am aware.”
Lissa curses, loudly. “He knows better than to do that, stupid lout! Okay,” She says after a pause and a deep breath, “Gangrel?”
“Dead. Chrom saw to that.”
“Then you can help us here. We need strong hands to help right now. You’re not hurt?”
“Nothing that cannot wait.”
Carrying litters helps to distract him from the fear mounting in his gut, if nothing else, and he throws himself into the work that Libra and Lissa assign him with single-minded determination. He is busy well into the night, and when he is finally given the word to retire for the time being, his feet take him to Robin’s tent, and too bone-tired to bother to fetch anything else, he falls asleep on the ground.
When he wakes there’s a blanket draped loosely over him, and the smell of antiseptic is sharp and pervasive in his nose.
“There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know,” Robin murmurs, with a wry half-smile that suggests that there is a joke in that that he is unaware of.
He pushes himself up to sit, and rubs the sleep from his eyes; his back is sore and the gash across his back aches something fierce, and he knows he should have found somewhere more suitable to sleep.
“You are okay?”
“Fine,” Robin says. “Still a little ache where the spear got me, but Lissa works wonders with her staff. You?”
He shrugs; the motion renews the ache in his back and shoulders, and he sighs. “A few scrapes,” He admits, “But certainly no spear through the stomach. I could not trouble the healers for a bruise or two while others lay dying.”
Robin lays a gentle hand on his forearm- though entirely innocent, the the gesture sets his pulse spiking. “You should’ve gotten looked at, at the very least. Adrenaline makes injuries seem less than they are, and I’d hate to lose you to something so preventable. Or at all, really.”
“I was helping tend to the casualties,” He says, and prays that his voice is steady. “And I was worried. For you. I saw you go down, and-” Suddenly there is a weight in his gut and a knot in his chest and a lump in his throat. He tries to swallow (his mouth is dry). It is difficult to breathe. “For the first time in a long time, I was afraid.” It is not an easy thing to confess, this. Particularly when he is still half in denial about it. “I was inadequate.”
“Lon’qu, that’s not true-”
“I was inadequate,” He insists, and his grip on Robin’s arm is emphatic. “You called upon me to assist you. To guard you. I failed you. I am inadequate to be considered an asset if I cannot succeed in one simple task.” He takes a shuddering breath, far more loudly than he had intended to. “This is the second time in my life I have failed to protect a person that I loved. I can only be grateful that there are others here better able to serve you.”
Robin is silent for a moment, and Lon’qu thinks that he has made a grave mistake in admitting this, that he has irreparably tainted their relationship. But slowly, and perhaps a little shyly, Robin smiles.
“A person you loved, huh?”
He wishes that he were not so easily flustered; as it is, he can feel the hot blood rushing to his face. Briefly he considers arguing it, playing it off or refuting it to save face (surely Ylisse’s master tactician could not stoop to the level of a common sellsword). The only thing that comes out of his mouth is a hoarse “Yes.”
Robin’s hand slides down his forearm and finds his and squeezes. “Well, I hardly know what to say,” He murmurs, and his grin is evident in his voice. “I can tell you with certainty that you didn’t fail, however. Chrom and Lissa tell me that you single-handedly slew the spearman, and I distinctly recall you bringing me to the healers yourself. And yet you would still call that inadequacy?”
He can only nod. He feels as though his lungs will burst for lack of air and yet he cannot seem to draw breath.
“Well, in any case, I’m humbled,” Says Robin, and brings Lon’qu’s hand to his lips. “I didn’t think I’d see the day when our finest swordsman would reciprocate my feelings.”
He meets Robin’s eyes and sees his own turmoil mirrored there: hesitation, fear, anticipation, happiness, a touch of admiration. He clears his throat, grasps for the words but comes up with nothing that seems adequate. “I had doubts of my own, master tactician. But I am glad to hear that.”
Robin laughs, utterly delighted, and pulls him into a hug far too tight for his bruised ribs. He apologizes quickly for it, with a kiss to his cheek that sets his face aflame again, and sends him to see Libra with an admonishment to get himself fixed up before he dares return.
He is sure that he is grinning like a fool all the way to the healers’ tents.