Chapter Text
Grima isn’t sure what happened.
All he knows is that he felt a horrible pain in his chest, and then he was suddenly on a battlefield. A man wielding Grima’s own magic in the form of a tome stared at him with horror, and before either of them could speak, a sword was stuck into the man’s chest.
Grima missed a lot, it seems. Three decades of living in this body gone, though he supposes it is nothing to the thousands of years of memories he can recall.
The Shepherds are surprised at his memory loss. Apparently, it is not the first time; he met them originally with naught but the vague memory of escaping an attack. Grima supposes he has no reason to doubt their story. Humans are prone to senseless violence.
It’s strange, though. On a superficial level, he knows them. He remembers their names, but he does not know anything else about them.
Not even the man with Naga’s brand. The man who, based on the ring on his finger, appears to have married Grima.
Or, well, “Robin.” That’s what everyone calls him. He isn’t fool enough to inform them that he is the Fell Dragon. Not when his memory loss is the least of his troubles.
His ears twitch. Specifically, the pair of triangular, feline ears atop his head twitch. Behind him, a feline tail begins to bristle.
There is no taguel blood in his veins, so this should not be possible.
Worse even than this, however, is that he can no longer access his innate power. It is not gone, he knows, for he can still feel it within him. But he cannot channel it, not through his own hands and not even through the facilitative aid of a tome. He assumes his skill with a blade is still intact, though the strange new additions to his body will no doubt force him to retrain.
It’s a curse, the sorcerer called Henry claims. But he cannot dispel it.
None of them can figure out the particulars of the curse, much less how to break it. This is fortunate for them, and for Chrom especially. Grima’s current incapacity is the only reason that Naga’s branded is still alive. Naga’s hero, her sword, and her shield are all right here. Grima could destroy Chrom, the Falchion, and the Fire Emblem in one fell swoop… if only he were not in this wretched condition.
As it is, he finds himself heading back to Ylisstol at Chrom’s side. Validar is dead, all wars have concluded, and nobody but Grima knows that the Fell Dragon is waiting for the right opportunity to strike. As far as Chrom is concerned, the world is at peace.
Which explains why he turns so readily to Grima.
“Robin, I swear,” he says, “I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I’ll do whatever it takes to help you. I suppose you don’t remember, but… You’re my other half, and I would do anything for you. So just… know that I’ll always be at your side whenever you need me, whatever it is you may need of me.”
His words might comfort a true amnesiac. But to Grima, they are worthless. He will not trust a human, especially not this one. One careless move, and Grima will surely find himself at the end of the Falchion again. The thought fills him with rage; now that he is awake and free at last, he will not allow anything to seal him away again. Naga’s grip on the world must be severed, her threat to him removed. And so Chrom must die, as soon as Grima can see the action through. But in the meantime, Grima needs to keep an eye on him.
“Maybe my memories will return if I stick close to you,” he says, though he expects nothing of the sort to happen. “You know, if we do all the things we normally would.”
“We’ll try it,” Chrom agrees. He does not look completely confident, but he still flashes Grima a smile.
Grima quickly turns away. It disgusts him to see that expression. He knows what Chrom cares about—getting his marriage partner back—and he figures it will not take long for him to realize the futility of that hope. At that point, Grima will probably be forced out of Ylisstol. Thus, it is of utmost importance that he recover his power soon. Once Chrom is out of the picture, he can take his time planning his next moves.
Though he tries to keep his eyes on the road ahead of him, he nevertheless finds himself stealing glance after glance of the Falchion. It looks a bit different from the one he remembers, a fact that seems obvious when considering that only the blade itself is impervious to being damaged. And oh, he remembers that exact blade. Forged by Naga to destroy her own kind, it is a cruel weapon. The agony it brings is like no other earthly feeling.
And it is right next to him. He cannot help but stare at it.
“Are you alright?” Chrom asks, for at this rate it was inevitable that he would catch Grima’s gaze. “Er, you’re…” He gestures to Grima’s body. “Shaking.”
“I’m not,” Grima says, though when he looks down at his hands, he realizes that he is, indeed, shaking.
“You’re not alright?” Chrom asks, drawing the only reasonable conclusion from that statement under the circumstances. “Okay… We can—”
“No,” Grima interrupts. “I meant that I’m not as weak as you think I am.”
He has power beyond anything a human can imagine. He just can’t use it at the moment.
“I’ve seen you go through worse,” Chrom says. “That’s not the point. We can ease your suffering. If you want to stop and rest, maybe eat, even sleep if you want… Robin, I’ll give the order right now. I just want to help you.”
Grima mentally scoffs. Short of throwing himself into the deepest depths of the sea (such that the Falchion and Fire Emblem could never be recovered), there’s nothing Chrom can do to help him.
“I would rather keep marching on,” Grima says. “The sooner we get back to Ylisstol, the better.”
The castle will have resources. Chrom will no doubt be horribly busy dealing with the death of the late king of Plegia, and Grima, who cares nothing for human politics, will be free to work on unsealing his power. He does not know why it was sealed, and that is the biggest obstacle. Once he understands the cause, it should be simple enough to take some potion or get some sage or sorcerer to assist him with their magic.
Chrom gazes at him intensely.
“Fine…” he says after a moment. “I would like to get home as soon as possible, as well. Though we’ll have to break within the next few hours, regardless. There’s a town ahead—”
“Which was recently attacked by brigands, leaving them with a shortage of supplies. They’ll give us shelter, but we’ll have to rely on our own rations,” Grima says. Immediately, he frowns. “I don’t know where that came from…”
“We stopped there on the way to Plegia, as well,” Chrom says. “I must say, I’m glad you haven’t forgotten everything. Do you remember being my tactician? You’re a bit of a genius at strategy, actually.”
Well, of course he is. He is the Fell Dragon; his mind is vastly superior to the other, lowly creatures of the world.
Chrom chuckles, though he quickly smothers it with his hand. At Grima’s glare, he waves his other hand in apology.
“Sorry, it’s just…” He glances behind Grima. “Your tail seems to be responsive to your feelings.”
Grima follows Chrom’s gaze. The white tail sprouting from his skin is loosely curled in pleasure.
Grima recoils. This affliction is worse than he thought if he cannot control his extra appendages.
He can feel the ears on his head draw back, responding to his horror. This, too, is against his will.
Chrom chuckles again. The hand over his mouth does nothing to obfuscate the sound.
Of course he would laugh. Grima is pathetic and powerless. Dependent, at least for the time being, on his pity. Humans just love to flaunt their power, never mind that they are but worms to the great and powerful Fell Dragon.
… But he’s weaker than a worm right now. And so he cannot wipe the laughter from Chrom’s face. Not yet. But he will not forget this. Soon, he will be the one laughing as Chrom’s fragile human body is crushed beneath him like an insect.
“Ah… But I really am sorry,” Chrom says once his laughter has subsided. “I can’t even begin to imagine how strange this must feel to you. Memory loss is one thing, but who would want to curse someone to have the appearance of a feline taguel?”
Grima scowls. It is far worse than that. As far as he is aware, the taguel have control over their entire bodies. They can also bring out their beast forms in battle. And they are more powerful than humans.
Grima would far prefer being trapped as a taguel to the hell he is currently experiencing.
Though… Haven’t most of the taguel been slaughtered by human hunters?
He blinks as the thought occurs to him. It is yet another fact he does not remember learning, but he is glad to know it. It is one more threat he must consider. He appears half-beast, and perhaps some despicable hunter or another would desire his head because of it.
It is just one more reason that he must stick close to Chrom. Few would dare to trespass on the Exalt’s home to attack one of his men.
“A single ‘taguel’ without memory would have a target on their back,” he mutters aloud. “Fortunate, then, that I was not alone.”
Chrom’s eyes widen in horror; apparently the implications are only now occurring to him.
“Don’t worry,” he says. A flash of anger passes over his countenance. “You’ll never be alone.”
He sounds sincere enough that Grima, were he anyone else, might trust in his words.
Of course, Grima knows better, Humans make meaningless promises. And he, the Fell Dragon, is always truly alone.