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Although Henry had suggested that the dress was white as bone, Robin, now that she saw it for herself, thought that it much more reminded her of the whipped cream carefully spooned onto the side of the pie Tharja had baked for her last week.
Either way, it was mostly definitely strange.
“Tharja,” Robin began, hoping to gain the mage's attention, while at the same keeping the concern from her voice. So focused on the patch of flowers as she was, Robin could nearly have mistaken her for Sumia, if it weren't for her sleek dark hair contrasting so starkly with the cloth of the dress. “What are you up to this fine day?”
“Ah, Robin,” she replied, apologetic, as she stood from the grass, wiping dirt from her skirt. For sitting in the grass, the garment had remained extraordinarily white, so much so that Robin wondered if Tharja employed some sort of grime-repelling hex. Frederick would have gone hog-wild if she ever chose to divulge the secret behind such a thing. “Forgive me for shirking my duties."
"How so?"
"I should have been keeping better watch over you, of course.”
Robin couldn't quite ever remember reading the phrase 'tailing the head tactician day and night' to be listed among the mage’s duties in the army ledgers, but alright.
“This… isn’t more ‘normal practice’, is it?” Robin ventured, hoping that she was wrong. She liked to think that the two of them had made decent progress beyond that point.
“Don’t be foolish,” Tharja huffed, crossing her arms over the lacy bodice.
“Preparation for a new hex, then?” Robin tried again, praying to Naga that no sacrifice would be involved. Even if that were the case, she was still thankful to have the mage on their side. Her hexes were brilliant, and rarely did Robin have to verbalize her tactics to Tharja, finding that she moved with remarkable intuition on the battlefield, so much so that Robin often had begun to work their pairing up into her plans for the majority of upcoming battles.
“It’s Plegian tradition,” Tharja explained, eyes wandering back toward the wildflowers, as if they could explain the odd behavior for her. Of course, for all Robin knew, they could have. She had certainly seen the mage work even more fantastic feats. “In order to acknowledge the dead, we dress in white once per year and engage in a moment of solitary contemplation.”
“’Acknowledge?’” Robin repeated, genuinely curious. “Not ‘honor’ or, say, ‘pay respects’?” She hoped that the question hadn’t come off as rude. For all the time they had spent together, Tharja so rarely spoke of her homeland. Although Robin had gleaned some things from Henry, she couldn’t help but wonder if the other Plegian’s horrific experiences were typical. She sincerely hoped not, despite Tharja’s eccentricities pointing toward the contrary.
“Not all who perish are worthy of respect,” Tharja answered dryly, the spring breeze picking up and causing her skirt to flutter about her knees. “Yet death comes all the same, no matter our actions in this lifetime. This tradition is meant to remind us of that.”
“I see,” Robin said quietly, digesting her words. “Should I leave you to it, then? If it’s meant to be solitary, I’d hate to ruin it for you-“
Tharja shook her head. “Nonsense. I am no longer residing in Plegia. Life has the capacity to change, and I am here with you now, Robin, as I shall be for the rest of our lives.”
“Thank you, Tharja,” Robin said, smiling as she slipped her hand into Tharja's own, joining her in the silence of the flowers.