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Despite first impressions, Frederick was not a harsh man. But he was firm. Uncompromising, even. He had a talent for saying what needed to be said. For striking at the unpleasant pit of things, not out of ill-intention, but simply because it must be done. He did not pull his punches, especially with her.
Robin liked that about him. Professionally speaking.
“You ought to reconsider.”
It was late, and the weather was poor. Yet here was Frederick, standing soaked in her tent. Having walked through the night to challenge her. In the candlelight, the rain on his armor looked like beads of amber.
“Aren’t you chilled?” Robin asked.
“Hardly.”
She went to him with her handkerchief anyhow. For a moment, she considered reaching up and patting his face dry herself. She badly wanted to. But he was looking apprehensively at her hand, as if it were something that might bite.
She passed him the handkerchief.
“I have reconsidered it many times,” Robin said as he dried his face. “But Plegia’s formations are always aggressive. They like to place mages on their vanguard, and it mire us every time. Our formation must be even more aggressive to counter that.”
“With riders.”
“Magic may be fearsome, but it’s no defense to being trampled.”
He shook his head, water flicking from the tips of his hair.
“They will have a clear shot at us. They’ll attack before we reach them.”
Robin had thought of that. In fact, it was the first thing she’d thought of. Their cavalry was ill-equipped to defend against blasts of magic, and one fallen horse could trip the one behind it, with fatal consequences. To lose too many riders in one battle would be a grave blow. And yet, for all her thinking, she had not figured out a way around it.
“If you ride fast, you’ll close the distance in little time,” she said. “And once you break their line, you’ll have the advantage.”
He held her handkerchief back to her, the white cloth like a wilted flower. It had done very little in the way of drying him off.
“Keep it,” she said, feigning distracted indifference. To poor effect, it seemed. He frowned, his expression turning quizzical as he pocketed the handkerchief. But he did accept it.
“It’s risky,” he said.
“It’s war.”
The answer did not appear to satisfy him. In truth, she didn’t like it either.
“You will not have to hold out for very long,” she added. “All you have to do is break their line, and the mages will scatter. I’ll be…Reinforcements will be right behind you. They will not cut you off.”
“You plan to be on the front line?” he asked. “Personally?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Though that is quite the risk. Is it truly necessary?”
It wasn’t. It wasn’t a tactically sound reason, but it felt wrong for her to risk his life while she remained in relative safety. He probably wouldn’t accept that answer.
“I want to see this gambit through,” she said instead. “Should the plan go south, I want to be the first to know. That way, I can adjust it.”
Frederick considered it, tilting his head slightly, his frown deepening. He looked so earnest while deep in thought. She liked that about him, too, she realized abruptly. She wanted to promise that no harm would come to him. But that was not a promise within her power to keep.
She lowered her eyes, suddenly embarrassed.
“Are you worried?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Will you lead the charge?”
“I would not have anyone else lead it,” he replied after a moment. “I only hope it goes as planned.”
So did she.
Robin watched as he stepped out of her tent into the night. The rain had let up somewhat, and yet it seemed a shame to send him out into such weather. Even as the glow of his lantern retreated, she imagined asking him to stay, at least until the rain stopped. Would that have been considered inappropriate? It probably was.
She sighed, pulling her coat a little tighter to keep off the chill. It was a problem. She liked him far too much.
She did not know what to make of that.
--
Her plan worked. Or at least, it worked within her expectations. The Plegian mages hurled lightning upon them, and many horses fell, their screams mixed with those of their riders. A bolt glanced off Stahl’s armor, cracking his breastplate open. And yet they broke through the mages’ formation, pinning them down under hoof and spear. Predictably, the surviving mages scattered, retreating behind the Plegian infantry.
Now the real battle would begin.
Their infantry surged forward to back their riders, Robin among them. The clamor of battle filled her head. It was the thunder of thousands of boots beating the ground, of metal striking metal, and, more subtly, metal striking flesh. She ran forward, hopping over the broken bodies of mages. For a moment, Chrom was at her side. Then he was gone, whisked away by the battle. But that was alright. Things were going well. They had seized the advantage early, and if they kept their momentum, they would push Plegia back across the river. They just had to keep it up.
Suddenly, the air darkened with hundreds of arrows, falling in a fatal arc upon the Ylissean forces. Archers. She had known they would be among the Plegian forces, but what a hassle they were to deal with. Robin braced herself, holding her arm over her head. But before the arrows could land, a cutting gale knocked them from their course. Some of them, at least. Around her, the voices of struck soldiers rose in a chorus of pain. But they would press on. Their cavalry and infantry were well armored, and such volleys would be of little use if there was a high risk of friendly fire. They could not afford to lose their momentum.
She raised her voice, rallying the soldiers to her. Then she charged forward. The fighting here was thick, though steadily their riders were steadily pushing the Plegians back. She caught a glimpse of Frederick’s armor—a flash of pale blue above the sea of bodies. Relief unfurled in her like a banner caught by the wind. He was alright. He had made it through safe.
Another arrow flew past Robin, this time catching her on the cheek. Pain opened across her face, but through it, she saw the archer readying another arrow. But she was faster. Lighting shot from her fingertips, the abrupt surge of magic punching her backward. The young archer was struck in the heart. He was dead before he hit the ground. Good. Now she could—
Robin doubled over as pain ravaged her gut. Her limbs felt numb and she could not breathe. All she could do was clutch at her stomach, at the blinking red eye of her pain. And there it was, the shaft lodged deep above her left hip, already oily with her blood. The arrow was a thin thing, almost laughably so.
This twig was killing her.
She could not tell if she screamed, or if it was someone else who was screaming. Perhaps it was her insides that were screaming, intestines coiled like red snakes around the arrowhead, writhing and screaming.
She was on the ground. She was on the ground, and someone was tugging at her arm. The enemy? She tried to pull away, but movement was unbearable. She needed everything to stop.
“Robin, please!”
Was that Chrom? It sounded like him. The blue of his shirt burned her eyes. She was hoisted up, his fist bunched in the back of her coat. A whimper spilled from her throat. He was dragging her with him, a slow and excruciating retreat. She wished he wouldn’t. The arrow jostled with every step.
“Milord!”
Frederick too? Relief bloomed within her at the sound of him, then instantly withered. That wasn’t good. If they were both here, who was leading the charge? They had sacrificed too much to let this battle slip away now. They had to—
“Can you get her onto your horse?”
Oh gods.
The answer was “yes,” to Robin’s great dismay. They got her onto the horse, and it was terrible. She would have thrown up, were it not for the absolute certainty that doing so would make the roiling pain in her gut even worse.
“Robin, hold on.”
She squeezed her fists against the horse’s mane, trying to focus on the pressure of Frederick’s arms around her shoulders. Though this was not exactly how she’d wanted him to hold her, Robin tried to, at least, appreciate it.
But she couldn’t. In a belated act of mercy, her consciousness blinked out. When she came to, she was lying on her back, the sky above pale and unrelenting.
“She’s waking up!”
Lissa’s voice, then the sound of fabric ripping. They were tearing her shirt around the arrow.
“Can you heal it?”
“Not if she keeps squirming. Robin, don’t move!”
But already her hands were seeking out the wound, red fingers grasping at the soft flesh. It did not make the hurt any less, and yet she felt compelled to prod at it. To touch the killing thing. Until there were hands upon her wrists, firmly pulling her away.
“You mustn’t.”
Frederick’s touch was not soothing. Nothing could soothe her now. But she did not fight him, either.
“Alright.” Chrom’s voice again. He sounded frightened. “Alright. Lissa, get ready. I’m going to pull the arrow out.”
Oh. Oh no.
What little intelligence remained in her lurched up. She didn’t have it in her to articulate why, but she knew in her wounded gut that this was a very bad idea. But already his hands were on the arrow.
“No!”
Lissa and Frederick’s voices rose in unison, and to her relief, Chrom’s hands fell away.
“You’ll shred up her insides!” Lissa scolded, panic harshening her words. “The arrow’s too deep! What if the arrowhead breaks off? I’d heal it into her, Chrom. Into her intestines, probably. She’d die.”
It would be a slow death, too. Days of languishing as the metal poisoned her. She would rather he just slit her throat and be done with it.
“Then what do you propose we do?”
“I…I don’t know.”
But by her tone, she did know. Robin knew as well.
“…Push…” she managed to say. “Push it…through.”
Through the tears and sweat, their faces came to focus. Chrom looked, bless his heart, absolutely stricken. He would never do anything to hurt her, but he might do this. If pressed. If she insisted.
“I shall do it.”
Frederick did speak with all his usual confidence, but that mattered little against the fact that he’d spoken at all. He leaned over her, his mouth set in a grim frown. Even now, he was handsome.
She was sat up, a fresh pain roaring through her body. She tucked her face against Frederick’s chest, his armor cool and solid against her forehead.
“Lissa, help me with her coat. Chrom, her glove, please.”
He was pressing against her back, her sides. Feeling, she assumed, for the path of least resistance. If there was such a thing.
Her glove was coaxed from her hand and slipped between her lips. The leather was softer than she expected, and a bit gummy with her blood.
“Ready your staff, milady.”
He placed one hand on the arrow’s shaft and braced the other against the small of her back. Robin shut her eyes, jaws clamping shut on the glove.
“My apologies,” Frederick said, so quietly she might have imagined it. She didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Robin had assumed she’d reached the apex of pain. She’d assumed wrongly. He plunged the arrow, its head splitting her wide. And here it was—a new worst. Red depths of pain she had not even imagined, and with no bottom. A hurt beyond hurt, beyond language, teeth grinding the meat of her glove, a wail punching through her like wind through a broken house. She clung to Frederick’s armor, its hard edges bruising her fingertips.
He was, at least, quick about it. And intentional, his hand steady and strong. She felt the arrow push against her back, rupturing her skin from the inside.
“I see it!” Chrom shouted. “It’s through! It’s through! I have it!”
She heard a snap, then felt the shaft drag through her. Then out. Then only her body and the screaming hole in the center of it.
“Lissa, now!”
The spell gripped her, filling the wound with its warm needles, stitching her up. A patchwork job, but better than bleeding out. When it was finished, Robin let the glove drop from her mouth. She was breathing hard, the taste of blood thick on her tongue, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. She felt awful, her body still ebbing with pain.
But she supposed it was better than dying.
“Robin?”
Frederick’s voice was quiet with worry. She realized she was still slumped against him, her cheek pressed uncomfortably against his shoulder. Robin leaned back, and though her vision was bleary, she saw a shiver of emotion pass over his face.
He stared at her for a speechless moment, as if bewildered by the sight of her. Or the sight of her alive. Then, cautiously, he smiled. How triumphant and terrified he looked, kneeling in the grass clutching that broken arrow. His fingers were still slick with her blood.
Ah, Robin thought with a sigh that made her entire body ache. So that was it.
She really did love him.